THE POETICAL WORKS OF OSSIAN BY JAMES … · Dream of Ossian; Scandinavian and ... manuscript in...

THE

POETICAL WORKS OF OSSIAN

BY JAMES MACPHERSON

WITH A CRITICAL DISSERTATION

BY HUGH BLAIR, D.D.

Published by the Ex-classics Project, 2009http://www.exclassics.com

Public Domain

JAMES MACPHERSON

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THE POETICAL WORKS OF OSSIAN

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CONTENTS

FRONTISPIECE............................................................................................................4Introduction....................................................................................................................5Bibliographic Note.........................................................................................................6A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE .................................................................................7PREFACE. ...................................................................................................................23A DISSERTATION CONCERNING THE ÆRA OF OSSIAN. ................................26A DISSERTATION CONCERNING THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. ............................33A CRITICAL DISSERTATION ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN, THE SON OFFINGAL.......................................................................................................................49CATH-LODA — DUAN I. .......................................................................................100CATH-LODA — DUAN II. ......................................................................................104CATH-LODA — DUAN III......................................................................................107COMALA, A DRAMATIC POEM...........................................................................110CARRIC-THURA......................................................................................................114CARTHON. ...............................................................................................................122OINA-MORUL..........................................................................................................130COLNA-DONA.........................................................................................................132OITHONA. ................................................................................................................134CROMA.....................................................................................................................138CALTHON AND COLMAL. ....................................................................................141THE WAR OF CAROS. ............................................................................................145CATHLIN OF CLUTHA...........................................................................................149SUL-MALLA OF LUMON.......................................................................................153THE WAR OF INIS-THONA ...................................................................................156THE SONGS OF SELMA. ........................................................................................159FINGAL: AN ANCIENT EPIC POEM.....................................................................164FINGAL — BOOK II. ...............................................................................................172FINGAL — BOOK III...............................................................................................179FINGAL — BOOK IV. .............................................................................................186FINGAL — BOOK V................................................................................................192FINGAL — BOOK VI. .............................................................................................197LATHMON................................................................................................................203DAR-THULA ............................................................................................................209THE DEATH OF CUTHULLIN. ..............................................................................217THE BATTLE OF LORA. ........................................................................................222TEMORA – BOOK I. ................................................................................................227TEMORA — BOOK II..............................................................................................235TEMORA — BOOK III. ...........................................................................................241TEMORA — BOOK IV ............................................................................................247TEMORA — BOOK V .............................................................................................253TEMORA — BOOK VI. ...........................................................................................258TEMORA — BOOK VII...........................................................................................263TEMORA — BOOK VIII .........................................................................................269CONLATH AND CUTHONA. .................................................................................276BERRATHON. ..........................................................................................................279

JAMES MACPHERSON

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FRONTISPIECE

The Dream of Ossian by Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres


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INTRODUCTION

By The Ex-Classics Project

"The Poems of Ossian" by James Macpherson were published in the 1760's, (seebelow) and created a sensation. Over the next thirty years it was translated into manylanguages, and gave a tremendous impetus to both the nascent romantic movement,and the study of folklore and Celtic languages. Goethe translated parts into German;Napoleon brought a copy to Moscow and also commissioned Ingres to paint TheDream of Ossian; Scandinavian and German princes were named Oscar after thecharacter in it, as was Oscar Wilde; indeed the popularity of this name is due entirelyto Macpherson. The city of Selma in Alabama, USA, is named after the palace ofFingal. Writers as diverse as William Blake, Henry Thoreau, George Byron, WalterScott, Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Matthew Arnold praised or imitated it. Itsinfluence or lack of it on James Fenimore Cooper has been the subject of livelydebate. Felix Mendelssohn, Franz Schubert and Johannes Brahms composed piecesinspired by it. But it is little known today (though it has been recently reprinted -- seebelow).

When it was first published Macpherson said that it was a translation of an ancientmanuscript in Scottish Gaelic which had come into his possession, and which was acopy of an original work written by Ossian. This was contested by various people,including notably Samuel Johnson, who said that it was entirely the work ofMacpherson himself. Both sides became passionate and vituperative in expressingtheir own view, and the controversy rumbled on over the next fifty years. The allegedmanuscript never appeared, but later researches have shown that the work is basedpartly on genuine Highland traditions.

Those familiar with the later, more authentic, versions in English of ancient Gaelicliterature will recognise many of the names and stories - Fingal is evidently FionnMac Cumhaill; Temora is Tara (Temro in Old Irish); Cuthulinn is Cú Chulainn(though a much feebler figure than the Irish hero), Dar-Thula is Deirdre of theSorrows; Ros-cranna is Gráinne and Dermid is Diarmuid Ó Duibhne, though thePursuit of Diarmuid and Gráinne is not one of Macpherson's stories. And so on.However, much of the work is Macpherson's own invention -- the tragic love story ofFingal and Agandecca, for example; and though "Temora" has some similarity to theBattles of Ventry and of Gabhra, the details are different. The footnotes (byMacpherson) are almost entirely misleading or downright wrong - be warned!

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BIBLIOGRAPHIC NOTE.

The following works of Ossian were published by Macpherson:

Fragments of ancient poetry, collected in the Highlands of Scotland, andtranslated from the Galic or Erse language. 1760.

Fingal. An Ancient Epic Poem, in six books; together with several otherPoems, composed by Ossian, the son of Fingal. 1761/1762

Temora, an Ancient Epic Poem, in eight books; together with several otherpoems, composed by Ossian, the son of Fingal; translated from the Galiclanguage by James Macpherson. 1762.

These were published in a combined edition:

The Works of Ossian, the Son of Fingal. 1765.

And finally, in a revised edition as

The Poems of Ossian. A new edition, carefully corrected, and greatlyimproved. 1773.

Most subsequent editions (including this one) are reprinted from the 1773 edition. Thetext of this version of The Poetical Works of Ossian is taken partly from a copypublished by Crosby and Nichols, Boston, 1863 (The Poems) and partly from a copypublished by Philips, Sampson & Co, Boston, 1852. (Front matter and illustrations).These two copies appear to have been printed from the same plates as they areidentical in layout and pagination. The front matter and illustrations were transcribedby John B. Hare whose edition is on the Sacred Texts Web Site (Thank you, John!)

I am glad to say that Ossian is in print. Howard Gaskill has produced an edition ThePoems of Ossian and Related Works (Edinburgh University Press). This is based onthe 1765 edition, and so is different from ours, which is taken from the 1773 edition.He has also edited a work on The Reception of Ossian in Europe (Continuum) whichis worth reading if you can afford it or get it from the library (it's very expensive).


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A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE

As Swift has, with some reason, affirmed that all sublunary happiness consists inbeing well deceived, it may possibly be the creed of many, that it had been wise, ifafter Dr. Blair's ingenious and elegant dissertation on "the venerable Ossian," alldoubts respecting what we have been taught to call his works had forever ceased:since there appears cause to believe, that numbers who listened with delight to "thevoice of Cona," would have been happy, if, seeing their own good, they had beencontent with these poems accompanied by Dr. Blair's judgment, and sought to knowno more. There are men, however, whose ardent love of truth rises, on all occasions,paramount to every other consideration; and though the first step in search of it shoulddissolve the charm, and turn a fruitful Eden into a barren wild, they would pursue it.For those, and for the idly curious in literary problems, added to the wish of makingthis new edition of "The Poems of Ossian" as well-informed as the hour would allow,we have here thought it proper to insert some account of a renewal of the controversyrelating to the genuineness of this rich treasure of poetical excellence.

Nearly half a century has elapsed since the Publication of the poems ascribed by Mr.Macpherson to Ossian, which poems he then professed to have collected in theoriginal Gaelic, during a tour through the Western Highlands and Isles; but a doubt oftheir authenticity nevertheless obtained, and, from their first appearance to this day,has continued in various degrees to agitate the literary world. In the present year, "AReport," springing from an inquiry instituted for the purpose of leaving, with regard tothis matter, "no hinge or loop to hang a doubt on," has been laid before the public. Asthe committee, in this investigation, followed, in a great measure, that line of conductchalked out by David Hume to Dr. Blair, we shall, previously to stating their precisemode of proceeding, make several large and interesting extracts from the historian'stwo letters on this subject.

"I live in a place," he writes, "where I have the pleasure of frequently hearing justicedone to your dissertation, but never heard it mentioned in a company, where some oneperson or other did not express his doubts with regard to the authenticity of the poemswhich are its subject; and I often hear them totally rejected with disdain andindignation, as a palpable and most impudent forgery. This opinion has, indeed,become very prevalent among the men of letters in London; and I can foresee, that ina few years, the poems, if they continue to stand on their present footing, will bethrown aside, and will fall into final oblivion.

"The absurd pride and caprice of Macpherson himself, who scorns, as he pretends, tosatisfy anybody that doubts his veracity, has tended much to confirm this generalskepticism; and I must own, for my part, that though I have had many particularreasons to believe these poems genuine, more than it is possible for any Englishmanof letters to have, yet I am not entirely without my scruples on that head. You think,that the internal proofs in favor of the poems are very convincing; so they are; butthere are also internal reasons against them, particularly from the manners,notwithstanding all the art with which you have endeavored to throw a vernish on thatcircumstance; and the preservation of such long and such connected poems, by oraltradition alone, during a course of fourteen centuries, is so much out of the ordinarycourse of human affairs, that it requires the strongest reasons to make us believe it.My present purpose, therefore, is to apply to you in the name of all the men of letters

JAMES MACPHERSON

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of this, and, I may say, of all other countries, to establish this capital point, and to giveus proofs that these poems are, I do not say, so ancient as the age of Severus, but thatthey, were not forged within these five years by James Macpherson. These proofsmust not be arguments, but testimonies; people's ears are fortified against the former;the latter may yet find their way, before the poems are consigned to total oblivion.Now the testimonies may, in my opinion, be of two kinds. Macpherson pretends thereis an ancient manuscript of part of Fingal in the family, I think, of Clanronald. Getthat fact ascertained by more than one person of credit; let these persons beacquainted with the Gaelic; let them compare the original and the translation; and letthem testify the fidelity of the latter.

"But the chief point in which it will be necessary for you to exert yourself, will be, toget positive testimony from many different hands that such poems are vulgarly recitedin the Highlands, and have there long been the entertainment of the people. Thistestimony must be as particular as it is positive. It will not be sufficient that aHighland gentleman or clergyman say or write to you that he has heard such poems;nobody questions that there are traditional poems of that part of the country, where thenames of Ossian and Fingal, and Oscar and Gaul, are mentioned in every stanza. Theonly doubt is, whether these poems have any farther resemblance to the poemspublished by Macpherson. I was told by Bourke, a very ingenious Irish gentleman, theauthor of a tract on the sublime and beautiful, that on the first publication ofMacpherson's book, all the Irish cried out, 'We know all those poems. We havealways heard them from our infancy.' But when he asked more particular questions,he could never learn that any one ever heard or could repeat the original of any oneparagraph of the pretended translation. This generality, then, must be carefullyguarded against, as being of no authority.

"Your connections among your brethren of the clergy may be of great use to you. Youmay easily learn the names of all ministers of that country who understand thelanguage of it. You may write to them, expressing the doubts that have arisen, anddesiring them to send for such of the bards as remain, and make them rehearse theirancient poems. Let the clergymen then have the translation in their hands, and letthem write back to you, and inform you, that they heard such a one, (naming him,)living in such a place, rehearse the original of such a passage, from such a page tosuch a page of the English translation, which appeared exact and faithful. If you giveto the public a sufficient number of such testimonials, you may prevail. But I ventureto foretel to you, that nothing less will serve the purpose; nothing less will so much ascommand the attention of the public.

"Becket tells me, that he is to give us a new edition of your dissertation, accompaniedwith some-remarks on Temora. Here is a favorable opportunity for you to execute thispurpose. You have a just and laudable zeal for the credit of these poems. They are, ifgenuine, one of the greatest curiosities, in all respects, that ever was discovered in thecommonwealth of letters; and the child is, in a manner, become yours by adoption, asMacpherson has totally abandoned all care of it. These motives call upon you to exertyourself: and I think it were suitable to your candor, and most satisfactory also to thereader, to publish all the answers to all the letters you write, even though some ofthose letters should make somewhat against your own opinion in this affair. We shallalways be the more assured, that no arguments are strained beyond their proper force,and no contrary arguments suppressed, where such an entire communication is made


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to us. Becket joins me heartily in that application; and he owns to me, that thebelievers in the authenticity of the poems diminish every day among the men of senseand reflection. Nothing less than what I propose can throw the balance on the otherside."

Lisle street, Leicester Fields,19th Sept., 1763.

The second letter contains less matter of importance; but what there is that is relevantdeserves not to be omitted.

"I am very glad," he writes on the 6th of October, 1763, "you have undertaken the taskwhich I used the freedom to recommend to you. Nothing less than what you proposewill serve the purpose. You must expect no assistance from Macpherson, who flewinto a passion when I told him of the letter I had wrote to you. But you must not mindso strange and heteroclite a mortal, than whom I have scarce ever known a man moreperverse and unamiable. He will probably depart for Florida with GovernorJohnstone, and I would advise him to travel among the Chickasaws or Cherokees, inorder to tame and civilize him.

* * * * * *

"Since writing the above, I have been in company with Mrs. Montague, a lady of greatdistinction in this place, and a zealous partisan of Ossian. I told her of your intention,and even used the freedom to read your letter to her. She was extremely pleased withyour project; and the rather, as the Due de Nivernois, she said, had talked to her muchon that subject last winter; and desired, if possible, to get collected some proofs of theauthenticity of these poems, which he proposed to lay before the Academie de BellesLettres at Paris. You see, then, that you are upon a great stage in this inquiry, and thatmany people have their eyes upon you. This is a new motive for rendering your proofsas complete as possible. I cannot conceive any objection which a man, even of thegravest character, could have to your publication of his letters, which will only attest aplain fact known to him. Such scruples, if they occur, you must endeavor to remove,for on this trial of yours will the judgment of the public finally depend."

Without being acquainted with Hume's advice to Dr. Blair, the committee, composedof chosen persons, and assisted by the best Celtic scholars, adopted, as it will he seen,a very similar manner of acting.

It conceived the purpose of its nomination to be, to employ the influence of thesociety, and the extensive communication which it possesses with every part of theHighlands, in collecting what materials or information it was still practicable tocollect, regarding the authenticity and nature of the poems ascribed to Ossian, andparticularly of that celebrated collection published by Mr. James Macpherson.

For the purpose above mentioned, the committee, soon after its appointment,circulated the following set of queries, through such parts of the Highlands andIslands, and among such persons resident there, as seemed most likely to afford theinformation required.

JAMES MACPHERSON

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QUERIES.

1. Have you ever heard repeated, or sung, any of the poems ascribed to Ossian,translated and published by Mr. Macpherson? By whom have you heard them sorepeated, and at what time or times? Did you ever commit any of them to writing? orcan you remember them so well as now to set them down? In either of these cases, beso good to send the Gaelic original to the committee.

2. The same answer is requested concerning any other ancient poems of the samekind, and relating to the same traditionary persons or stories with those in Mr.Macpherson's collection.

3. Are any of the persons from whom you heard any such poems now alive? or arethere, in your part of the country, any persons who remember and can repeat or recitesuch poems? If there are, be so good as to examine them as to the manner of theirgetting or learning such compositions; and set down, as accurately as possible, such asthey can now repeat or recite; and transmit such their account, and such compositionsas they repeat, to the committee.

4. If there are, in your neighborhood, any persons from whom Mr. Macphersonreceived any poems, in. quire particularly what the poems were which he so received,the manner in which he received them, and how he wrote them down; show thosepersons, if you have an opportunity, his translation of such poems, and desire them tosay, if the translation is exact and literal; or, if it differs, in what it differs from thepoems, as they repeated them to Mr. Macpherson, and can now recollect them.

5. Be so good to procure every information you conveniently can, with regard to thetraditionary belief, in the country in which you live, concerning, the history of Fingaland his followers, and that of Ossian and his poems; particularly those stories andpoems published by Mr. Macpherson, and the heroes mentioned in them. Transmitany such account, and any proverbial or traditionary expression in the original Gaelic,relating to the subject, to the committee.

6. In all the above inquiries, or any that may occur to in elucidation of this subject, heis requested by the committee to make the inquiry, and to take down the answers, withas much impartiality and precision as possible, in the same manner as if it were a legalquestion, and the proof to be investigated with a legal strictness.--See the "Report."

It is presumed as undisputed, that a traditionary history of a great hero or chief, calledFion, Fion na Gael, or, as it is modernized, Fingal, exists, and has immemoriallyexisted, in the Highlands and Islands of Scotland, and that certain poems or balladscontaining the exploits of him and his associate heroes, were the favorite lore of thenatives of those districts. The general belief of the existence of such heroicpersonages, and the great poet Ossian, the son of Fingal, by whom their exploits weresung, is as universal in the Highlands, as the belief of any ancient fact whatsoever. Itis recorded in proverbs, which pass through all ranks and conditions of men, Ossiandall, blind Ossian, is a person as well known as strong Sampson, or wise Solomon.The very boys in their sports cry out for fair play, Cothram na feine, the equal combato the Fingalians. Ossian, an deigh nam fiann, Ossian, the last of his race, is proverbial,to signify a man who has had the misfortune to survive his kindred; and servants


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returning from a fair or wedding, were in use to describe the beauty of young womenthey had seen there, by the words, Tha i cho boidheach reh Agandecca, nighean antsneachda, She is as beautiful as Agandecca, the daughter of the Snow.

All this will be readily conceded, and Mr. Macpherson's being at one period an"indifferent proficient in the Gaelic language," may seem an argument of some weightagainst his having himself composed these Ossianic Poems. Of his inaccuracy in theGaelic, a ludicrous instance is related in the declaration of Mr. Evan Macpherson, atKnock, in Sleat, Sept. 11, 1800. He declares that he, "Colonel Macleod, of Talisker,and the late Mr. Maclean of Coll, embarked with Mr. Macpherson for Uist on thesame pursuit: that they landed at Lochmaddy, and proceeded across the Muir toBenbecula, the seat of the younger Clanronald: that on their way thither they fell inwith a man whom they afterwards ascertained to have been Mac Codrum, the poet:that Mr. Macpherson asked him the question, A bheil dad agad air an Fheinn? bywhich he meant to inquire, whether or not he knew any of the poems of Ossianrelative to the Fingalians: but that the term in which the question was asked, strictlyimported whether or not the Fingalians owed him any thing; and that Mac Codrum,being a man of humor, took advantage of the incorrectness or inelegance of the Gaelicin which the question was put, and answered, that really if they had owed him anything, the bonds and obligations were lost, and he believed any attempt to recoverthem at that time of day would be unavailing. Which sally of MacCodrum's witseemed to have hurt Mr. Macpherson, who cut short the conversation, and proceededon towards Benbecula. And the declarant being asked whether or not the late Mr.James Macpherson was capable of composing such poems as those of Ossian,declares most explicitly and positively that he is certain Mr. Macpherson was asunequal to such compositions as the declarant himself, who could no more make themthan take wings and fly." p. 96.

We would here observe, that the sufficiency of a man's knowledge of such a languageas the Gaelic, for all the purposes of composition, is not to be questioned, because hedoes not speak it accurately or elegantly, much less is it to be quibbled into suspicionby the pleasantry of a double entendre. But we hold it prudent, and it shall be ourendeavor in this place, to give no decided opinion on the main subject of dispute. Forus the contention shall still remain sub judice.

To the queries circulated through such parts of the Highlands as the committeeimagined most likely to afford information in reply to them, they received manyanswers, most of which were conceived in nearly similar terms; that the personsthemselves had never doubted of the existence of such poems as Mr. Macpherson hadtranslated; that they had heard many of them repeated in their youth: that listening tothem was the favorite amusement of Highlanders, in the hours of leisure and idleness;but that since the rebellion in 1745, the manners of the people had undergone achange so unfavorable to the recitation of these poems, that it was now an amusementscarcely known, and that very few persons remained alive who were able to recitethem. That many of the poems which they had formerly heard were similar in subjectand story, as well as in the names of the heroes mentioned in them, to those translatedby Mr. Macpherson: that his translation seemed, to such as had read it, a very ableone; but that it did not by any means come up to the force or energy of the original tosuch as had read it; for his book was by no means universally possessed, or readamong the Highlanders, even accustomed to reading, who conceived that his

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translation could add but little to their amusement, and not at all to their conviction, ina matter which they had never doubted. A few of the committee's correspondents sentthem such ancient poems as they possessed in writing, from having formerly takenthem down from the oral recitation of the old Highlanders who were in use to recitethem, or as they now took them down from some person, whom a very advancedperiod of life, or a particular connection with some reciter of the old school, enabledstill to retain them in his memory; but those, the committee's correspondents said,were generally less perfect, and more corrupted, than the poems which they had,formerly heard, or which might have been obtained at an earlier period.

Several collections came to them by presents, as well as by purchase, and in these arenumerous "shreds and patches," that bear a strong resemblance to the materials ofwhich "Ossian's Poems" are composed. These are of various degrees of consequence.One of them we are the more tempted to give, for the same reason as the committeewas the more solicitous to procure it, because it was one which some of the opposersof the authenticity of Ossian had quoted as evidently spurious, betraying the mostconvincing marks of its being a close imitation of the address to the sun in Milton.

"I got," says Mr. Mac Diarmid, "the copy of these poems" (Ossian's address to the sunin Carthon, and a similar address in Carrickthura) "about thirty years, ago, from anold man in Glenlyon. I took it, and several other fragments, now, I fear, irrecoverablylost, from the man's mouth. He had learnt them in his youth from people in the sameglen, which must have been long before Macpherson was born."

LITERAL TRANSLATION OF OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN INCARTHON.

"O! thou who travellest above, round as the full-orbed hard shield of the mighty!whence is thy brightness without frown, thy light that is lasting, O sun? Thou comestforth in thy powerful beauty, and the stars bide their course; the moon, withoutstrength, goes from the sky, hiding herself under a wave in the west. Thou art in thyjourney alone; who is so bold as to come nigh thee? The oak falleth from the highmountain; the rock and the precipice fall under old age; the ocean ebbeth and floweth,the moon is lost above in the sky; but thou alone forever in victory, in the rejoicing ofthy own light. When the storm darkeneth around the world, with fierce thunder, andpiercing lightnings, thou lookest in thy beauty from the noise, smiling in the troubledsky! To me is thy light in vain, as I can never see thy countenance; though thy yellowgolden locks are spread on the face of the clouds in the east; or when thou tremblest inthe west, at thy dusky doors in the ocean. Perhaps thou and myself are at one timemighty, at another feeble, our years sliding down from the skies, quickly travellingtogether to their end. Rejoice then, O sun! while thou art strong, O king! in thy youth.Dark and unpleasant is old age, like the vain and feeble light of the moon, while shelooks through a cloud on the field, and her gray mist on the sides of the rocks; a blastfrom the north on the plain, a traveller in distress, and he slow."

The comparison may be made, by turning to the end of Mr. Macpherson's version of"Carthon," beginning "O thou that rollest above."

But it must not be concealed, that after all the exertions of the committee, it has notbeen able to obtain any one poem, the same in title and tenor with the poems


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published by him. We therefore feel that the reader of "Ossian's Poems," until groundsmore relative be produced, will often, in the perusal of Mr. Macpherson's translations,be induced, with some show of justice. to exclaim with him, when he looked over themanuscript copies found in Clanronald's family, "D--n the scoundrel, it is he himselfthat now speaks, and not Ossian!'

To this sentiment the committee has the candor to incline, us it will appear by theirsumming up. After producing or pointing to a large body of mixed evidence, andtaking for granted the existence, at some period, of an abundance of Ossianic poetry,it comes to the question, "How far that collection of such poetry, published by Mr.James Macpherson, is genuine?" To answer this query decisively, is, as they confess,difficult. This, however, is the ingenious manner in which they treat it.

"The committee is possessed of no documents, to show how much of his collectionMr. Macpherson obtained in the form in which he has given it to the world. Thepoems and fragments of poems which the committee has been able to procure,contain, as will appear from the article in the Appendix (No. 15) already mentioned,often the substance, and sometimes almost the literal expression (the ipsissima verba)of passages given by Mr. Macpherson, in the poems of which he has published thetranslations. But the committee has not been able to obtain any one poem the same intitle or tenor with the poems published by him. It is inclined to believe, that he was inuse to supply chasms, and to give connection, by inserting passages which he did notfind, and to add what he conceived to be dignity and delicacy to the originalComposition, by striking out passages, by softening incidents, by refining thelanguage -- in short, by changing what he considered as too simple or too rude formodern ear, and elevating what, in his opinion, was below the standard of goodpoetry. To what degree, however, he exercised these liberties, it is impossible for thecommittee to determine. The advantages he possessed, which the committee began itsinquiries too late to enjoy, of collecting from the oral recitation of a number ofpersons, now no more, a very great number of the same poems on the same subjects,and then collating those different copies, or editions, if they may be so called,rejecting what was spurious or corrupted in one copy, and adopting from another,something more genuine and excellent in its place, afforded him an opportunity ofputting together what might fairly enough be called an original whole, of much morebeauty, and with much fewer blemishes, than the committee believe it now possiblefor any person, or combination of persons, to obtain." P. 152-3.

Some Scotch critics, who should not be ignorant of the strongholds and fastnesses ofthe advocates for the authenticity of these poems, appear so convinced of theirinsufficiency, that they pronounce the question put to rest forever. But we greatlydistrust that any literary question, possessing a single inch of debateable ground tostand upon, will be suffered to enjoy much rest in an age like the present. There are asmany minds as men, and of wranglers there is no end. Behold another and "anotheryet," and in our imagination, he

"bears a glass,Which shows us many more."

The first of these is Mr. Laing, who has recently published the "Poems of Ossian, &c.,containing Poetical Works of James Macpherson, Esq., in Prose and Rhyme: with,

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notes and illustrations. In 2 vols. 8 vo. Edinburgh, 1805." In these "notes andillustrations," we foresee, that Ossian is likely to share the fate of Shakspeare, that is,ultimately to be loaded and oppressed by heavy commentators, until his immortalspirit groan beneath vast heaps of perishable matter. The object of Mr. Laing'scommentary, after having elsewhere endeavored to show that the poems are spurious,and of no historical authority, "is," says he, it not merely to exhibit parallel passages,much less instances of a fortuitous resemblance of ideas, but to produce the preciseoriginals from which the similes and images arc indisputably derived." And these hepretends to find in Holy Writ, and in the classical poets, both of ancient and moderntimes. Mr. Laing, however, is one of those detectors of plagiarisms, and discoverers ofcoincidences, whose exquisite penetration and acuteness can find any thing anywhere.Dr. Johnson, who was shut against conviction with respect to Ossian, even when heaffected to seek the truth in the heart of the Hebrides, may yet be made useful to theOssianites in canvassing the merits of this redoubted stickler on the side of opposition."Among the innumerable practices," says the Rambler, "by which interest or envyhave taught those who live upon literary fame to disturb each other at their airybanquets, one of the most common is the charge of plagiarism. When the excellenceof a now composition can no longer be contested, and malice is compelled to giveway to the unanimity of applause, there is yet this one expedient to be tried, by whichthe author may be degraded, though his work be reverenced; and the excellence whichwe cannot obscure, may be set at such a distance as not to overpower our fainterlustre. This accusation is dangerous, because, even when it is false, it may besometimes urged with probability."

How far this just sentence applies to Mr. Laing, it does not become us, nor is it ourbusiness, now to declare: but we must say, that nothing can be more disingenuous orgroundless than his frequent charges of plagiarism of the following description;because, in the War of Caros, we meet with these words, "It is like the field, whendarkness covers the hills around, and the shadow grows slowly on the plain of thesun," we are to believe, according to Mr. Laing, that the idea was stolen from Virgil's

Majoresque cadunt altis de montibus umbra.For see, yon sunny hills the shade extend.--Dryden.

As well might we credit that no one ever beheld a natural phenomenon except theMantuan bard. The book of nature is open to all, and in her pages there are no newreadings. "Many subjects," it is were said by Johnson, "fall under the consideration ofan author, which, being limited by nature, can admit only of slight and accidentaldiversities. And definitions of the same thing must be nearly the same; anddescriptions, which are definitions of a more lax and fanciful kind, must always have,in some degree, that resemblance to each other, which they all have to their object." Itis true, however, if we were fully able to admit that Macpherson could not haveobtained these-ideas where he professes to have found them, Mr. Laing has producedmany instances of such remarkable coincidence as would make it probable thatMacpherson frequently translates, not the Gaelic, but the poetical lore of antiquity.Still this is a battery that can only be brought to play on particular points; and thenwith great uncertainty. The mode of attack used by Mr. Knight, could it have beencarried on to any extent, 'would have proved much more effectual. We shall give theinstance alluded to. In his "Analytical Enquiry into the Principles of Taste, 1805," hemakes these remarks:


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"The untutored, but uncorrupted feelings of all unpolished nations, have regulatedtheir fictions upon the same principles, even when most rudely exhibited. In relatingthe actions of their gods and deceased heroes, they are licentiously extravagant: fortheir falsehood could amuse, because it could not be detected; but in describing thecommon appearances of nature, and all those objects and effects which are exposed tohabitual observation, their bards are scrupulously exact; so that an extravaganthyperbole, in a matter of this kind, is sufficient to mark, as counterfeit anycomposition attributed to them. In the early stages of society, men are as acute andaccurate in practical observation as they are limited and deficient in speculativescience; and in proportion as, they, are ready to give up their imaginations to delusion,they are jealously tenacious of the evidence of their senses. James Macpherson, in theperson of his blind bard, could say, with applause in the eighteenth century, 'Thushave I seen in Cona; but Cona I behold no more; thus have I seen two dark hillsremoved from their place by the strength of the mountain stream. They turn from sideto side, and their tall oaks meet one another on high. Then they fall together with alltheir rocks and trees.'

"But had a blind bard, or any other bard, presumed to utter such a rhapsody ofbombast in the hall of shells, amid the savage warriors to whom Ossian is supposed tohave sung, he would have needed all the influence of royal birth, attributed to thatfabulous personage, to restrain the audience from throwing their shells at his head,and hooting him out of their company as an impudent liar. They must have beensufficiently acquainted with the rivulets of Cona or Glen-Coe to know that he hadseen nothing of the kind; and have known enough of mountain torrents in general toknow that no such effects are ever produced by them, and would, therefore, haveindignantly rejected such a barefaced attempt to impose on their credulity."

The best defence that can be set up in this case will, perhaps, be to repeat, "It is hehimself that now speaks, and not Ossian."

Mr. Laing had scarcely thrown down the gauntlet, when Mr. Archibald M'Donaldappeared

"Ready, aye, ready, for the field.

The opinion of the color of his opposition, whether it be that of truth or error, willdepend on the eye that contemplates it. Those who delight to feast with Mr. Laing onthe limbs of a mangled poet, will think the latter unanswered; while those whocontinue to indulge the animating thought, "that Fingal lived, and that Ossian sung,"will entertain a different sentiment. After successfully combating several oldpositions, Mr. M'Donald terminates his discussion of the point at issue with thesewords:

"He (Mr. Laing) declares, 'if a single poem of Ossian in MS. of an older date than thepresent century (1700,) be procured and lodged in a public library, I (Laing) shallreturn among the first to our national creed.'

"This is reducing the point at issue to a narrow compass. Had the proposal been madeat the outset, it would have saved both him and me a good deal of trouble: not that inregard to ancient Gaelic manuscripts I could give any more satisfactory account than

JAMES MACPHERSON

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has been done in the course of this discourse. There the reader will see, that thoughsome of the poems are confessedly procured from oral tradition, yet several gentlemenof veracity attest to have seen, among Macpherson's papers, several MSS. of a mucholder date than Mr. Laing requires to be convinced. Though not more credulous thanmy neighbors, I cannot resist facts so well attested; there are no stronger for believingthe best-established human transactions.

"I understand the originals are in the press, and expected daily to make theirappearance. When they do, the public will not be carried away by conjectures, but beable to judge on solid grounds. Till then, let the discussion be at rest." P. 193-4. It iscurious to remark, and, in this place, not unworthy of our notice, that whilst thecontroversy is imminent in the decision, whether these poems are to be ascribed to aHighland bard long since gone "to the halls of his fathers," or to a Lowland muse ofthe last century, it is in the serious meditation of some controversialist to step in andplace the disputed wreath on the brows of Hibernia. There is no doubt that Irelandwas, in ancient times, so much connected with the adjacent coast of Scotland, thatthey might almost be considered as one country, having a community of manners andof language, as well as the closest political connection. Their poetical language isnearly, or rather altogether the same. These coinciding circumstances, therefore,independent of all other ground, afford to ingenuity, in the present state of thequestion, a sufficient basis for the erection of an hypothetical superstructure of a veryimposing nature.

In a small volume published at Dusseldorf in 1787, by Edmond, Baron de Harold, anIrishman, of endless titles, we are presented with what are called, "Poems of Ossianlately discovered."

"I am interested," says the baron in his preface, in no polemical dispute or party, andgive these poems such as they are found in the mouths of the people; and do notpretend to ascertain what was the native country of Ossian. I honor and revere equallya bard of his exalted talents, were he born in Ireland or in Scotland. It is certain thatthe Scotch and Irish were united at some early period. That they proceed from thesame origin is indisputable; nay, I believe that it is proved beyond any possibility ofnegating it, that the Scotch derive their origin from the Irish. This truth has beenbrought in question but of late days; and all ancient tradition, and the general con. sentof the Scotch nation, and of their oldest historians, agree to confirm the certitude ofthis assertion. If any man still doubts of it, he will find, in Macgeogehan's History ofIreland, an entire conviction, established by elaborate discussion, and mostincontrovertible proofs:" pp. v. vi.

We shall not stay to quarrel about "Sir Archy's great grandmother," or to contend thatFingal, the Irish giant, did not one day go "over from Carrickfergus, and people allScotland with his own hands," and make these sons of the north "illegitimate;" but wemay observe, that from the inclination of the baron's opinion, added to the internalevidence of his poems, there appears at least as much reason to believe their author tohave been a native of Ireland as of Scotland. The success with which Macpherson'sendeavors had been rewarded, induced the baron to inquire whether any more of thiskind of poetry could be obtained. His search, he confessed, would have provedfruitless, had he expected to find complete pieces; "for, certainly," says he, "none suchexist. But," he adds, "in seeking with assiduity and care, I found, by the help of my


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friends, several fragments of old traditionary songs, which were very sublime, andparticularly remarkable for their simplicity and elegance." P. iv.

"From these fragments," continues Baron de Harold, "I have composed the followingpoems. They are all founded on tradition; but the dress they now appear in is mine. Itwill appear singular to some, that Ossian, at times, especially in the songs of Comfort,seems rather to be an Hibernian than a Scotchman, and that some of these poemsformally contradict passages of great importance in those handed to the public by Mr.Macpherson, especially that very remarkable one of Evir-allen, where the descriptionof her marriage with Ossian, is essentially different in all its parts front that given informer poems." P. v.

We refer the reader to the opening of the fourth book of Fingal, which treats ofOssian's courtship of Evir-allen. The Evir-allen of Baron de Harold is in these words:

EVIR-ALLEN:

A POEM.

THOU fairest of the maids of Morven, young beam of streamy Lutha, come to thehelp of the aged, come to the help of the distressed. Thy soul is open to pity.Friendship glows in thy tender breast. Ah come and sooth away my wo. Thy wordsare music to my soul.

Bring me my once-loved harp. It hangs long neglected in my hall. The stream of yearshas borne me away in its course, and rolled away all my bliss. Dim and faded are myeyes; thin-strewed with hairs my head. Weak is that nervous arm, once the terror offoes. Scarce can I grasp my staff, the prop of my trembling limbs.

Lead me to yonder craggy steep. The murmur of the falling streams; the whistlingwinds rushing through the woods of my hills; the welcome rays of the bounteous sun,will soon awake the voice of song in my breast. The thoughts of former years glideover my soul like swift-shooting meteors o'er Ardven's gloomy vales.

Come, ye friends of my youth, ye soft-sounding voices of Cona, bend from your gold-tinged clouds, and join me in my song. A mighty blaze is kindled in my soul. I hear apowerful voice. It says, "Seize thy beam of glory, O bard! for thou shalt soon depart.Soon shall the light of song be faded. Soon thy tuneful voice forgotten."--"Yes, Iobey, O Powerful voice, for thou art pleasing to mine ear."

O Evir-allen! thou boast of Erin's maids, thy thoughts come streaming on my soul.Hear, O Malvina! a tale of my youth, the actions of my former days.

Peace reigned over Morven's hills. The shell of joy resounded in our halls. Round theblaze of the oak sported in festive dance the maids of Morven. They shone like theradiant bow of heaven, when the fiery rays, of the setting sun brightens its variedsides. They wooed me to their love, but my heart was silent, cold. Indifference, like abrazen shield, covered my frozen heart.

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Fingal saw, he smiled, and mildly spoke: My son, the down of youth grows on thycheck. Thy arm has wielded the spear of war. Foes have felt thy force. Morven'smaids are fair, but fairer are the daughters of Erin. Go to that happy isle; to Branno'sgrass-covered fields. The daughter of my friend deserves thy love. Majestic beautyflows around her as a robe, and innocence, as a precious veil, heightens her youthfulcharms. Go, take thy arms, and win the lovely fair.

Straight I obeyed. A chosen band followed my steps. O We mounted the dark-bosomed ship of the king, spread its white sails to the winds, and ploughed throughthe foam of ocean. Pleasant shone the fine-eyed Ull-Erin. 1 With joyal songs we cutthe liquid way. The moon, regent of the silent night, gleamed majestic in the bluevault of heaven, and seemed pleased to bathe her side in the trembling wave. My soulwas full of my father's words. A thousand thoughts divided my wavering mind,

Soon as the early beam of morn appeared we saw the green-skirted sides of Erinadvancing in the bosom of the sea. White broke the tumbling surges on the Coast.

Deep in Larmor's woody bay we drove our keel to the shore, and gained the loftybeach. I inquired after the generous Branno. A son of Erin led us to his halls, to thebanks of the Sounding Lego. He said, "Many warlike youths are assembled to gain thedark-haired maid, the beauteous Evir-allen. Branno will give her to the brave. Theconqueror shall bear away the fair. Erin's chiefs dispute the maid, for she is destinedfor the strong in arms."

These words inflamed my breast, and roused courage in my heart. I clad my limbs insteel. I grasped a shining spear in my hand. Branno saw our approach. He sent thegray-haired Snivan to invite us to his feast, and know the intent of our course. Hecame with the solemn steps of age, and gravely spoke the words of the Chief.

"Whence are these arms of steel? If friends ye come, Branno invites you to his halls;for this day the lovely Evir-allen shall bless the warrior's arms whose lance shall shinevictorious in the combat of valor."

"O venerable bard!" I said, "peace guides my steps to Branno. My arm is young, andfew are my deeds in war, but valor inflames my soul; I am of the race of the brave."

The bard departed. We followed the steps of age, and soon arrived to Branno's halls.

The hero came to meet us. Manly serenity adorned his brow. His open front showedthe kindness of his heart. "Welcome," he said, "ye sons of strangers; welcome toBranno's friendly halls; partake his shell of joy. Share, in the combat of spears. Notunworthy is the prize of valor, the lovely dark-haired maid of Erin; but strong must bethat warrior's hand that conquers Erin's chiefs; matchless his strength in fight."

"Chief," I replied, "the light of my father's deeds blazes in my soul. Though young, Iseek my beam of glory foremost in the ranks of foes. Warrior, I can fair, but I shall fillwith renown."

"Happy is thy father, O generous youth! more happy the maid of thy love. Thy gloryshall surround her with praise; thy valor raise her charms. O were my Evir-allen thy


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spouse, my years would pass away in . joy. Pleased I would descend into the grave:contented see the end of my days."

The feast was spread; stately and slow camp Evir-allen. A snow-white veil. coveredher blushing face. Her large blue eyes were bent on earth. Dignity flowed round hergraceful steps. A shining tear fell glittering on her cheek. She appeared lovely as themountain flower when the ruddy beams of the rising sun gleam on its dew-coveredaides. Decent she sate. High beat my fluttering heart. Swift through my veins flew mythrilling blood. An unusual weight oppressed my breast. I stood, darkened in myplace. The image of the maid wandered over my troubled soul.

The sprightly harp's melodious voice arose from the string of the bards. My soulmelted away in the sounds, for my heart, like a stream, flowed gently away in song.Murmurs soon broke upon our joy. Half-unsheathed daggers gleamed. Many a voicewas heard abrupt. "Shall the son of the strangers be preferred? Soon shall he be rolledaway, like mist by rushing breath of the tempest." Sedate I rose, for I despised theboaster's threats. The fair one's eye followed my departure. I heard a smothered sighfrom her breast.

The horn's harsh sound summoned us to the doubtful strife of spears. Lothmar, fiercehunter of the woody Galmal, first opposed his might. He vainly insulted my youth,but my sword cleft his brazen shield, and cut his ashen lance in twain. Straight Iwithheld my descending blade. Lothmar retired confused.

Then rose the red-haired strength of Sulin. Fierce rolled his deep-sunk eye. Hisshaggy brows stood erect. His face was contracted with scorn. Thrice his spearpierced my buckler. Thrice his sword struck on my helm. Swift flashes gleamed fromour circling blades. The pride of my rage arose. Furious I rushed on the chief, andstretched his bulk on the plain. Groaning he fell to earth. Lego's shores re-echoedfrom his fall.

Then advanced Cormac, graceful in glittering arms. No fairer youth was seen onErin's grassy hills. His age was equal to mine; his port majestic; his stature tall andslender, like the young shooting poplar in Lutha's streamy vales; but sorrow sate uponhis brow; languor reigned on his cheek. My heart inclined to the youth. My sword oftavoided to wound; often sought to save his days: but he rushed eager on death. Hefell. Blood gushed from his panting breast. Tears flowed streaming from mine eyes. Istretched forth my hand to the chief. I proffered gentle words of peace. Faintly heseized my hand. "Stranger," he said, "I willingly die, for my days were oppressed withwo. Evir-allen rejected my love. She slighted my tender suit. Thou alone deservest themaid, for pity reigns in thy soul, and thou art generous and brave. Tell her, I forgiveher scorn. Tell her, I descend with joy into the grave; but raise the stone of my praise.Let the maid throw a flower on my tomb, and mingle one tear with my dust; this is mysole request. This she can grant to my shade."

I would have spoken, but broken sighs issuing from my breast, interrupted myfaltering words. I threw my spear aside. I clasped the youth in my arms: but, alas! hissoul was already departed to the cloudy mansions of his; fathers.

JAMES MACPHERSON

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Then thrice I raised my voice, and called the chiefs to combat. Thrice I brandished myspear, and wielded my glittering sword. No warrior appeared. They dreaded the forceof my arm, and yielded the blue-eyed maid.

Three days I remained in Branno's halls. On the fourth he led me to the chambers ofthe fair. She came forth attended by her maids, graceful in lovely majesty, like themoon, when all the stars confess her sway, and retire respectful and abashed. I laid mysword at her feet. Words of love flowed faltering from my tongue. Gently she gaveher hand. Joy seized my enraptured soul. Branno was touched at the sight. He closedme in his aged arms.

"O wert thou," said he, "the son of my friend, the son of the mighty Fingal, then weremy happiness complete!"

"I am, I am the son of thy friend," I replied, "Ossian, the son of Fingal;" then sunkupon his aged breast. Our flowing tears mingled together. We remained long claspedin each other's arms.

Such was my youth, O Malvina! but alas! I am now forlorn. Darkness covers my soul.Yet the light of song beams at times on my mind. It solaces awhile my we. Bards,prepare my tomb. Lay me by the fair Evir-allen. When the revolving years bring backthe mild season of spring to our hills, sing the praise of Cona's bard, of Ossian, thefriend of the distressed.

The difference, in many material circumstances, between these two descriptions of, asit would seem, the same thing, must be very apparent. "I will submit," says the baron,"the solution of this problem to the public." We shall follow his example.

The Honorable Henry Grattan, to whom the baron dedicates his work, has said, thatthe poems: which it contains are calculated to inspire "valor, wisdom, and virtue." It istrue, that they are adorned with numerous beauties both of poetry and morality. Theyare still farther distinguished and illumined by noble allusions to the Omnipotent,which cannot fail to strike the reader as a particular in which they remarkably varyfrom those of Mr. Macpherson. "In his," says our author," there is no mention of theDivinity. In these, the chief characteristic is the many solemn descriptions of theAlmighty Being, which give a degree of elevation to them unattainable by any othermethod. It is worthy of observation how the bard gains in sublimity by hismagnificent, display of the power, bounty, eternity, and justice of God: and everyreader must rejoice to find the venerable old warrior occupied in descriptions soworthy his great and comprehensive genius, and to see him freed from the imputationof atheism, with which he had been branded by many sagacious and impartial men."P. vi.

We could willingly transcribe more of these. poems, but we have already quotedenough to show the style of them, and can spare space for no additions. "Lamor, apoem," is, the baron thinks, of a more ancient date than that of Ossian, and "themodel, perhaps, of his compositions." Another, called "Sitric," king of Dublin, whichthrows some light on the history of those times, he places in the ninth century. Whatfaith, however, is to be put in the genuineness of the "Fragments," which Baron de


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Harold assures us furnished him with the ground-work of these poems, we leave it toothers to ascertain. Our investigation is confined within far narrower limits.

It has, without doubt, been observed that in noticing what has transpired on thissubject since our last edition, we have carefully avoided any dogmatism on thequestion collectedly; and having simply displayed a torch to show the paths whichlead to the labyrinth, those who wish to venture more deeply into its intricacies, may,when they please, pursue them.

We must acknowledge, before we depart, that we cannot see without indignation, orrather pity, the belief of some persons that these poems are the offspring ofMacpherson's genius, so operating on their minds as to turn their admiration of theancient poet into contempt of the modern. We ourselves love antiquity, not merelyhowever, on account of its antiquity, but because it deserves to be loved. No: wehonestly own with Quintilian, in quibusdam antiquorum, vix risum, in quibusdamautem vix somnum tenere. The songs of other times, when they are, as they frequentlyare, supremely beautiful, merit every praise, but we must not therefore despise allnovelty. In the days of the Theban bard, it would seem to have been otherwise, for heappears to give the preference to old wine, but new songs--

αινει δε παλαιον μεν oινον, ανθεα δ' υμνων νεωτερων.-- Pind. Ol. Od. ix

(ainei de palaionmen oinon, anthea d'ymnonneoteron)

With respect to age in wine we are tolerably agreed, but we differ widely in regard tonovelty in verse. Though warranted in some measure, yet all inordinateprepossessions should be moderated, and it would be well if we were occasionally toreflect on this question, if the ancients had been so inimicable to novelty as we are,what would now be old?

We shall not presume to affirm that these poems were originally produced byMacpherson, but admitting it, for the sake of argument, it would then, perhaps, be justto ascribe all the mystery that has hung about them to the often ungenerous dislike ofnovelty, or, it may be more truly, the efforts of contemporaries, which influences thepresent day. This might have stimulated him to seek in the garb of "th' olden time,"that respect which is sometimes despitefully denied to drapery of a later date. Such amotive doubtlessly swayed the designs both of Chatterton and Ireland, whose nameswe cannot mention together without Dryden's comment on Spenser and Flecknoe,"that is, from the top to the bottom of all poetry." In ushering into the world thehapless, but beautiful muse of Chatterton, as well as the contemptible compositions ofIreland, it was alike thought necessary, to secure public attention, to have recourse to"quaint Inglis," or an antique dress. And to the eternal disgrace, of prejudice, thelatter, merely in consequence of their disguise, found men blind enough to advocatetheir claims to that admiration which, on their eyes being opened, they could nolonger see, and from the support of which they shrunk abashed.

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But we desist. It is useless to draw conclusions, as it is vain to reason with certainpeople who act unreasonably, since, if they were, in these particular cases, capable ofreason, they would need no reasoning with. By some, the poems here published willbe esteemed in proportion as the argument for their antiquity prevails, but with regardto the general reader, and the unaffected lovers of "heaven-descended poesy," let thequestion take either way, still

The harp in Selma was not idly strungAnd long shall last the themes our poet

Berrathon.

Feb. 1 1806.


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PREFACE.

WITHOUT increasing his genius, the author may have improved his language, in theeleven years that the following poems have been in the hands of the public. Errors indiction might have been committed at twenty-four, which the experience of a riperage may remove; and some exuberances in imagery may be restrained with advantage,by a degree of judgment acquired in the progress of time. Impressed with this opinion,he ran over the whole with attention and accuracy; and he hopes he has brought thework to a state of correctness which will preclude all future improvements.

The eagerness with which these poems have been received abroad, is a recompensefor the coldness with which a few have affected to treat them at home. All the politenations of Europe have transferred them into their respective languages; and theyspeak of him who brought them to light, in terms that might flatter the vanity of onefond of flame. In a convenient indifference for a literary reputation, the author hearspraise without being elevated, and ribaldry without being depressed. He hasfrequently seen the first bestowed too precipitately; and the latter is so faithless to itspurpose, that it is often the only index to merit in the present age.

Though the taste which defines genius by the points of the compass, is a subject fit formirth in itself, it is often a serious matter in the sale of the work. When rivers definethe limits of abilities, as well as the boundaries of countries, a writer may measure hissuccess by the latitude under which he was born. It was to avoid a part of thisinconvenience, that the author is said by some, who speak without any authority, tonave ascribed his own productions to another name. If this was the case, he was butyoung in the art of deception. When he placed the poet in antiquity, the translatorshould have been born on this side of the Tweed.

These observations regard only the frivolous in matters of literature; these, however,form a majority of every age and nation. In this countrymen of genuine taste abound;but their still voice is drowned in the clamors of a multitude, who judge by fashion ofpoetry, as of dress. The truth is, to judge aright, requires almost as much genius as towrite well; and good critics are as rare as great poets. Though two hundred thousandRomans stood up when Virgil came into the theatre, Varius only could correct theÆneid. He that obtains fame must receive it through mere fashion; and gratify hisvanity with the applause of men, of whose judgment he cannot approve.

The following poems, it must be confessed, are more calculated to please persons ofexquisite feelings of heart, than those who receive all their impressions by the car.The novelty of cadence, in what is called a prose version, thou h not destitute ofharmony, will not, to common readers, supply the absence of the frequent returns ofrhyme. This was the opinion of the writer himself, though he yielded to the judgmentof others, in a mode, which presented freedom and dignity of expression, instead offetters, which cramp the thought, whilst the harmony of language is preserved. Hisattention was to publish inverse.--The making of poetry, like any other handicraft,may be learned by industry; and he had served his apprenticeship, though in secret, tothe Muses.

It is, however, doubtful, whether the harmony which these poems might derive fromrhyme, even in much better hands than those of the translator, could atone for the

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simplicity and energy which they would lose. The determination of this point shall beleft to the readers of this preface. The following is the beginning of a poem, translatedfrom the Norse to the Gaelic language; and, from the latter, transferred into English.The verse took little more time to the writer than the prose; and he himself is doubtful(if he has succeeded in either) which of them is the most literal version.

FRAGMENT OF A NORTHERN TALE.

WHERE Harold, with golden hair, spread o'er Lochlinn his high commands; where,with justice, he ruled the tribes, who sunk, subdued, beneath his sword; abrupt risesGormal in snow! the tempests roll dark on his sides, but calm, above, his vastforehead appears. White-issuing from the skirt of his storms, the troubled torrentspour down his sides. Joining, as they roar along, they bear the Torno, in foam, to themain.

Gray on the bank, and far from men, half-covered, by ancient pines, from the wind, alonely pile exalts its head, long shaken by the storms of the north. To this fled Sigurd,fierce in fight, from Harold the leader of armies, when fate had brightened his spearwith renown: when he conquered in that rude field, where Lulan's warriors fell inblood, or rose in terror on the waves of the main. Darkly sat the gray-haired chief; yetsorrow dwelt not in his soul. But when the warrior thought on the past, his proud heartheaved against his side: forth flew his sword from its place: he wounded Harold in allthe winds.

One daughter, and only one, but bright in form and mild of soul, the last beam of thesetting line, remained to Sigurd of all his race. His son, in Lulan's battle slain, beheldnot his father's flight from his foes. Nor finished seemed the ancient line! Thesplendid beauty of bright-eyed Fithon covered still the fallen king with renown. Herarm was white like Gormal's snow; her bosom whiter than the foam of the main, whenroll the waves beneath the wrath of the winds. Like two stars were her radiant eyes,like two stars that rise on the deep, when dark tumult embroils the night. Pleasant aretheir beams aloft, as stately they ascend the skies.

Nor Odin forgot, in aught, the maid. Her form scarce equalled her lofty mind. Awemoved around her stately steps. Heroes loved-but shrunk away in their fears. Yet,midst the pride of all her charms, her heart was soft and her soul was kind. She sawthe mournful with tearful eyes. Transient darkness arose in her breast. Her joy was inthe chase. Each morning, when doubtful light wandered dimly on Lulan's waves, sheroused the resounding woods to Gormal's head of snow. Nor moved the maid alone,&c.

The same versified.Where fair-hair'd Harold, o'er Scandinia reign'd,And held with justice what his valor gain'd ,Sevo, in snow, his rugged forehead rears,A o'er the warfare of his storms, appearsAbrupt and vast.--White wandering down his sideA thousand torrents, gleaming as they glide,Unite below, and, pouring through the plain,flurry the troubled Torno to the main.


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Gray, on the bank, remote from human kind,By aged pines half-shelter'd from the wind,A homely mansion rose, of antique form,For ages batter'd by the polar storm.To this, fierce Sigurd fled from Norway's lord,When fortune settled on the warrior's sword,In that rude field, where Suecia's chiefs were slain,Or forc'd to wander o'er the Bothnic main.Dark was his life, yet undisturb'd with woes,But when the memory of defeat arose,His proud heart struck his side; he grasp'd the spear,And wounded Harold in the vacant air.One daughter only, but of form divine,The last fair beam of the departing line,Remain'd of Sigurd's race. His warlike sonFell in the shock which overturn'd the throne.Nor desolate the house! Fionia's charmsSustain'd the glory which they lost in arms.White was her arm as Sevo's lofty snow,Her bosom fairer than the waves belowWhen heaving to the winds. Her radiant eyesLike two bright stars, exulting as they rise,O'er the dark tumult of a stormy night,And gladd'ning heaven with their majestic light.In nought is Odin to the maid unkind,Her form scarce equals her exalted mind;Awe leads her sacred steps where'er they move,And mankind worship where they dare not love.But mix'd with softness was the virgin's pride,Her heart bad feeling, which her eyes denied;Her bright tears started at another's woes,While transient darkness on her soul arose.The chase she lov'd; when morn with doubtful beamCame dimly wand'ring o'er the Bothnic stream.On Sevo's sounding sides she bent the bow,And rous'd his forests to his head of snow.Nor moved the maid alone, &c.

One of the chief improvements, in this edition, is the care taken in arranging thepoems in the order of time; so as to form a kind of regular history of the age to whichthey relate. The writer has now resigned them forever to their fate. That they havebeen well received by the public appears from an extensive sale; that they shallcontinue to be well received, he may venture to prophesy, without the gift of thatinspiration to which poets lay claim. Through the medium of version upon version,they retain, in foreign languages, their native character of simplicity and energy.Genuine poetry, like gold, loses little, when properly transfused; but when acomposition cannot bear the test of a literal version, it is a counterfeit which ought notto pass current. The operation must, however, be performed with skilful hands. Atranslator who cannot equal his original, is incapable of expressing its beauties.

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A DISSERTATION CONCERNING THE ÆRA OF OSSIAN.

INQUIRIES into the antiquities of nations afford more pleasure than any realadvantage to mankind. The ingenious may form systems of history on probabilitiesand a few facts; but, at a great distance of time, their accounts must be vague anduncertain. The infancy of states and kingdoms is as destitute of great events, as of themeans of transmitting them to posterity. The arts of polished life, by which alone factscan be preserved with certainty, are the production of a well. formed community. It isthen historians begin to write, and public transactions to be worthy remembrance. Theactions of former times are left in obscurity, or magnified by uncertain traditions.Hence it is that we find so much of the marvellous in the origin of every nation;posterity being always ready to believe any thing, however fabulous, that reflectshonor on their ancestors.

The Greeks and Romans were remarkable for this weakness. They swallowed themost absurd fables concerning the high antiquities of their respective nations. Goodhistorians, however, rose very early amongst them, and transmitted, with lustre, theirgreat actions to posterity. It is to them that they owe that unrivalled fame they nowenjoy; while the great actions of other nations are involved in fables, or lost inobscurity. The Celtic nations afford a striking instance of this kind. They, though oncethe masters of Europe, from the mouth of the river Oby, in Russia, to Cape Finisterre,the western point of Gallicia, in Spain, are very little mentioned in history. Theytrusted their fame to tradition and the songs of their bards, which, by the vicissitude ofhuman affairs, are long since lost. Their ancient language is the only monument thatremains of them; and the traces of it being found in places so widely distant from eachother, serves only to show the extent of their ancient power, but throws very little lighton their history.

Of all the Celtic nations, that which possessed old Gaul is the most renowned: notperhaps on account of worth superior to the rest, but for their wars with a people whohad historians to transmit the fame of their enemies, as well as their own, to posterity.Britain was first peopled by them, according to the testimony of the best authors; itssituation in respect to Gaul makes the opinion probable; but what puts it beyond alldispute, is, that the same customs and language prevailed among the inhabitants ofboth in the days of Julius Cæsar.

The colony from Gaul possessed themselves, at first, of that part of Britain which wasnext to their own country; and spreading northward by degrees, as they increased innumbers, peopled the whole island. Some adventurers passing over from those partsof Britain that are within sight of Ireland, were the founders of the Irish nation: whichis a more probable story than the idle fables of Milesian and Gallician colonies.Diodorus Siculus mentions it as a thing well k-town in his time, that the inhabitants ofIreland were originally Britons; and his testimony is unquestionable, when weconsider that, for many ages, the language and customs of both nations were the same.

Tacitus was of opinion that the ancient Caledonians were of German extract; but eventhe ancient Ger. mans themselves were Gauls. The present Germans, properly socalled, were not the same with the ancient Celtæ. The manners and customs of the twonations were similar; but their language different. The Germans are the genuinedescendants of the ancient Scandinavians, who crossed, at an early period, the Baltic.


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The Celtæ, anciently, sent many colonies into Germany, all of whom retained theirown laws, language, and customs, till they were dissipated, in the Roman empire; andit is of them, if any colonies came from Germany into Scotland, that the ancientCaledonians were descended.

But whether the ancient Caledonians were a colony of the Celtic Germans,, or thesame with the Gauls that first possessed themselves of Britain, is a matter of nomoment at this distance of time. Whatever their origin was, we find them verynumerous in the time of Julius Agricola, which is a presumption that they were longbefore settled in the country. The form of their government was a mixture ofaristocracy and monarchy, as it was in all the countries where the Druids bore thechief sway. This order of men seems to have been formed on the same principles withthe Dactyli, Idæ, and Curetes of the ancients. Their pretended intercourse withheaven, their magic and divination, were the same. The knowledge of the Druids innatural causes, and the properties of certain things, the fruits of the experiments ofages, gained them a mighty reputation among the people. The esteem of the populacesoon increased into a veneration for the order; which these cunning and ambitiouspriests took care to improve, to such a degree, that they, in a manner, engrossed themanagement of civil, as well as religious matters. It is generally allowed, that they didnot abuse this extraordinary power; the preserving the character of sanctity was soessential to their influence, that they never broke out into violence or oppression. Thechiefs were allowed to execute the laws, but the legislative power was entirely in thehands of the Druids. It Was by their authority that the tribes were united, in times ofthe greatest danger, under one head. This temporary king, or Vergobretus, was chosenby them, and generally laid down his office at the end of the war. These priestsenjoyed long this extraordinary privilege among the Celtic nations who lay beyondthe pale of the Roman empire. It was in the beginning of the second century that theirpower among the Caledonians began to decline. The traditions concerning Trathal andCormac, ancestors to Fingal, are full of the particulars of the fall of the Druids: asingular fate it must be owned, of priests who had once established their superstition.

The continual wars of the Caledonians against the Romans, hindered the bettor sortfrom initiating themselves, as the custom formerly was, into the order of the Druids.The precepts of their religion were con. fined to a few, and were not much attended toby a people inured to war. He Vergobretus, or chief magistrate, was chosen withoutthe concurrence of the hierarchy, or continued in his office against their will.Continual power strengthened his interest among the tribes, and enabled him to senddown, as hereditary to his posterity, the office he had only received himself byelection.

On occasion of a new war against the "king of the world," as tradition emphaticallycalls the Roman emperor, the Druids, to vindicate the honor of the order, began toresume their ancient privilege of choosing the Vergobretus. Garmal, the son of Tarno,being deputed by them, came to the grandfather of the celebrated Fingal, who wasthen Vergobretus, and commanded him, in the name of the whole order, to lay downhis office. Upon his refusal, a civil war commenced, which soon ended in almost thetotal extinction of the religious order of the Druids. A few that remained, retired to thedark recesses of their groves, and the caves they had formerly used for theirmeditations. It is then we find them in the circle of stones, and unheeded by the world.A total disregard for the order, and utter abhorrence of the Druidical rites ensued.

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Under this cloud of public hate, all that had any knowledge of the religion of theDruids became extinct, and the nation fell into the last degree of ignorance of theirrites and ceremonies.

It is no matter of wonder, then, that Fingal and his son Ossian disliked the Druids,who were the declared enemies to their succession in the supreme magistracy. It is asingular case, it must be allowed, that there are no traces of religion in the poemsascribed to Ossian, as the poetical compositions of other nations are so closelyconnected with their mythology. But gods are not necessary, when the poet hasgenius. It is hard to account for it to those who are not made acquainted with themanner of the old Scottish bards. That race of men carried their notions of martialhonor to an extravagant pitch. Any aid given their heroes in battle, was thought toderogate from their fame; and the bards immediately transferred the glory of theaction to him who had given that aid.

Had the poet brought down gods, as often as Homer has done, to assist his heroes, hiswork had not consisted of eulogiums on men, but of hymns to superior beings. Thosewho write in the Gaelic language seldom mention religion in their profane poetry; andwhen they professedly write of religion, they never mix, with their compositions, theactions of their heroes. This custom alone, even though the religion of the Druids hadnot been previously extinguished, may, in some measure, excuse the author's silenceconcerning the religion of ancient times.

To allege that a nation is void of all religion, betrays ignorance of the history ofmankind. The traditions of their fathers, and their own observations on the works ofnature, together with that superstition which is inherent in the human frame, have, inall ages, raised in the minds of men some idea of a superior being. Hence it is, that inthe darkest times, and amongst the most barbarous nations, the very populacethemselves hid some faint notion, at least, of a divinity. The Indians, who worship noGod, believe that he exists. It would be doing injustice to the author of these poems, tothink that he had not opened his conceptions to that primitive and greatest of alltruths. But let his religion be what it will, it is certain that he has not alluded toChristianity or any of its rites, in his poems; which ought to fix his opinions, at least;to an era prior to that religion. Conjectures, on this subject, must supply the place ofproof. The persecution begun by Dioclesian, in the year 303, is the most probable timein which the first dawning of Christianity in the north of Britain can be fixed. Thehumane and mild character of Constantius Chlorus, who commanded then in Britain,induced the persecuted Christians to take refuge under him. Some of them, through azeal to propagate their tenets, or through fear, went beyond the pale of the Romanempire, and settled among the Caledonians; who were, ready to hearken to theirdoctrines, if the religion of the Druids was exploded long before. These missionaries,either through choice or to give more weight to the doctrine they advanced, tookpossession of the cells and groves of the Druids; and it was from this retired life theyhad the name of Culdees, which, in the language of the country, signified "thesequestered persons." It was with one of the Culdees that Ossian, in his extreme oldage, is said to have disputed concerning the Christian religion. This dispute they say,is extant, and is couched in verse, according to the custom of the times. The extremeignorance on the part of Ossian of the Christian tenets, shows that that religion hadonly lately been introduced, as it is not easy to conceive how one of the first rankcould be totally unacquainted with a religion that had been known for any time in the


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country. The dispute bears the genuine marks of antiquity. The obsolete phrases andexpressions, peculiar to the time, prove it to be no forgery. If Ossian, then, lived at theintroduction of Christianity, as by all appearance he did, his epoch will be the, latterend of the third, and beginning of the fourth century. Tradition here steps in with akind of proof.

The exploits of Fingal against Caracul, the son of the "king of the world," are amongthe first brave actions of his youth. A complete: poem, which relates to this subject, isprinted in this collection.

In the year 210, the Emperor Severus, after returning from his expedition against theCaledonians at York, fell into the tedious illness of which he afterward died. TheCaledonians and Maiatæ, resuming courage from his indisposition, took arms in orderto recover the possessions they had lost. The enraged emperor commanded his armyto march into their country, and to destroy it with fire and sword. His orders were butill executed; for his son Caracalla was at the head of the army, and his thoughts wereentirely taken up with the hopes of his father's death, and with schemes to supplant hisbrother Geta. He scarcely had entered into the enemy's country, when news wasbrought him that Severus was dead, A sudden peace is patched up with theCaledonians, and, as it appears from Dion Cassius, the country they had lost toSeverus was restored to them.

The Caracul of Fingal is no other than Caracalla, who as the son of Severus, theemperor of Rome, whose dominions were extended almost over the known world,was not without reason called the "son of the king of the world." The space, of timebetween 211, the year Severus , died, and the beginning of the fourth century is not sogreat, but Ossian, the son of Fingal, might have seen the Christians whom thepersecution under Dioclesian had driven beyond the pale of the Roman empire.

In one of the many lamentations of the death of Oscar, a battle which he fought,against Caros, king of ships, on the banks of the winding Carun, is mentioned amonghis great actions. It is more than probable, that the Caros mentioned here, is the samewith the noted usurper Carausius, who assumed the purple in the year 287, and seizingon Britain, defeated the Emperor Maximinian Herculius in several navalengagements, which gives propriety to his being called the "king of ships." "Thewinding Carun," is that small river retaining still the name of Carron, and runs in theneighborhood of Agricola's wall, which Carausius repaired, to obstruct the incursionsof the Caledonians. Several other passages in traditions allude to the wars of theRomans; but the two just mentioned clearly fix the epocha of Fingal to the thirdcentury; and this account agrees exactly with the Irish histories, which place the deathof Fingal, the son of Comhal, in the year 283, and that of Oscar and their owncelebrated Cairbre, in the year 296.

Some people may imagine, that the allusions to the Roman history might have beenderived by tradition, from learned men, more than from ancient poems. This mustthen have happened at least three hundred years ago, as these allusions are mentionedoften in the compositions of those times.

Every one knows what a cloud of ignorance and barbarism overspread the north ofEurope three hundred years ago. The minds of men, addicted to superstition,

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contracted a narrowness that destroyed genius. Accordingly we find the compositionsof those times trivial and puerile to the last degree. But, let it be allowed; that, amidstall the untoward circumstances of the age, a genius might arise; it is not easy todetermine what could induce him to allude to the Roman times. We find no fact tofavor any designs which could be entertained by any man who lived in the fifteenthcentury.

The strongest objection to the antiquity of the poems now given to the public underthe name of Ossian, is the improbability of their being handed down by traditionthrough so many centuries. Ages of barbarism some will say, could not producepoems abounding with the disinterested and generous sentiments so conspicuous inthe compositions of Ossian; and could these ages produce them, it is impossible butthey must be lost, or altogether corrupted, in a long succession of barbarousgenerations.

Those objections naturally suggest themselves to men unacquainted with the ancientstate of the northern parts of Britain. The bards, who were an inferior order of theDruids, did not share their bad fortune. They were spared by the victorious king, as itwas through their means only he could hope for immortality to his fame. Theyattended him in the camp, and contributed to establish his power by their songs. Hisgreat actions were magnified, and the populace, who had no ability to examine intohis character narrowly, were dazzled with his fame in the rhymes of the bards. In themean time, men assumed sentiments that are rarely to be met with in an age ofbarbarism. The bards, who were originally the disciples of the Druids, hid their mindsopened, and their ideas enlarged, by being initiated into the learning of that celebratedorder. They could form a perfect hero in their own minds, and ascribe that character totheir prince. The inferior chiefs made this ideal character the model of their conduct;and, by degrees, brought their minds to that generous spirit which breathes in all thepoetry of the times. The prince, flattered by his bards, and rivalled by his own heroes,who imitated his character as described in the eulogies of his poets, endeavored toexcel his people in merit, as he was above them in station. This emulation continuing,formed at last the general character of the nation, happily compounded of what isnoble in barbarity, and virtuous and generous in a polished people.

When virtue in peace, and bravery in war, are the characteristics of a nation, theiractions become interesting, and their fame worthy of immortality. A generous spirit iswarmed with noble actions, and becomes ambitious of perpetuating them. This is thetrue source of that divine inspiration, to which the poets of all ages pretended. Whenthey found their themes inadequate to the warmth of their imaginations, theyvarnished them over with fables supplied with their own fancy, or furnished by absurdtraditions. These fables, however ridiculous, had their abettors; posterity eitherimplicitly believed them, or through a vanity natural to mankind, pretended that theydid. They loved to place the founders of their families in the days of fable, whenpoetry, without the fear of contradiction, could give what character she pleased of herheroes. It is to this vanity that we owe the preservation of what remain of the moreancient poems. Their poetical merit made their heroes famous in a country whereheroism was much esteemed and admired. The posterity of these heroes or those whopretended to be descended from them, heard with pleasure the eulogiums of theirancestors; bards were employed to repeat the poems, and to record the connection oftheir patrons with chiefs so renowned. Every chief, in process of time, had a bard in


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his family, and the office became at last hereditary. By the succession of these bards,the poems concerning the ancestors of the family were handed down from generationto generation; they were repeated to the whole clan on solemn occasions, and alwaysalluded to in the new compositions of the bards. The custom came down to near ourown times; and after the bards were discontinued, a great number in a clan retained bymemory, or committed to writing, their compositions, and founded the antiquity oftheir families on the authority of their poems.

The use of letters was not known in the north of Europe till long after the institution ofthe bards: the records of the families of their patrons, their own, and more ancientpoems, were handed down by tradition. Their poetical compositions were admirablycontrived for that purpose. They were adapted to music; and the most perfect harmonywas observed. Each verse was so connected with those which preceded or followed it,that if one line, had been remembered in a stanza, it was almost impossible to forgetthe rest. The cadences followed so natural a gradation, and the words were so adaptedto the common turn of the voice, after it is raised to a certain key, that it was almostimpossible, from a similarity of sound, to substitute one word for another. Thisexcellence is peculiar to the Celtic tongue, and is perhaps to be met with in no otherlanguage. Nor does this choice of words clog the sense, or weaken the expression. Thenumerous flexions of consonants, and variation in declension, make the language verycopious.

The descendants of the Celtæ, who inhabited Britain and its isles, were not singular inthis method of preserving the most precious monuments of their nation. The ancientlaws of the Greeks were couched in verse, and handed down by tradition. TheSpartans, through a long habit, became so fond of this custom, that they would neverallow their laws to be committed to writing. The actions of great men, and eulogiumsof kings and heroes, were preserved in the same manner. All the historical monumentsof the old Germans were comprehended in their ancient songs; which were eitherhymns to their gods, or elegies in praise of their heroes, and were intended toperpetuate the great events in their nation, which were carefully interwoven withthem. This species of composition was not committed to writing, but delivered by oraltradition. The care they took to have the poems taught to their children, theuninterrupted custom of repeating them upon certain occasions, and the happymeasure of the verse, served to preserve them for a long time uncorrupted. This oralchronicle of the Germans was not forgot in the eighth century; and it probably wouldhave remained to this day, had not learning, which thinks every thing that is notcommitted to writing, fabulous, been introduced. It was from poetical traditions thatGarcilasso composed his account of the Incas of Peru. The Peruvians had lost all othermonuments of their history, and it was from ancient poems, which his mother, aprincess of the blood of the Incas, taught him in his youth, that he, collected thematerials of his history. If other nations, then, that had often been overrun by enemies,and hath sent abroad and received colonies, could for many ages preserve, by oraltradition, their laws and histories uncorrupted, it is much more probable that theancient Scots, a people so free of intermixture with foreigners, and so stronglyattached to the memory of their ancestors, had the works of their bards handed downwith great purity.

What is advanced in s short dissertation, it must be confessed, is mere conjecture.Beyond the reach of' records is settled a gloom which no ingenuity can penetrate. The

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manners described in these poems suit the ancient Celtic times, and no other periodthat is known in history. We must, therefore, place the heroes far back in antiquity;and it matters little, who were their contemporaries in other parts of the world. If wehave placed Fingal in his proper period, we do honor to the manners of barbaroustimes. He exercised every manly virtue in Caledonia, while Heliogabalus disgracedhuman nature at Rome.


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A DISSERTATION CONCERNING THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

THE history of those nations who originally possessed the north of Europe, is lessknown than their manners. Destitute of the use of letters, they them. selves had not themeans of transmitting their great actions to remote posterity. Foreign writers saw themonly at a distance, and described them as they found them. The vanity of the Romansinduced them to consider the nations beyond the pale of their empire as barbarians;and, consequently, their history unworthy of being investigated. Their manners andsingular character were matters of curiosity, as they committed them to record. Somemen otherwise of great merit, among ourselves, give into confined ideas on thissubject. Having early imbibed their idea of exalted manners from the Greek andRoman writers, they scarcely ever afterward have the fortitude to allow any dignity ofcharacter to any nation destitute of the use of letters.

Without derogating from the fame of Greece and Rome, we may consider antiquitybeyond the pale of their empire worthy of some attention. The nobler passions of themind never shoot forth more free and unrestrained than in the times we call barbarous.That irregular manner of life, and those manly pursuits, from which barbarity takes itname, are highly favorable to a strength of mind unknown in polished times. Inadvanced society, the characters of men are more uniform and disguised. The humanpassions lie in some degree concealed behind forms and artificial manners; and thepowers of the soul, without an opportunity of exerting them, lose their vigor. Thetimes of regular government, and polished manners, are therefore to be wished for bythe feeble and weak in mind. An unsettled state, and those convulsions which attendit, is the proper field for an exalted character, and the exertion of great parts. Meritthere rises always superior; no fortuitous event can raise the timid and mean intopower. To those who look upon antiquity in this light, it is an agreeable prospect; andthey alone can have real pleasure in tracing nations to their source. The establishmentof the Celtic states, in the north of Europe, is beyond the reach of written annals. Thetraditions and songs to which they trusted their history, were lost, or altogethercorrupted, in their revolutions and migrations, which were so frequent and universal,that no kingdom in Europe is now possessed by its original inhabitants. Societies wereformed, and kingdoms erected, from a mixture of nations, who, in process of time,lost all knowledge of their own origin. If tradition could be depended upon, it is onlyamong a people, from all time, free from intermixture with foreigners. We are to lookfor these among the mountains and inaccessible parts of a country: places, on accountof their barrenness, uninviting to an enemy, or whose natural strength enabled thenatives to repel invasions. Such are the inhabitants of the mountains of Scotland. We,accordingly find that they differ materially from those who possess the low and morefertile parts of, the kingdom. Their language is pure and original, and their mannersare those of an ancient and unmixed race of men. Conscious of their own antiquity,they long despised others, as a new and mixed people. As they lived in a country onlyfit for pasture, they were free from that toil and business which engross the attentionof a commercial people. Their amusement consisted in hearing or repeating theirsongs and traditions, and these entirely turned on the antiquity of their nation, and theexploits of their forefathers. It is no wonder, therefore, that there are more remainsamong them, than among any other people in Europe. Traditions, however,concerning remote periods are only to be regarded, in so far as they coincide withcontemporary writers of undoubted credit and veracity.

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No writers began their accounts for a more early period than the historians of theScots nation. Without records, or even tradition itself, they gave a long list of ancientkings, and a detail of their transactions, with a scrupulous exactness. One mightnaturally suppose, that when they had no authentic annals, they should, at least, haverecourse to the traditions of their country, and have reduced them into a regularsystem of history. Of both they seem to have been equally destitute. Born in the lowcountry, and strangers to the ancient language of their nation, they contentedthemselves with copying from one another, and retailing the same fictions in a newcolor and dress.

John Fordun was the first who collected those fragments of the Scots history whichhad escaped the brutal policy of Edward I., and reduced them into order. His accounts,in so far as they concerned recent transactions, deserved credit: beyond a certainperiod, they were fabulous and unsatisfactory. Sometime before Fordun wrote, theking of England, in a letter to the pope, had run up the antiquity of his nation to a veryremote æra. Fordun, possessed of all the national prejudice of the age, was unwillingthat his country should yield, in point of antiquity, to a people then its rivals andenemies. Destitute of annals in Scotland, he had recourse to Ireland, which, accordingto the vulgar error of the times, was reckoned the first habitation of the Scots. Hefound there, that the Irish bards had carried their pretensions to antiquity as high, ifnot beyond any nation in Europe. It was from them he took those improbable fictionswhich form the first part of his history.

The writers that succeeded Fordun implicitly followed his system, though theysometimes varied from him in their relations of particular transactions and the order ofsuccession of their kings. As they had no new lights, and were equally with himunacquainted with the traditions of their country, their histories contain littleinformation concerning the origin of the Scots. Even Buchanan himself, except theelegance and vigor of his style, has very little to recommend him. Blinded withpolitical prejudices, he seemed more anxious to turn the fictions of his predecessors tohis own purposes, than to detect their misrepresentations, or investigate truth amidstthe darkness which they had thrown round it. It therefore appears, that little can becollected from their own historians concerning the first migrations of the Scots intoBritain.

That this island was peopled from Gaul admits of no doubt. Whether colonies cameafterward from the north of Europe, is a matter of mere speculation. When SouthBritain yielded to the power of the Romans, the unconquered nations to the north ofthe province were distinguished by the name of Caledonians. From their very name, itappears that they were of those Gauls who possessed themselves originally of Britain.It is compounded of two Celtic words, Cael signifying Celts, or Gauls, and Dun orDon, a hill; so that Caeldon, or Caledonians, is as much as to say, the "Celts of the hillcountry." The Highlanders, to this day, call themselves Cael, and their languageCaelic, or Galic, and their country Caeldock, which the Romans softened intoCaledonia. This, of itself, is sufficient to demonstrate that they are the genuinedescendants of the ancient Caledonians, and not a pretended colony of Scots, whosettled first in the north, in the third or fourth century.

From the double meaning of' the word Cael, which signifies "strangers," as well asGauls, or Celts, some have imagined, that the ancestors of the Caledonians were of a


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different race from the rest of the Britons, and that they received their name upon thataccount. This opinion, say they, is supported by Tacitus, who, from severalcircumstances, concludes that the Caledonians were of German extraction. Adiscussion of a point so intricate, at this distance of time, could neither be satisfactorynor important.

Towards the later end of the third, and beginning of the fourth century, we find theScots in the north. Porphirius makes the first mention of them about that time. As theScots were not heard of before that period, most writers supposed them to have been acolony, newly come to Britain, and that the Picts were the only genuine descendantsof the ancient Caledonians. This mistake is easily removed. The Caledonians, inprocess of time, became naturally divided into two distinct nations, as possessingparts of the country entirely different in their nature and soil. The western coast ofScotland is hilly and barren; towards the east, the country is plain, and fit for tillage.The inhabitants of the mountains, a roving and uncontrolled race of men, lived byfeeding of cattle, and what they killed in hunting. Their employment did not fix themto one place. They removed from one heath to another, as suited best with theirconvenience or inclination. They were not, therefore, improperly called, by theirneighbors, Scuite, or "the wandering nation;" which is evidently the origin of theRoman name of Scoti.

On the other hand, the Caledonians, who possessed the east coast of Scotland, as thisdivision of the country was plain and fertile, applied themselves to agriculture, andraising of corn. It was from this that the Galic name of the Picts proceeded; for theyare called in that language, Cruithnich, i. e. "the wheat or corn eaters." As the Pictslived in a country so different in its nature from that possessed by the Scots so theirnational character suffered a material change. Unobstructed by mountains or lakes,their communication with one another was free and frequent. Society, therefore,became sooner established among them than among the Scots, and, consequently,they were much sooner governed by civil magistrates and laws. This, at last, producedso great a difference in the manners of the two nations, that they began to forget theircommon origin, and almost continual quarrels and animosities subsisted betweenthem. These animosities, after some ages, ended in the subversion of the Pictishkingdom, but not in the total extirpation of the nation according to most of the Scotswriters, who seem to think it more for the honor of their countrymen to annihilate thanreduce a rival people under their obedience. It is certain, however, that the very nameof the Picts was lost, and that those that remained were so completely incorporatedwith their conquerors, that they soon lost all memory of their own origin.

The end of the Pictish government is placed so near that period to which authenticannals reach, that it is matter of wonder that we have no monuments of their languageor history remaining. This favors the system I have laid down. Had they originallybeen of a different race from the Scots, their language of course would be different.The contrary is the case. The names of places in the Pictish dominions, and the verynames of their kings, which are handed down to us, are of Galic original, which is aconvincing proof that the two nations were, of old, one and the same, and onlydivided into two governments by the effect which their situation had upon the geniusof the people.

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The name of Picts is said to have been given by the Romans to the Caledonians whopossessed the east coast of Scotland from their painting their bodies. The story is silly,and the argument absurd. But let us revere antiquity in her very follies. Thiscircumstance made some imagine, that the Picts were of British extract, and adifferent race of men from the Scots. That more of the Britons, who fled northwardfrom the tyranny of the Romans, settled in the low country of Scotland, than amongthe Scots of the mountains, may be easily imagined, from the very nature of thecountry. It was they who introduced painting among the Picts. From thiscircumstance, affirm some antiquaries, proceeded the name of the latter, to distinguishthem from the Scots, who never had that art among them, and from the Britons, whodiscontinued it after the Roman conquest.

The Caledonians, most certainly, acquired a considerable knowledge in navigation bytheir living on a coast intersected with many arms of the sea, and in islands, dividedone from another by wide and dangerous firths. It is, therefore, highly probable, thatthey very early found their way to the north of Ireland, which is within sight of theirown country. That Ireland was first peopled from Britain, is, at length, a matter thatadmits of no doubt. The vicinity of the two islands; the exact correspondence of theancient inhabitants of both, in point of manners and language, are sufficient proofs,even if we had not the testimonies of authors of undoubted veracity to confirm it. Theabettors of the most romantic systems of Irish antiquities allow it; but they place thecolony from Britain in an improbable and remote æra. I shall easily admit that thecolony of the Firbolg, confessedly the Belgæ of Britain, settled in the south of Ireland,before the Cael, or Caledonians discovered the north; but it is not at all likely that themigration of the Firbolg to Ireland happened many centuries before the Christian æra.

The poem of Temora throws considerable light on this subject. The accounts given init agree so well with what the ancients have delivered concerning the first populationand inhabitants of Ireland, that every unbiased person will confess them moreprobable than the legends handed down, by tradition, in that country. It appears that,in the days of Trathal, grandfather to Fingal, Ireland was possessed by two nations;the Firbolg or Belgæ of Britain, who inhabited the south, and the Cael, who passedover from Caledonia and the Hebrides to Ulster. The two nations, as is usual amongan unpolished and lately settled people, were divided into small dynasties, subject topetty kings or chiefs, independent of one another. In this situation, it is probable, theycontinued long, without any material revolution in the state of the island, untilCrothar, lord of Atha, a country in Connaught, the most potent chief of the Firbolg,carried away Conlama, the daughter of Cathmin, a chief of the Cael, who possessedUlster.

Conlama had been betrothed, some time before, to Turloch, a chief of their ownnation. Turloch resented the affront offered him by Crothar, made an irruption. intoConnaught, and killed Cormul, the brother of Crothar, who came to oppose hisprogress. Crothar himself then took arms, and either killed or expelled Turloch. Thewar, upon this, became general between the two nations, and the Cael were reduced tothe last extremity. In this situation, they applied for aid to Trathal, king of Morven,who sent his brother Conar, already famous for his great exploits, to their relief.

Conar, upon his arrival in Ulster, was chosen king by the unanimous consent of theCaledonian tribes who possessed that country. The war was renewed with vigor and


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success; but the Firbolg appear to have been rather repelled than subdued. Insucceeding reigns, we learn, from episodes in the same poem, that the chiefs of Athamade several efforts to become monarchs of Ireland, and to expel the race of Conar.

To Conar succeeded his son Cormac, who appears to have reigned long. In his latterdays he seems to have been driven to the last extremity by an insurrection of theFirbolg, who supported the pretensions of the chiefs of Atha to the Irish throne.Fingal, who was then very young, came to the aid of Cormac, totally defeatedColculla, chief of Atha, and re-established Cormac in the sole possession of allIreland. It was then he fell in love with, and took to wife, Roscrana, the daughter ofCormac, who was the mother of Ossian.

Cormac was succeeded in the Irish throne by his son Cairbre; Cairbre by Artho, hisson, who was the father of that Cormac, in whose minority the invasion of Swaranhappened, which is the subject of the poem of Fingal. The family of Atha, who hadnot relinquished their pretensions to the Irish throne, rebelled in the minority ofCormac, defeated his adherents, and murdered him in the palace of Ternora. Cairbar,lord of of Atha, upon this mounted the throne. His usurpation soon ended with hislife; for Fingal made an expedition into Ireland, and restored, after variousvicissitudes of fortune, the family of Conar to the possession of the kingdom. Thiswar is the subject of Temora; the events, though certainly heightened and embellishedby poetry, seem, notwithstanding, to have their foundation in true history.

Temora contains not only the history of the first migration of the Caledonians intoIreland; it also preserves some important facts concerning the first settlement of theFirbolg, or Belgæ of Britain, in that kingdom, under their leader Larthon, who wasancestor to Cairbar and Cathmor, who successively mounted the Irish throne, after thedeath of Cormac, the son of Artho. I forbear to transcribe the passage on account of itslength. It is the song of Fonar, the bard; towards the latter end of the seventh book ofTemora. As the generations from Larthon to Cathmor, to whom the episode isaddressed, are not marked, as are those of the family of Conar, the first king ofIreland, we can form no judgment of the time of the settlement of the Firbolg. It is,however, probable it was some time before the Cael, or Caledonians, settled in Ulster.One important fact may, be gathered from this history, that the Irish had no kingbefore the latter end of the first century. Fingal lived, it is supposed, in the thirdcentury; so Conar, the first monarch of the Irish, who was his grand-uncle, cannot beplaced farther back than the close of the first, To establish this fact, is to lay, at once,aside the pretended antiquities of the Scots and Irish, and to get quit of the long list ofkings which the latter give us for a millenium before.

Of the affairs of Scotland, it is certain, nothing can be depended upon prior to thereign of Fergus, the son of Erc, who lived in the fifth century. The true history ofIreland begins somewhat later than that period. Sir James Ware, who wasindefatigable in his researches after the antiquities of his country, rejects, as merefiction and idle romance, all that is related of the ancient Irish before the time of St.Patrick, and the reign of Leogaire. It is from this consideration that he begins hishistory at the introduction of Christianity, remarking, that all that is delivered downconcerning the times of paganism were tales of late invention, strangely mixed withanachronisms and inconsistencies. Such being the opinion of Ware, who hadcollected, with uncommon industry and zeal, all the real and pretundedly ancient

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manuscripts concerning the history of his country, we may, on his authority, reject theimprobable and self-condemned tales of Keating and O'Flaherty. Credulous andpuerile to the last degree, they have disgraced the antiquities they meant to establish.It is to be wished that some able Irishman, who understands the language and recordsof his country, may redeem, ere too late, the genuine and antiquities of Ireland fromthe hands of these idle fabulists.

By comparing the history in these poems with the legends of the Scots and Irishwriters, and by afterward examining both by the test of the Roman authors, it is easyto discover which is the most probable. Probability is all that can be established on theauthority of tradition, ever dubious and uncertain. But when it favors the hypothesislaid down by contemporary writers of undoubted veracity, and, as it were, finisheswhich they only drew the outlines, it ought, in the judgment of sober reason, to bepreferred to accounts framed in dark and distant periods, with little judgement, andupon no authority.

Concerning the period of more than a century which intervenes between Fingal andthe reign of Fergus, the sons of Erc or Arcath, tradition is dark and contradictory.Some trace up the family of Fergus to a son of Fingal of that name, who makes aconsiderable figure in Ossian's Poems. The three elder sons of Fingal, Ossian, Fillan,and Ryno, dying without issue, the succession, of course, devolved upon Fergus, thefourth son, and his posterity. This Fergus, say some traditions, was the father ofCongal, whose son was Arcath, the father of Fergus, properly called the first king ofScots, as it was in his time the Cael, who possessed the western coast of Scotland,began to be distinguished by foreigners by the name of Scots. From thenceforward,the Scots and Picts, as distinct nations, became objects of attention to the historians ofother countries. The internal state of the two Caledonian kingdoms has alwayscontinued, and ever must remain, in obscurity and fable.

It is in this epoch we must fix the beginning of the decay of that species of heroismwhich subsisted in the days of Fingal. There are three stages in human society. Thefirst is the result of consanguinity, and the natural affection of the members of afamily to one another. The second begins when property is established, and men enterinto associations for mutual defence, against the invasions and injustice of neighbors.Mankind submit, in the third, to certain laws and subordinations of government, towhich they trust the safety of their persons and property. As the first is formed onnature, so, of course, it is the most disinterested and noble. Men, in the last, haveleisure to cultivate the mind, and to restore it, with reflection, to a primeval dignity ofsentiment. The middle state is the region of complete barbarism and ignorance. Aboutthe beginning of the fifth century, the Scots and Picts were advanced into the secondstage, and consequently, into those circumscribed sentiments which alwaysdistinguish barbarity. The events which soon after happened did not at all contributeto enlarge their ideas, or mend their national character.

About the year 426, the Romans, on account of domestic commotions, entirelyforsook Britain, finding it impossible to defend so distant a frontier. The Picts andScots, seizing this favorable opportunity, made incursions into the deserted province.The Britons, enervated by the slavery of several centuries, and those vices which areinseparable from an advanced state of civility, were not able to withstand theimpetuous, though irregular, attacks of a barbarous enemy. In the utmost distress, they


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applied to their old masters, the Romans, and (after the unfortunate state of the empirecould not spare aid) to the Saxons, a nation equally barbarous and brave with theenemies of whom they were so much afraid. Though the bravery of the Saxonsrepelled the Caledonian nations for a time, yet the latter found means to extendthemselves considerably towards the south. It is in this period we must place theorigin of the arts of civil life among the Scots. The seat of government was removedfrom the mountains to the plain and more fertile provinces of the south, to be near thecommon enemy in case of sudden incursions. Instead of roving through unfrequentedwilds in search of subsistence by means of hunting, men applied to agriculture, andraising of corn. This manner of life was the first means of changing the nationalcharacter. The next thing which contributed to it was their mixture with strangers.

In the countries which the Scots had conquered from the Britons, it is probable thatmost of the old inhabitants remained. These incorporating with the conquerors, taughtthem agriculture and other arts which they themselves had received from the Romans.The however, in number as well as power, being the most predominant, retained stilltheir language, and as many of the customs of their ancestors as suited-with the natureof the country they possessed. Even the union of the two Caledonian kingdoms didnot much affect the national character. Being originally descended from the samestock, the manners of the Picts and Scots were as similar as the different natures of thecountries they possessed permitted.

What brought about a total change in the genius of the Scots nation was their wars andother transactions with the Saxons. Several counties in the south of Scotland werealternately possessed by the two nations. They were ceded, in the ninth age, to theScots, and it is probable that most of the Saxon inhabitants remained in possession oftheir lands. During the several conquests and revolutions in England, many fled forrefuge into Scotland, to avoid the oppression of foreigners, or the tyranny of domesticusurpers; insomuch, that the Saxon race formed, perhaps, near one half of the Scottishkingdom. The Saxon manners and language daily gained ground on the tongue andcustoms of the ancient Caledonians, till, at last, the latter were entirely relegated to theinhabitants of the mountains, who were still unmixed with strangers.

It was after the accession of territory which the Scots received upon the retreat of theRomans from Britain, that the inhabitants of the Highlands were divided into clans.The king, when he kept his court in the mountains, was considered by the wholenation as the chief of their blood. The small number, as well as the presence of theirprince, prevented those divisions which, afterward, sprung forth into so many separatetribes. When the seat of government was removed to the south, those who remained inthe Highlands were, of course, neglected. They naturally formed themselves intosmall societies independent of one another. Each society had its own regulus, whoeither was, or, in the succession of a few generations, was regarded as chief of theirblood. The nature of the country favored an institution of this sort. A few valleys,divided from one another by extensive heaths and impassable mountains, form theface of the Highlands. In those valleys the chiefs fixed their residence. Round them,and almost within sight of their dwellings, were the habitations of their relations anddependants.

The seats of the Highland chiefs were neither disagreeable nor inconvenient.Surrounded with mountains and hanging woods, they were covered from the

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inclemency of the weather. Near them generally ran a pretty large river, which,discharging itself not far off into an arm of the sea or extensive lake, swarmed withvariety of fish. The woods were stocked with wild-fowl; and the heaths and mountainsbehind them were the natural seat of the red-deer and roe. If we make allowance forthe backward state of agriculture, the valleys were not unfertile; affording, if not allthe conveniences, at least the necessaries of life. Here the chief lived, the supremejudge and lawgiver of his own people; but his sway was neither severe nor unjust. Asthe populace regarded him as the chief of their blood, so he, in return, consideredthem as members of his family. His commands, therefore, though absolute anddecisive, partook more of the authority of a father than of the rigor of a judge. Thoughthe whole territory of the tribe was considered as the property of the thief, yet hisvassals made him no other consideration for their lands than services, neitherburdensome nor frequent. As he seldom went from home, he was at no expense. Histable was supplied by his own herds and what his numerous attendants killed inhunting.

In this rural kind of magnificence the Highland chiefs lived for many ages. At adistance from the seat of government, and secured by the inaccessibleness of theircountry, they were free and independent. As they had little communication withstrangers, the customs of their ancestors remained among them, and their languageretained its original purity, Naturally fond of military fame, and remarkably attachedto the memory of their ancestors, they delighted in traditions and songs concerning theexploits of their nation, and especially of their own particular families. A successionof bards was retained in every clan to hand down the memorable actions of theirforefathers. As Fingal and his chiefs were the most renowned names in tradition, thebards took care to place them in the genealogy of every great family. They becamefamous among the people, and an object of fiction and poetry to the bard.

The bards erected their immediate patrons into heroes and celebrated them in theirsongs. As the circle of their knowledge was narrow, their ideas were confined inproportion. A few happy expressions, and the manners they represent, may pleasethose who understand the language; their obscurity and inaccuracy would disgust in atranslation. It was chiefly for this reason that I have rejected wholly the works of thebards in my publications. Ossian acted in a more extensive sphere, and his ideas oughtto be more noble and universal; neither gives he, I presume, so many of theirpeculiarities, which are only understood in a certain period or country. The otherbards have their beauties, but not in this species of composition. Their rhymes, onlycalculated to kindle a martial spirit among the vulgar, afford very little pleasure togenuine taste. This observation only regards their poems of the heroic kind; in everyinferior species of poetry they are more successful. They express the tendermelancholy of desponding love with simplicity and nature. So well adapted are thesounds of the words to the sentiments, that, even without any knowledge of thelanguage, they pierce and dissolve the heart. Successful love is expressed withpeculiar tenderness and elegance. In all their compositions, except the heroic, whichwas solely calculated to animate the vulgar, they gave us the genuine language of theheart, without any of those affected ornaments of phraseology, which, thoughintended to beautify sentiments, divest them of their natural force. The ideas, it isconfessed, are too local to be admired in another language; to those who areacquainted with the manners they represent, and the scenes they describe, they mustafford pleasure and satisfaction.


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It was the locality of their description and sentiment that, probably, has kept them inthe obscurity of an almost lost language. The ideas of an unpolished period are socontrary to the present advanced state of society, that more than a common mediocrityof taste is required to relish them as they deserve. Those who alone are capable oftransferring ancient poetry into a modern language, might be better employed ingiving originals of their own, were it not for that wretched envy and meanness whichaffects to despise contemporary genius. My first publication was merely accidental;had I then met with less approbation my after pursuits would have been moreprofitable; at least, I might have continued to be stupid without being branded withdulness.

These poems may furnish light to antiquaries, as well as some pleasure to the loversof poetry. The first population of Ireland, its first kings, and several circumstances,which regard its connection of old with the south and north of Britain, am presented inseveral episodes. The subject and catastrophe of the poem are founded upon factswhich regarded the first peopling of that country, and the contests between the twoBritish nations, who originally inhabited that island. In a preceding part of thisdissertation I have shown how superior the probability of this system is to theundigested fictions of the Irish bards, and the more recent and regular legends of bothIrish and Scottish historians. I mean not to give offence to the abettors of the highantiquities of the two nations, though I have all along expressed my doubtsconcerning the veracity and abilities of those who deliver down their ancient history.For my own part, I prefer the national fame arising from a few certain facts, to thelegendary and uncertain annals of ages of remote and obscure antiquity. No kingdomnow established in Europe can pretend to equal antiquity with that of the Scots,inconsiderable as it may appear in other respects, even according to my system; sothat it is altogether needless to fix its origin a fictitious millenium before.

Since the first publication of these poems, many insinuations have been made, anddoubts arisen, concerning their authenticity. Whether these suspicions are suggestedby prejudice, or are only the effects of malice, I neither know nor care. Those whohave doubted my veracity have paid a compliment to my genius; and were even theallegation true, my self-denial might have atoned for my fault. Without vanity I say it,I think I could write tolerable poetry, and I assume my antagonists, that I should nottranslate what I could not imitate.

As prejudice is the effect of ignorance, I am not surprised at its being general. An agethat produces few marks of genius ought to be sparing of admiration. The truth is, thebulk of mankind have ever been led by reputation more than taste, in articles ofliterature. If all the Romans who admired Virgil understood his beauties, he wouldhave scarce deserved to have come down to us through so many centuries. Unlessgenius were in fashion, Homer himself might have written in vain. He that wishes tocome with weight on the superficial, must skim the surface, in their own shallow way.Were my aim to gain the many, I would write a madrigal sooner than an heroic poem.Laberius himself would be always sure of more followers than Sophocles.

Some who doubt the authenticity of this work, with peculiar acuteness appropriatethem to the Irish nation. Though it is not easy to conceive how these poems canbelong to Ireland and to me at once, I shall examine the subject without fartheranimadversion on the blunder.

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Of all the nations descended from the ancient Celtæ, the Scots and Irish are the mostsimilar in language, customs, and manners. This argues a more intimate connectionbetween them than a remote descent from the great Celtic stock. It is evident, in short,that, at some period or other, they formed one society, were subject to the samegovernment, and were, in all respects, one and the same people. How they becamedivided, which the colony, or which the mother-nation, I have in another work amplydiscussed. The first circumstance that induced me to disregard the vulgarly. receivedopinion of the Hibernian extraction of the Scottish nation was my observations ontheir ancient language. The dialect of the Celtic tongue, spoken in the north ofScotland, is much more pure, more agreeable to its mother-language, and moreabounding with primitives, than that now spoken, or even that which has been writtenfor some centuries back, amongst the most unmixed part of the Irish nation. AScotchman, tolerably conversant in his own language, understands an Irishcomposition from that derivative analogy which it has to the Gaelic of North Britain.An Irishman, on the other hand, without the aid of study, can never understand acomposition in the Gaelic tongue. This affords a proof that the Scotch Gaelic is themost original, and, consequently, the language of a more ancient and unmixed people.The Irish, however backward they may be to allow any thing to the prejudice of theirantiquity, seem inadvertently to acknowledge it, by the very appellation they give tothe dialect they speak. They call their own language Caelic Eirinarch, i. e. CaledonianIrish, when, on the contrary, they call the dialect of North Britain a Chaelic, or theCaledonian tongue, emphatically. As circumstance of this nature tends more to decidewhich is the most ancient nation than the united testimonies of a whole legion ofignorant bards and senachies, who, perhaps, never dreamed of bringing the Scots fromSpain to Ireland, till some one of them, more learned than the rest, discovered that theRomans called the first Iberia, and the latter Hibernia. On such a slight foundationwere probably built the romantic fictions concerning the Milesians of Ireland.

From internal proofs it sufficiently appears that the poems published under the nameof Ossian are not of Irish composition. The favorite chimera, that Ireland is themother-country of the Scots, is totally subverted and ruined. The fictions concerningthe antiquities of that country, which were formed for ages, and growing as they camedown on the hands of successive senachies and fileas, are found, at last, to be thespurious brood of modern and ignorant ages, To those who know how tenacious theIrish are of their pretended Iberian descent, this alone is proof sufficient, that poems,so subversive of their system, could never be produced by an Hibernian bard. Butwhen we look to the language, it is so different from the Irish dialect, that it would beas ridiculous to think that Milton's Paradise Lost could be wrote by a Scottish peasant,as to suppose that the poems ascribed to Ossian were writ in Ireland.

The pretensions of Ireland to Ossian proceed from another quarter. There are handeddown in that country traditional poems concerning the Fiona, or the heroes of FionMae Comnal. This Fion, say the Irish annalists, was general of the militia of Ireland inthe reign of Cormac, in the third century. Where Keating and O'Flaherty learned thatIreland had an embodied militia so early, is not so easy for me to determine. Theirinformation certainly did not come from the Irish poems concerning Fion. I have justnow in my hands all that remain of those compositions; but, unluckily for theantiquities of Ireland, they appear to be the work of a very modern period. Everystanza, nay, almost every line, affords striking proofs that they cannot be threecenturies old. Their allusions to the manners and customs of the fifteenth century are


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so many, that it is a matter of wonder to me how any one could dream of theirantiquity. They are entirely writ in that romantic taste which prevailed two ages ago.Giants, enchanted castles, dwarfs, palfreys, witches, and magicians, form the wholecircle of the poet's invention. The celebrated Fion could scarcely move from onehillock to another without encountering a giant, or being entangled in the circles of amagician. Witches, on broomsticks, were continually hovering round him like crows;and he had freed enchanted virgins in every valley in Ireland. In short, Fion, great ashe was, passed a disagreeable life. Not only had he to engage all the mischiefs in hisown country, foreign armies invaded him, assisted by magicians and witches, andheaded by kings as tall as the mainmast of a first-rate. It must be owned, however, thatFion was not inferior to them in height.

A chos air Cromleach, draim-ard,Chos eile air Crom-meal dubh,Thoga Fion le lamh mhoirAn d'uisge o Lubhair na fruth.

With one foot on Cromleach his brow,The other on Crommal the darkFion took with his large handThe water from Lubar of the streams.

Cromleach and Crommal were two mountains in the neighborhood of one another, inUlster, and the river of Lubar ran through the intermediate valley. The property ofsuch a monster as this Fion I should never have disputed with any nation; but the bardhimself, in the poem from which the above quotation is taken, cedes him to Scotland:

Fion o Albin, siol nan laoich!Fion from Albion, race of heroes!

Were it allowable to contradict the authority of a bard, at this distance of time, Ishould have given as my opinion, that this enormous Fion was of the race of theHibernian giants, of Ruanus, or some other celebrated name, rather than a native ofCaledonia, whose inhabitants, now at least, are not remarkable for their stature. As forthe poetry, I leave it to the reader.

If Fion was so remarkable for his stature, his heroes had also other extraordinaryproperties. "In weight all the sons of strangers yielded to the celebrated Toniosal; andfor hardness of skull, and, perhaps, for thickness too, the valiant Oscar stood'unrivalled and alone.'" Ossian himself had many singular and less delicatequalifications than playing on the harp; and the brave Cuthullin was of so diminutivea size, as to be taken for a child of two years of age by the gigantic Swaran. Toillustrate this subject, I shall here lay before the reader the history of some of the Irishpoems concerning Fion Mae Comnal. A translation of these pieces, if well executed,might afford satisfaction, in an uncommon way, to the public. But this ought to be thework of a native of Ireland. To draw forth from obscurity the poems of my owncountry has wasted all the time I had allotted for the Muses; besides, I am toodiffident of my own abilities to undertake such a work. A gentleman in Dublinaccused me to the public of committing blunders and absurdities in translating thelanguage of my own country, and that before any translation of mine appeared. How

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the gentleman came to see my blunders before I committed them, is not easy todetermine, if he did not conclude that, as a Scotsman, and, of course, descended of theMilesian race, I might have committed some of those oversights, which, perhaps veryunjustly, are said to be peculiar to them.

From the whole tenor of the Irish poems concerning the Fiona, it appears that FionMae Comnal flourished in the reign of Cormac, which is placed, by the universalconsent of the senachies, in the third century. They even fix the death of Fingal in theyear 268, yet his son Ossian is made contemporary with St. Patrick, who preached thegospel in Ireland about the middle of the fifth age. Ossian, though at that time he musthave been two hundred and fifty years of age, had a daughter young enough tobecome wife to the Saint. On account of this family connection, "Patrick of thePsalms," for so the apostle of Ireland is emphatically called in the poems, took greatdelight in the company of Ossian, and in hearing the great actions of his family. Thesaint sometimes threw off the austerity of his profession, drank freely, and had hissoul properly warmed with wine, to receive with becoming enthusiasm the poems ofhis father-in-law. One of the poems begins with this useful piece of information:

Lo don rabh Padric us mhúr,Gun Sailm air uidh, ach a gol,Ghluais è thigh Ossian mhic Fhion,O san leis bhinn a ghloir.

The title of this poem is "Teantach mor na Fiona." It appears to have been founded onthe same story with the "Battle of Lora." The circumstances and catastrophe in bothare much the same: but the Irish Ossian discovers the age in which he lived by anunlucky anachronism. After describing the total rout of Erragon, he very gravelyconcludes with this remarkable anecdote, that none of the foe escaped, but a few, whowere permitted to go on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. This circumstance fixes thedate of the composition of the piece some centuries after the famous croisade: for it isevident that the poet thought the time of the croisade so ancient, that he confounds itwith the age of Fingal. Erragon, in the course of this poem, is often called,

Rhoigh Lochlin an do shloigh,King of Denmark of two nations--

which alludes to the union of the kingdom of Norway and Denmark, a circumstancewhich happened under Margaret de Waldemar, in the close of the fourteenth age.Modern, however, as this pretended Ossian was, it is certain he lived before the Irishhad dreamed of appropriating Fion, or Fingal, to themselves. He concludes the poemwith this reflection:

Na fagha se comhthróm nan n arm,Erragon Mac Annir nan lann glas'San n'Albin ni n' abairtair TriathAgus ghlaoite an n'Fhiona as.

"Had Erragon, son of Annir of gleaming swords, avoided the equal contest of arms,(single combat,) no chief should have afterward been numbered in Albion, and theheroes of Fion should no more be named."


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The next poem that falls Under our observation is "Cath-cabhra," or "The Death ofOscar." This piece is founded on the same story which we have in the first book ofTemora. So little thought the author of Cath-cabhra of making Oscar his countryman,that in the course of two hundred lines, of which the poem consists, he puts thefollowing expression thrice in the mouth of the hero:

Albin an sa d'roina m'arch.--Albion, where I was born and bred.

The poem contains almost all the incidents in the first book of Temora. In onecircumstance the bard differs materially from Ossian. Oscar, after he was mortallywounded by Cairbar, was carried by his people to a neighboring hill whichcommanded a prospect of the sea. A fleet appeared at a distance, and the heroexclaims with joy,

Loingeas mo shean-athair at' an'S iad a tiächd le cabhair chugain,O Albin na n'ioma stuagh.

"It is the fleet of my grandfather coming with aid to our field, from Albion of manywaves!" The testimony of this bard is sufficient to confute the idle fictions of Keatingand O'Flaherty, for, though he is far from being ancient, it is probable he flourished afull century before these historians. He appears, however, to have been a much betterChristian than chronologer; for Fion, though he is placed two centuries before St.Patrick, very devoutly recommends the soul of his grandson to his Redeemer.

"Duan a Gharibh Mac-Starn" is another Irish poem in great repute. The grandeur of itsimages, and its propriety of sentiment, might have induced me to give a translation ofit, had I not some expectations, which are now over, of seeing it in the collection ofthe Irish Ossian's Poems, promised twelve years since to the public. The authordescends sometimes from the region of the sublime to low and indecent description;the last of which, the Irish translator, no doubt, will choose to leave in the obscurity ofthe original. In this piece Cuthullin is used with very little ceremony, for he is oftcalled the "dog of Tara," in the county of Meath. This severe title of the redoubtableCuthullin, the most renowned of Irish champions, proceeded from the poet'signorance of etymology. Cu, "voice" or commander, signifies also a dog. The poetchose the last, as. the most noble appellation for his hero.

The subject of the poem is the same with that of the epic poem of Fingal. Caribh Mac-Starn is the same with Ossian's Swaran, the son of Starno. His single combats with,and his victory over, all the heroes of Ireland, excepting the "celebrated dog of Tara,"i. e. Cuthullin, afford matter for two hundred lines of tolerable poetry. Cribh'sprogress in search of Cuthullin, and his intrigue with the gigantic Emir-bragal, thathero's wife, enables the poet to extend his piece to four hundred lines. This author, itis true, makes Cuthullin a native of Ireland: the gigantic Emir-bragal he calls the"guiding-star of the women of Ireland." The property of this enormous lady I shall notdispute, with him or any other. But as he speaks with great tenderness of the"daughters of the convent," and throws out some hints against the English nation, it isprobable he lived in too modern a period to be intimately acquainted with thegenealogy of Cuthullin.

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Another Irish Ossian, for there were many, as appears from their difference inlanguage and sentiment, speaks very dogmatically of Fion Mac Comnal, as anIrishman. Little can be said for the judgment of this poet, and less for his delicacy ofsentiment. The history of one of his episodes may, at once, stand as a specimen of hiswant of both. Ireland, in the days of Fion, happened to be threatened with an invasionby three great potentates, the kings of Lochlin, Sweden, and France. It is needless toinsist upon the impropriety of a French invasion of Ireland; it is sufficient to me to befaithful to the language of my author. Fion, upon receiving intelligence of theintended invasion, sent Ca-olt, Ossian, and Oscar, to watch the bay in which it wasapprehended the enemy was to land. Oscar was the worst choice of a scout that couldbe made; for, brave as he was, he had the bad property of very often falling asleep onhis post, nor was it possible to awake him, without cutting off one of his fingers, ordashing a large stone against his head. When the enemy appeared, Oscar, veryunfortunately, was asleep. Ossian and Ca-olt consulted about the method of wakeninghim, and they at last fixed on the stone as the less dangerous expedient--

Gun thog Caoilte a chlach, nach gan,Agus a n' aighai' chiean gun bhuail;Tri mil an tulloch gun chri', &c.

"Ca-olt took up a heavy stone, and struck it against the hero's head. The hill shook forthree miles, as the stone rebounded and rolled away." Oscar rose in wrath, and hisfather gravely desired him to spend his rage on his enemies, which he did to so goodpurpose, that he singly routed a whole wing of their army. The confederate kingsadvanced, notwithstanding, till they came to a narrow pass possessed by thecelebrated Ton-iosal. This name is very significant of the singular property of the herowho bore it. Toniosal, though brave, was so heavy and unwieldy, that when he satdown it took the whole force of a hundred men to set him upright on his feet again.Luckily for the preservation of Ireland, the hero happened to be standing when theenemy appeared, and he gave so good an amount of them, that Fion, upon his arrival,found little to do but to divide the spoil among his soldiers.

All these extraordinary heroes, Fion, Ossian, Oscar, and Ca-olt, says the poet, were

Siol Erin na gorm lánn.The sons of Erin of blue steel.

Neither shall I much dispute the matter with him; he has my consent also toappropriate to Ireland the celebrated Ton-iosal. I shall only say that they are differentpersons from those of the same name in the Scots Poems; and that, though thestupendous valor of the first is so remarkable, they have not been equally lucky withthe latter, in their poet. It is somewhat extraordinary that Fion, who lived some agesbefore St. Patrick, swears like a very good Christian.

Air an Dia do chum gach case.By God who shaped every case.

It is worthy of being remarked, that, in the line quoted, Ossian, who lived in St.Patrick's days, seems to have understood something of the English, a language notthen subsisting. A person more sanguine for the honor of his country than I am, might


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argue from this circumstance, that this pretendedly Irish Ossian was a native ofScotland; for my countrymen are universally allowed to have an exclusive right to thesecond sight.

From the instances given, the reader may form a complete idea of the Irishcompositions concerning the Fiona. The greatest part of them make the heroes ofFion,

Siol Albin a n'nioma caoile.The race of Albion of many firths.

The rest make them natives of Ireland. But the truth is, that their authority is of littleconsequence on either side. From the instances I have given, they appear to have beenthe work of a very modern period. The pious ejaculations they contain, their allusionsto the manners of the times, fix them to the fifteenth century. Had even the authors ofthese pieces avoided all allusions to their own times, it is impossible that the poemscould pass for ancient in the eyes of any person tolerably conversant with the Irishtongue. The idiom is so corrupted, and so many words borrowed from the English,that the language must have made considerable progress in Ireland before the poemswere written.

It remains now to show how the Irish bards began to appropriate the Scottish Ossianand his heroes, to their own country. After the English conquest, many of the nativesof Ireland, averse to a foreign yoke, either actually were in a state of hostility with theconquerors, or, at least, paid little regard to government. The Scots, in those ages,were often in open war, and never in cordial friendship, with the English. Thesimilarity of manners and language, the traditions concerning their common origin,and, above all, their having to do with the same enemy, created a free and friendlyintercourse between the Scottish and Irish nations. As the custom of retaining bardsand senachies was common to both, so each, no doubt, had formed a system ofhistory, it matters not how much soever fabulous, concerning their respective origin. Itwas the natural policy of the times to reconcile the traditions of both nations together,and, if possible, to deduce them from the same original stock.

The Saxon manners and language had, at that time, made great progress in the southof Scotland. The ancient language, and the traditional history of the nation, becameconfined entirely to the inhabitants of the Highlands, then falling, from severalconcurring circumstances, into the last degree of ignorance and barbarism. The Irish,who, for some ages before the conquest, had possessed a competent share of that kindof learning which then prevailed in Europe, found it no difficult matter to impose theirown fictions on the ignorant Highland senachies. By flattering the vanity of theHighlanders with their long list of Hermonian kings and heroes, they, withoutcontradiction, assumed to themselves the character of being the mother-nation of theScots of Britain. At this time, certainly, was established that Hibernian system of theoriginal of the Scots, which afterward, for want of any other, was universallyreceived. The Scots of the low country, who, by losing, the language of theirancestors, lost, together with it, their national traditions.. received implicitly thehistory of their country from Irish refugees, or from Highland senachies, persuadedover into the Hibernian system.

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These circumstances are far from being ideal. We have remaining many particulartraditions which bear testimony to a fact of itself abundantly probable. What makesthe matter incontestible is, that the ancient traditional accounts of the genuine originof the Scots, have been handed down without interruption. Though a few ignorantsenachies might be persuaded out of their own opinion by the smoothness of an Irishtale, it was impossible to eradicate, from among the bulk of the people, their ownnational traditions. These traditions afterward so much prevailed, that the Highlanderscontinue totally unacquainted with the pretended Hibernian extract of the Scotchnation. Ignorant chronicle writers, strangers to the ancient language of their country,preserved only from failing to the ground so improbable a story.

This subject, perhaps, is pursued farther than it de. serves; but a discussion of thepretensions of Ireland was become in some measure necessary. If the Irish poemsconcerning the Fiona should appear ridiculous, it is but justice to observe, that theyare scarcely more so than the poems of other nations at that period. On other subjects,the bards of Ireland have displayed a genius for poetry. It was alone in matters ofantiquity that they were monstrous in their fables. Their love-sonnets, and theirelegies on the death of persons worthy or renowned, abound with simplicity, and awild harmony of numbers. They became more than an atonement for their errors inevery other species of poetry. But the beauty of these species depends so much on acertain curiosa filicitas of expression m the original, that they must appear much todisadvantage in another language.


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A CRITICAL DISSERTATION ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN, THESON OF FINGAL

BY HUGH BLAIR, D. D

One of the Ministers of the High Church and Professor of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres,Edinburgh.

AMONG the monuments remaining of the ancient state of nations, few are morevaluable than their poems or songs. History, when it treats of remote or dark ages, isseldom very instructive. The beginnings of society, in every country, are involved infabulous confusion; and though they were not, they would furnish few events worthrecording. But, in every period of society, human manners are a curious spectacle; andthe most natural pictures of ancient manners are exhibited in the ancient poems ofnations. These present to us what is much more valuable than the history of suchtransactions as a rude age can afford--the history of human imagination and passion.They make us acquainted with the notions and feelings of our fellow creatures in themost artless ages; Discovering what objects they admired, and what pleasures theypursued, before those refinements of society had taken place, which enlarge, indeed,and diversify the transactions, but disguise the manners of mankind. Besides thismerit which ancient poems have with philosophical observers of human nature, theyhave another with persons of taste. They promise some of the highest beauties ofpoetical writing. Irregular and unpolished we may expect the production ofuncultivated ages to be; but abounding, at the same time, with that enthusiasm, thatvehemence and fire, which are the soul of poetry: for many circumstances of thosetimes which we call barbarous, are favorable to the poetical spirit. That state, in whichhuman nature shoots wild and free, though unfit for other improvements, certainlyencourages the high exertions of fancy and passion.

In the infancy of societies, men live scattered and dispersed in the midst of solitaryrural scenes, where the beauties of nature are their chief entertainment. They meetwith many objects to them new and strange; their wonder and surprise are frequentlyexcited; and by the sudden changes of fortune occurring in their unsettled state of life,their passions are raised to the utmost; their passions have nothing to restrain them,their imagination has nothing to check it. They display themselves to one anotherwithout disguise, and converse and act in the uncovered simplicity of nature. As theirfeelings are strong, so their language, of itself, assumes a poetical turn. Prone toexaggerate, they describe everything in the strongest colors; which of course renderstheir speech picturesque and figurative. Figurative language owes its rise chiefly totwo causes; to the want of proper names for objects, and to the influence ofimagination and passion over the form of expression. Both these causes concur in theinfancy of society. Figures are commonly considered as artificial modes of speech,devised by orators and poets, after the world had advanced to a refined state. Thecontrary of this is the truth. Men never have used so many figures of style as in thoserude ages, when, besides the power of a warm imagination to suggest lively images,the want of proper and precise terms for the ideas they would express, obliged them tohave recourse to circumlocution, metaphor, comparison, and all those substitutedforms of expression, which give a poetical air to language. An American chief, at thisday, harangues at the head of his tribe in a more bold and metaphorical style than amodern European would adventure to use in an epic poem.

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In the progress of society, the genius and manners of men undergo a change morefavorable to accuracy than to sprightliness and sublimity. As the world advances, theunderstanding gains ground upon the imagination; the understanding is moreexercised; the imagination, less. Fewer objects occur that are new or surprising. Menapply themselves to trace the causes of things; they correct and refine one another;they subdue or disguise their passions; they form their exterior manners upon oneuniform standard of politeness and civility. Human nature is pruned according tomethod and rule. Language advances from sterility to copiousness, and at the sametime from fervor and enthusiasm, to correctness and precision. Style becomes morechaste, but less animated. The progress of the world in this respect resembles theprogress of age in man. The powers of imagination are most vigorous andpredominant in youth; those of the understanding ripen more slowly, and often attainnot to their maturity till the imagination begins to flag. Hence poetry, which is thechild of imagination, is frequently most glowing and animated in the first ages ofsociety As the ideas of our youth are remembered with a peculiar pleasure, on accountof their liveliness and vivacity, so the most ancient poems have often proved thegreatest favorites of nations. Poetry has been said to be more ancient than prose; and,however paradoxical such an assertion may seem, yet, in a qualified sense, it is true.Men certainly never conversed with one another in regular numbers; but even theirordinary language would, in ancient times, for the reasons before assigned, approachto a poetical style; and the first compositions transmitted to posterity, beyond doubt,were, in a literal sense, poems; that is, compositions in which imagination had thechief hand, formed into some kind of numbers, and pronounced with a musicalmodulation or tone. Music or song has been found coeval with society among themost barbarous nations. The only subjects which could prompt men, in their first rudestate, to utter their thoughts in compositions of any length, were such as naturallyassumed the tone of poetry; praises of their gods, or of their ancestors;commemorations of their own warlike exploits, or lamentations over theirmisfortunes. And, before writing was invented, no other compositions, except songsor poems, could take such hold of the imagination and memory, as to be pre. servedby oral tradition, and handed down from one race to another.

Hence we may expect to find poems among the antiquities of all nations. It isprobable, too, that an extensive search would discover a certain degree of resemblanceamong all the most ancient poetical productions, from whatever country they haveproceeded. In a similar state of manners, similar objects and passions, operating uponthe imaginations of men, will stamp their productions with the same general character.Some diversity will, no doubt, be occasioned by climate and genius. But mankindnever bear such resembling features as they do in the beginnings of society. Itssubsequent revolutions give rise to the principal distinctions among nations; anddivert, into channels widely separated, that current of human genius and mannerswhich descends originally from one spring. What we have been long accustomed tocall the oriental vein of poetry, because some of the earliest poetical productions havecome to us from the east, is probably no more oriental than Occidental: it ischaracteristical of an age rather than a country, and belongs, in some measure, to allnations at a certain period. Of this the works of Ossian seem to furnish a remarkableproof.

Our present subject leads us to investigate the ancient poetical remains, not so muchof the east, or of the Greeks and Romans, as of the northern nations, in order to


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discover whether the Gothic poetry has any resemblance to the Celtic or Gaelic,which we are about to consider. Though the Goths, under which name we usuallycomprehend all the Scandinavian tribes, were a people altogether fierce and martial,and noted, to a proverb for their ignorance of the liberal arts, yet they too, from theearliest times, had their poets and their songs. Their poets were distinguished by thetitle of Scalders, and their songs were termed Vyses. Saxo Grammaticus, a Danishhistorian of considerable note, who flourished in the thirteenth century, informs us,that very many of these songs, containing the ancient traditionary stories of thecountry, were found engraven upon rocks in the old Runic character, several of whichhe, has translated into Latin, and inserted into his history. But his versions are plainlyso paraphiastical, and forced into such an imitation of the style and the measures ofthe Roman poets, that one can form no judgment from them of the native spirit of theoriginal. A more curious monument of the true Gothic poetry is preserved by OlausWormius in his book de Literatura Runica. It is an epicedium, or funeral song,composed by Regner Lodbrog, and translated by Olaus, word for word, from theoriginal. This Lodbrog was a king of Denmark, who lived in the eighth century,famous for his wars and victories; and at the same time an eminent scalder, or poet. Itwas his misfortune to fall at last into the hands of one of his enemies, by whom hewas thrown into prison, and condemned to he destroyed by serpents. In this situationhe solaced himself with rehearsing all the exploits of his life. The poem is divided intotwenty-nine stanzas, of ten lines each; and every stanza begins with these words,"Pugnavimus ensibus," We have fought with our swords. Olaus's version is in manyplaces so obscure as to be hardly intelligible. I have subjoined the whole below,exactly as he has published it (See below); and shall translate as much as may give theEnglish reader an idea of the spirit and strain of this kind of poetry.

"We have fought with our swords. I was young. when, towards the east, in the bay ofOreon, we made torrents of blood flow, to gorge the ravenous beast of prey, and theyellow-footed bird. There resounded the hard steel upon the lofty helmets of men. Thewhole ocean was one wound. The crow waded in the blood of the slain. When we hadnumbered twenty years, we lifted our spears on high, and everywhere spread ourrenown. Eight barons we overcame in the east, before the port of Diminum; andplentifully we feasted the eagle in that slaughter. The warm stream of wounds ran intothe ocean. The army fell before us. When we steered our ships into the mouth of theVistula, we sent the Helsingians to the hall of Odin. Then did the sword bite. Thewaters were all one wound. The earth was dyed red with the warm stream. The swordrung upon the coats of mail, and clove the bucklers in twain. None fled on that day,till among his ships Heraudus fell. Than him no braver baron cleaves the sea withships; a cheerful heart did he ever bring to the combat. Then the host threw away.their shields, when the uplifted spear flew at the breast of heroes. The sword bit theScarflan rocks; bloody was the shield in battle, until Rafno the king was slain. Fromthe heads of warriors the warm sweat streamed down their armor. The crows aroundthe Indirian islands had an ample prey. It were difficult to single out one among somany deaths. At the rising of the sun I beheld the spears piercing the bodies of foes,and the bows throwing forth their steel-pointed arrows. Loud roared the swords in theplains of Lano.--The virgin long bewailed the slaughter of that morning."--In thisstrain the poet continues to describe several other military exploits. The images arenot much varied: the noise of arms, the streaming of blood, and the feasting the birdsof prey often recurring. He mentions the death of two of his sons in battle; and thelamentation he describes as made for one of them is very singular. A Grecian or a

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Roman poet would have introduced the virgins or nymphs of the wood bewailing theuntimely fall of a young hero. But, says our Gothic poet, "When Rogvaldus was slain,for him mourned all the hawks of heaven," as lamenting a benefactor who had soliberally supplied them with prey; "for boldly," as he adds, "in the strife of swords didthe breaker of helmets throw the spear of blood."

The poem concludes with sentiments of the highest bravery and contempt of death."What is more certain to the brave man than death, though amidst the storm of swordshe stands always ready to oppose it? He only regrets this life who hath never knowndistress. The timorous man allures the, devouring eagle to the field of battle. Thecoward, wherever he comes, is useless to himself. This I esteem honorable, that theyouth should advance to the combat fairly matched one against another; nor manretreat from man. Long was this the warrior's highest glory. He who aspires to thelove of virgins, ought always to be foremost in the roar of arms. It appears to me, oftruth, that we are led by the Fates. Seldom can any overcome the appointment ofdestiny. Little did I foresee that Ella was to have my life in his hands, in that daywhen fainting I concealed my blood, and pushed forth my ships into the waves; afterwe had spread a repast for the beasts of prey throughout the Scottish bays. But thismakes me always rejoice, that in the halls of our father Balder [or Odin] I know thereare seats prepared, where, in a short time, we shall be drinking ale out of the hollowskulls of our enemies. In the house of the mighty Odin, no brave man laments death. Icome not with the voice of despair to Odin's hall. How eagerly would all the sons ofAslauga now rush to war, did they know the distress of their father, whom a multitudeof venomous serpents tear! I have given to my children a mother who hath filled theirhearts with valor. I am fast approaching to my end. A cruel death awaits me from theviper's bite. A snake dwells in the midst of my heart. I hope that the sword of some ofmy sons shall yet be stained with the blood of Ella. The valiant youths will wax redwith anger, and will not sit in peace. Fifty and one times have I reared the standard inbattle. In my youth I learned to dye the sword in blood: my hope was then that no kingamong men would be more renowned than me. The goddesses of death will now sooncall me; I must not mourn my death. Now I end my song. The goddesses invite meaway; they whom Odin has sent to me from his hall. I will sit upon a lofty seat, anddrink ale joyfully with the goddesses of death. The hours of my life are run out. I willsmile when I die."

This is such poetry as we might expect from a barbarous nation. It breathes a mostferocious spirit. It is wild, harsh, and irregular; but at the same time animated andstrong; the style in the original, full of inversions, and, as we learn from some ofOlaus's notes, highly metaphorical and figured.

But when we open the works of Ossian, a very different scene presents itself. Therewe find the fire and enthusiasm of the most early times, combined with an amazing,degree of regularity and art. We find tenderness, and even delicacy of sentiment,greatly predominant over fierceness and barbarity. Our hearts are melted with thesoftest feelings, and at the same time elevated with the highest ideas of magnanimity,generosity, and true heroism. When we turn from the poetry of Lodbrog to that ofOssian, it is like passing from a savage desert into a fertile and cultivated country.How is this to be accounted for? or by what means to be reconciled with the remoteantiquity attributed to these poems? This is a curious point, and requires to beillustrated.


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That the ancient Scots were of Celtic original, is past all doubt. Their conformity withthe Celtic nations in language, manners, and religion, proves it to a full demonstration.The Celtæ, a great and mighty people, altogether distinct from the Goths andTeutones, once extended their dominion over all the west of Europe; but seem to havehad their most full and complete establishment in Gaul, Wherever the Celtæ or Gaulsare mentioned by ancient writers, we seldom fall to hear of their Druids and theirBards; the institution of which two orders was the capital distinction of their mannersand policy. The druids were their philosophers and priests; the bards their poets andrecorders of heroic actions; and, both these orders of men seem to have subsistedamong them, as chief members of the state, from time immemorial. We must nottherefore imagine' the Celtæ to have been altogether a gross and rude nation. Theypossessed from very remote ages a formed system of discipline and manners, whichappears to have had a deep and lasting influence Ammianus Marcellinus gives themthis express testimony, that there flourished among them the study of the mostlaudable arts, introduced by the bards, whose office it was to sing in heroic verse thegallant actions of illustrious men; and by the druids, who lived together in colleges, orsocieties, after the Pythagorean manner, and, philosophizing upon the highestsubjects, asserted the immortality of the human soul. Though Julius Cæsar, in hisaccount of Gaul, does not expressly mention the bards, yet it is plain that, under thetitle of Druids, he comprehends that whole college or order; of which the bards, who,it is probable, were the disciples of the druids, undoubtedly made a part. It deservesremark, that, according to his account, the druidical institution first took rise inBritain, and passed from thence into Gaul; so that they who aspires to be thoroughmasters of that learning, were wont to resort to Britain. He adds, too, that such as wereto be initiated among the druids, were obliged to commit to their memory a greatnumber of verses, insomuch that some employed twenty years in this course ofeducation; and that they did not think it lawful to record those poems in writing, butsacredly handed them down by tradition from race to race.

So strong was the attachment of the Celtic nations to their poetry and bards, that,amidst all the changes of their government and manners, even long after the order ofthe druids was extinct, and the national religion altered, the bards continued toflourish; not as a set of strolling songsters, like the Greek 'Aοιδοι, or Rhapsodists, in Homer's time, but as an order of men highly respected in the state, and supported by apublic establishment. We find them, according to the testimonies of Strabo andDiodorus, before the age of Augustus Cæsar; and we find them remaining under thesame name, and exercising the same functions as of old, in Ireland, and in the north ofScotland, almost down to our own times. It is well known, that in both these countriesevery regulus or chief had his own bard, who was considered as an officer of rank inhis court; and had lands assigned him, which descended to his family. Of the honor inwhich the bards were held, many instances occur in Ossian's Poems. On all importantoccasions they were the ambassadors between contending chiefs; and their personswere held sacred. "Cairbar feared to stretch his sword to the bards, though his soulwas dark. 'Loose the bards,' said his brother Cathmor, 'they are the sons of other times.Their voice shall be heard in other ages, when the kings of Temora have failed.'"

From all this, the Celtic tribes clearly appear to have been addicted in so high a degreeto poetry, and to have made it so much their study from the earliest times, as mayremove our wonder at meeting with a vein of higher poetical refinement among them,than was at first to have been expected among nations whom we are accustomed to

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call barbarous. Barbarity, I must observe, is a very equivocal term; it admits of manydifferent forms and degrees; and though, in all of them, it excludes polished manners,it is, however, not inconsistent with generous sentiments and tender affections. Whatdegrees of friendship, love, and heroism may possibly be found to prevail in a rudestate of society, no one can say. Astonishing instances of them we know, from history,have sometimes appeared; and a few characters, distinguished by those high qualities,might lay a foundation for a set of manners being introduced into the songs of thebards, more refined, it is probable, and exalted, according to the usual poetical license,than the real manners of the country.

In particular, with respect to heroism; the great employment of the Celtic bards was todelineate the characters, and sing the praises of heroes. So Lucan--

Vos quoque qui fortes animos, belloque peremptos,Laudibus in longum vates diffunditis ævumPlurima securi fudistis carmina bardi.--Phars. l. 1.

Now when we consider a college or order of men, who, cultivating poetry throughouta long series of ages, had their imaginations continually employed on the ideas ofheroism; who had all the poems and panegyrics, which were composed by theirpredecessors, handed down to them with care; who rivalled and endeavored to outstripthose who had gone before them, each in the celebration of his particular hero; is itnot natural to think, that at length the character of a hero would appear in their songswith the highest lustre, and be adorned with qualities truly noble? Some of thequalities indeed which distinguish a Fingal, moderation, humanity, and clemency,would not probably be the first ideas of heroism occurring to a barbarous people: butno sooner had such ideas begun to dawn on the minds of poets, than, as the humanmind easily opens to the native representations of human perfection, they would beseized and embraced; they would enter into their panegyrics; they would affordmaterials for succeeding bards to work upon and improve; they would contribute not alittle to exalt the public manners. For such songs as these, familiar to the Celticwarriors from their childhood, and, throughout their whole life, both in war and inpeace, their principal entertainment, must have had a very considerable influence inpropagating among them real manners, nearly approaching to the poetical; and informing even such a hero as Fingal. Especially when we consider, that among theirlimited objects of ambition, among the few advantages which, in a savage state, mancould obtain over man, the chief was fame, and that immortality which they expectedto receive from their virtues and exploits, in songs of bards.

Having made these remarks on the Celtic poetry and bards in general, I shall nextconsider the particular advantages which Ossian possessed. He appears clearly to havelived in a period which enjoyed all the benefit I just now mentioned of traditionarypoetry. The exploits of Trathal, Trenmor, and the other ancestors of Fingal, are spokenof as familiarly known. Ancient bards are frequently alluded to. In one remarkablepassage Ossian describes himself as living in a sort of classical age, enlightened bythe memorials of former times, which were conveyed in the songs of bards; and pointsat a period of darkness and ignorance which lay beyond the reach of tradition. "Hiswords," says he, "Came only by halves to our ears; they were dark as the tales of othertimes, before the light of the song arose." Ossian himself appears to have beenendowed by nature with an exquisite sensibility of heart; prone to that tender


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melancholy which is so often an attendant on great genius: and susceptible equally ofstrong and of soft emotion. He was not only a professed bard, educated with care, aswe may easily believe, to all the poetical art then known, and connected, as he showsus himself, in intimate friendship with the other contemporary bards, but a warrioralso; and the son of the most renowned hero and prince of his age. This formed aconjunction of circumstances uncommonly favorable towards exalting theimagination of a poet. He relates expeditions in which he had been engaged; he singsof battles in which he had fought and overcome; he had beheld the most illustriousscenes which that age could exhibit, both of heroism in war and magnificence inpeace. For however rude the magnificence of those times may seem to us, we mustremember, that all ideas of magnificence are comparative; and that the age of Fingalwas an æra of distinguished splendor in that part of the world. Fingal reigned over aconsiderable territory; he was enriched with the spoils of the Roman province; he wasennobled by his victories and great actions; and was in all respects a personage ofmuch higher dignity than any of the chieftains, or heads of clans, who lived in thesame country, after a more extensive monarchy was established,

The manners of Ossian's age, so far as we can gather them from his writings, wereabundantly favorable to a poetical genius. The two dispiriting vices, to whichLonginus imputes the decline of poetry, covetousness and effeminacy, were as yetunknown. The cares of men were few. They lived a roving indolent life; hunting andwar their principal employments; and their chief amusements, the music of bards, andthe feast of shells." The great objects pursued by heroic spirits, was "to receive theirfame;" that is, to become worthy of being celebrated in the songs of bards; and "tohave their name on the four gray stones." To die unlamented by a bard, was deemedso great a misfortune as even to disturb their ghosts in another state. They wander inthick mists beside the reedy lake but never shall they rise, without the song, to thedwelling of winds." After death, they expected to follow employments of the samenature with those which had amused them on earth; to fly with their friends on clouds,to pursue airy deer, and to listen to their praise in the mouths of bards. In such timesas these, in a country where poetry had been so long cultivated, and so highlyhonored, is it any wonder that, among the race and succession of bards, one Homershould arise: a man, who, endowed with a natural happy genius, favored with peculiaradvantages of birth and condition, and meeting, in the course of his life, with a varietyof incidents proper to fire his imagination, and to touch his heart, should attain adegree of eminence in poetry, worthy to draw the admiration of more refined ages?

The compositions of Ossian are so strongly marked with characters of antiquity, thatalthough there were no external proof to support that antiquity, hardly any reader ofjudgment and taste could hesitate in referring them to a very remote æra. There arefour great stages through which men successively pass in the progress of society. Thefirst and earliest is the life of hunters; pasturage succeeds to this, as the ideas ofproperty begin to take root; next agriculture; and, lastly, commerce. ThroughoutOssian's Poems we plainly find ourselves in the first of these periods of society;during which hunting was the chief employment of men, and the principal method oftheir procuring subsistence. Pasturage was not indeed wholly unknown; for we hear ofdividing the herd in the case of a divorce; but the allusions to herds and to cattle arenot many; and of agriculture we find no traces. No cities appear to have been built inthe territories of Fingal. No arts are mentioned, except that of navigation and ofworking in iron. Everything presents to us the most simple and unimproved manners.

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At their feasts, the heroes prepared their own repast; they sat round the light of theburning oak; the wind lifted their locks, and whistled through their open halls.Whatever was beyond the necessaries of life was known to them only as the spoil ofthe Roman province; "the gold of the stranger; the lights of the stranger; the steeds ofthe stranger; the children of the rein."

The representation of Ossian's times must strike us the more, as genuine andauthentic, when it is compared with a poem of later date, which Mr. Macpherson haspreserved in one of his notes. It is that in which five bards are represented as passingthe evening in the house of a chief, and each of them separately giving his descriptionof the night. The night scenery is beautiful; and the author has plainly imitated thestyle and manner of Ossian; but he has allowed some images to appear which betray alater period of society. For we meet with windows clapping, the herds of goats andcows seeking shelter, the shepherd wandering, corn on the plain, and the wakeful hindrebuilding the shocks of corn which had been overturned by the tempest. Whereas, inOssian's works, from beginning to end, all is consistent; no modern allusion dropsfrom him; but everywhere the same face of rude nature appears; a country whollyuncultivated, thinly inhabited, and recently peopled. The grass of the rock, the flowerof the heath, the thistle with its beard, are the chief ornaments of his landscapes. "Thedesert," says Fingal, "is enough for me, with all its woods and deer."

The circle of ideas and transactions is no wider than suits such an age; nor any greaterdiversity introduced into characters, than the events of that period would naturallydisplay. Valor and bodily strength are the admired qualities. Contentions arise, as isusual among savage nations, from the slightest causes. To be affronted at atournament, or to be omitted in the invitation to a feast, kindles a war. Women areoften carried away by force; and the whole tribe, as in the Homeric times, rise toavenge the wrong. The heroes show refinement of sentiment indeed on severaloccasions, but none of manners. They speak of their past actions with freedom, boastof their exploits, and sing their own praise. In their battles, it is evident, that drums,trumpets, or bagpipes, were not known or used. They had no expedient for giving themilitary alarms but striking a shield, or raising a loud cry: and hence the loud andterrible voice of Fingal is often mentioned as a necessary qualification of a greatgeneral; like the βοην αγαθος Μενελαος of Homer. Of military discipline or skill they appear to have been entirely destitute. Their armies seem not to have been numerous;their battles were disorderly; and terminated, for the most part, by a personal combat,or wrestling of the two chiefs; after which, "the bard sung the song of peace, and thebattle ceased along the field."

The manner of composition bears all the marks of the greatest antiquity. No artfultransitions, nor full and extended connexion of parts; such as we find among the poetsof later times, when order and regularity of composition were more studied andknown: but a style always rapid and vehement; narration concise, even to abruptness,and leaving several circumstances to be supplied by the reader's imagination. Thelanguage has all that figurative cast, which, as I before showed, partly a glowing andundisciplined imagination partly the sterility of language and the want of properterms, have always introduced into the early speech of nations; and in severalrespects, it carries a remarkable resemblance to the style of the Old Testament. Itdeserves particular notice, as one of the most genuine and decisive characters ofantiquity, that very few general terms, or abstract ideas, are to be met with in the


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whole collection of Ossian's works. The ideas of men, at first, were all particular.They had not words to express general conceptions. These were the consequences ofmore profound reflection, and longer acquaintance with the arts of thought and ofspeech. Ossian, accordingly, almost never expresses himself in the abstract. His ideasextended little further than to the objects he saw around him. A public, a community,the universe, were conceptions beyond his sphere. Even a mountain, a sea, or a lake,which he has occasion to mention, though only in a simile, are for the most partparticularized; it is the hill of Cromla, the storm of the sea of Malmor, or the reeds ofthe lake of Lego. A mode of expression which, while it is characteristical of ancientages, is at the same time highly favorable to descriptive poetry. For the same reasons,personification is a poetical figure not very common with Ossian. Inanimate objects,such as winds, trees, flowers, he sometimes personifies with great beauty. But thepersonifications which are so familiar to later poets, of Fame, Time, Terror, Virtue,and the rest of that class, were unknown to our Celtic bard. These were modes ofconception too abstract for his age.

All these are marks so undoubted, and some of them, too so nice and delicate, of themost early times, as put the high antiquity of these poems out of question. Especiallywhen we consider, that if there had been any imposture in this case, it must have beencontrived and executed in the Highlands of Scotland, two or three centuries ago; as upto this period, both by manuscripts, and by the testimony of a multitude of livingwitnesses, concerning the uncontrovertible tradition of these poems, they can clearlybe traced. Now, this is a period when that country enjoyed no advantages for acomposition of this kind, which it may not be supposed to have enjoyed in as great, ifnot in a greater degree, a thousand years before. To suppose that two or three hundredyears ago, when we well know the Highlands to have been in a state of grossignorance and barbarity, there should have arisen in that country a poet, of suchexquisite genius, and of such deep knowledge of mankind, and of history, as to divesthimself of the ideas and manners of his own age, and to give us a just and naturalpicture of a state of society ancienter by a thousand years; one who could support thiscounterfeited antiquity through such a large collection of poems, without the leastinconsistency; and who, possessed of all this genius and art, had, at the same time, theself-denial of concealing himself, and of ascribing his own works to an antiquatedbard, without the imposture being detected; is a supposition that transcends all boundsof credibility.

There are, besides, two other circumstances to be attended to, still of greater weight, ifpossible, against this hypothesis. One is, the total absence of religious ideas from thiswork; for which the translator has, in his preface, given a very probable account, onthe footing of its being the work of Ossian. The druidical superstition was, in the daysof Ossian, on the point of its final extinction; and, for particular reasons, odious to thefamily of Fingal; whilst the Christian faith was not yet established. But had it been thework of one to whom the ideas of Christianity were familiar from his infancy, andwho had superadded to them also the bigoted superstition of a dark age and country, itis impossible. but in some passage or other, the traces of them would have appeared.The other circumstance is, the entire silence which reigns with respect to all the greatclans or families which are now established in the Highlands. The origin of theseseveral clans is known to be very ancient; and it is well known that there is no passionby which a native Highlander is more distinguished than by attachment to his clan,and jealousy for its honor. That a Highland bard, in forging a work relating to the

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antiquities of his country, should have inserted no circumstance which pointed out therise of his own clan, which ascertained its antiquity, or increased its glory, is, of allsuppositions that can be formed, the most improbable; and the silence on this headamounts to a demonstration that the author lived before any of the present great clanswere formed or known.

Assuming it then, as well we may, for certainty, that the poems, now underconsideration, are genuine venerable monuments of a very remote antiquity, I proceedto make some remarks upon their general spirit and strain. The two greatcharacteristics of Ossian's poetry are, tenderness and sublimity. It breathes nothing ofthe gay and cheerful kind; an air of solemnity and seriousness is diffused over thewhole. Ossian is, perhaps, the only poet who never relaxes, or lets himself down intothe light and amusing strain which I readily admit to be no small disadvantage to him,with the bulk of readers. He moves perpetually in the high region of the grand and thepathetic. One keynote is struck at the beginning, and supported to the end; nor is anyornament introduced, but what is perfectly concordant with the general tone ofmelody. The events recorded, are all serious and grave; the scenery throughout, wildand romantic. The extended heath by the seashore; the mountains shaded with mist;the torrent rushing through a solitary valley; the scattered oaks, and the tombs ofwarriors overgrown with moss; all produce a solemn attention in the mind, andprepare it for great and extraordinary events. We find not in Ossian an imaginationthat sports itself, and dresses out gay trifles to please the fancy. His poetry, moreperhaps than that of any other writer, deserves to be styled, The poetry of the heart. Itis a heart penetrated with noble sentiments and with sublime and tender passions; aheart that glows, and kindles the fancy; a heart that is full, and pours itself forth.Ossian did not write,, like modern poets, to please readers and critics. He sung fromthe love of poetry and song. His delight was to think of the heroes among whom hehad flourished; to recall the affecting incidents of his life; to dwell upon his past wars,and loves, and friendships: till, as he expresses it himself, "there comes a voice toOssian, and awakes his soul. It is the voice of years that are gone; they roll before mewith all their deeds;" and under this true poetic inspiration, giving vent to his genius,no wonder we should so often hear, and acknowledge, in his strains, the powerful andever-pleasing voice of nature.

--Arte, natura potentior omni--Est Deus in nobis, agitante calescimus illo.

It is necessary here to observe, that the beauties of Ossian's writings cannot be felt bythose who have given them only a single or hasty perusal. His manner is so differentfrom that of the poets to whom we are most accustomed; his style is so concise, andso much crowned with imagery; the mind is kept at such a stretch in accompanyingthe author; that an ordinary reader is at first apt to be dazzled and fatigued, rather thanpleased. His poems require to he taken up at intervals, and to be frequently reviewed;and then it is impossible but his beauties must open to every reader who is capable ofsensibility. Those who have the highest degree of it will relish them the most.

As Homer is, of all the great poets, the one whose manner, and whose times, come thenearest to Ossian's, we are naturally led to run a parallel in some instances betweenthe Greek and Celtic bard. For though Homer lived more than a thousand years beforeOssian, it is not from the age of the world, but from the state of society that we are to


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judge of resembling times. The Greek has, in several points, a manifest superiority.He introduces a greater variety of incidents; he possesses a larger compass of ideas;has more diversity in his characters; and a much deeper knowledge of human nature.It was not to be expected, that in any of these particulars Ossian could equal Homer.For Homer lived in a country where society was much farther advanced; he hadbeheld many more objects; cities built and flourishing; laws instituted; order,discipline, and arts, begun. His field of observation was much larger and moresplendid: his knowledge, of course, more extensive; his mind also, it shall be granted,more penetrating. But if Ossian's ideas and objects be less diversified than those ofHomer, they are all, however, of the kind fittest for poetry: the bravery and generosityof heroes, the tenderness of lovers, the attachment of friends, parents, and children. Ina rude age and country, though the events that happen be few, the undissipated mindbroods over them more; they strike the imagination, and fire the passions, in a higherdegree; and, of consequence, become happier materials to a poetical genius, than thesame events when scattered through the wide circle of more varied action andcultivated life.

Homer is a more cheerful and sprightly poet than Ossian. You discern in him all theGreek vivacity; whereas Ossian uniformly maintains the gravity and solemnity of aCeltic hero. This, too, is in a great measure to be accounted for from the differentsituations in which they lived--partly personal, and partly national. Ossian hadsurvived all his friends, and was disposed to melancholy by the incidents of his life.But, besides this, cheerfulness is one of the many blessings which we owe to formedsociety. The solitary, wild state, is always a serious one. Bating the sudden and violentbursts of mirth, which sometimes break forth at their dances and feasts, the savageAmerican tribes have been noted by all travellers for their gravity and taciturnity.Somewhat of this taciturnity may be also be remarked in Ossian. On all occasions heis frugal of his words; and never gives you more of an image, or a description, than isjust sufficient to place it before you in one clear point of view. It is a blaze oflightning, which flashes and vanishes. Homer is more extended in his descriptions,and fills them up with a greater variety of circumstances. Both the poets are dramatic;that is, they introduce their personages frequently speaking before us. But Ossian isconcise and rapid in his speeches, as he is in every other thing. Homer, with the Greekvivacity, had also some portion of the Greek loquacity. His speeches, indeed, arehighly characteristical; and to them we are much indebted for that admirable displayhe has given of human nature. Yet, if he be tedious any where, it is in these: some ofthem are trifling, and some of them plainly unseasonable. Both poets are eminentlysublime; but a difference may be remarked in the species of their sublimity. Homer'ssublimity is accompanied with more impetuosity and fire; Ossian's with more of asolemn and awful grandeur. Homer hurries you along; Ossian elevates, and fixes youin astonishment. Homer is most sublime in actions and battles; Ossian in descriptionand sentiment. In the pathetic, Homer, when he chooses to exert it, has great power;but Ossian exerts that power much oftener, and has the character of tenderness farmore deeply imprinted on his works. No t knew better how to seize and melt the heart.With regard to dignity of sentiment, the pre-eminence must clearly he given to Ossian.This is, indeed, a surprising circumstance, that in point of humanity, magnanimity,virtuous feelings of every kind, our rude Celtic bard should be distinguished to such adegree, that not only the heroes of Homer, but even those of the polite and refinedVirgil, are left far behind by those of Ossian.

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After these general observations on the genius and spirit of our author, I now proceedto a nearer view and more accurate examination of his works; and as Fingal is the firstgreat poem in this collection, it is proper to begin with it. To refuse the title of an epicpoem to Fingal, because it is not, in every little particular, exactly conformable to thepractice of Homer and Virgil, were the mere squeamishness and pedantry of criticism.Examined even according to Aristotle's rules, it will be found to have all the essentialrequisites of a true and regular epic; and to have several of them in so high a degree,as at first view to raise our astonishment on finding Ossian's composition so agreeableto rules of which he was entirely ignorant. But our astonishment will cease, when weconsider from what source Aristotle drew those rules. Homer knew no more of thelaws of criticism than Ossian. But, guided by nature, he composed in verse a regularstory, founded on heroic actions, which all posterity admired. Aristotle, with greatsagacity and penetration, traced the causes of this general admiration. He observedwhat it was in Homer's composition, and in the conduct of his story, which gave itsuch power to please; from. this observation he deduced the rules which poets oughtto follow, who would write and please like Homer; and to a composition formedaccording to such rules, he gave the name of an epic poem. Hence his whole systemarose. Aristotle studied nature in Homer. Homer and Ossian both wrote from nature.No wonder that among all the three, there should be such agreement and conformity.

The fundamental rules delivered by Aristotle concerning an epic poem, are these: thatthe action, which is the groundwork of the poem, should be one, complete, and great;that it should be feigned, not merely historical; that it should be enlivened withcharacters and manners, and heightened by the marvellous.

But, before entering on any of these, it may perhaps be asked, what is the moral ofFingal? For, according to M. Bossu, an epic poem is no other than an allegorycontrived to illustrate some, moral truth. The poet, says this critic, must begin withfixing on some maxim or instruction, which he intends to inculcate on mankind. Henext forms a fable, like one of Æsop's, wholly with a view to the moral; and havingthus settled and arranged his plan, he then looks into traditionary history for namesand incidents, to give his fable some air of probability. Never did a more frigid,pedantic notion enter into the mind of a critic. We may safely pronounce, that he whoshould compose an epic poem after this manner, who should first lay down a moraland contrive a plan, before he had thought of his personages and actors, might deliver,indeed, very sound instruction, but would find very few readers. There cannot be theleast doubt that the first object which strikes an epic poet, which fires his genius, andgives him any idea of his work, is the action or subject he is to celebrate. Hardly isthere any tale, any subject, a poet can choose for such a work, but will afford somegeneral moral instruction. An epic poem is, by its nature, one of the most moral of allpoetical compositions: but its moral tendency is by no means to be limited to somecommonplace maxim, which may be gathered from the story. It arises from theadmiration of heroic actions which such a composition is peculiarly calculated toproduce; from the virtuous emotions which the characters and incidents raise, whilstwe read it; from the happy impressions which all the parts separately, as well as thewhole together, leave upon the mind. However, if a general moral be still insisted on,Fingal obviously furnishes one, not inferior to that of any other poet, viz: that wisdomand bravery always triumph over brutal force: or another, nobler still: that the mostcomplete victory over an enemy is obtained by that moderation and generosity whichconvert him into a friend.


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The unity of the epic action, which of all Aristotle's rules, is the chief and mostmaterial, is so strictly preserved in Fingal, that it must be perceived by every reader. Itis a more complete unity than what arises from relating the actions of one man, whichthe Greek critic justly censures as imperfect: it is the unity of one enterprise--thedeliverance of Ireland from the invasion of Swaran; an enterprise which has surely thefull heroic dignity. All the incidents recorded bear a constant reference to one end; nodouble plot is carried on; but the pa unite into a regular whole; and as the action is oneand great, so it is an entire or complete action. For we find, as the critic, fartherrequires, a beginning, a middle, and an end; a nodus, or intrigue, in the poem;difficulties occurring through Cuthullin's rashness and bad success; those difficultiesgradually surmounted; and at last, the work conducted to that happy conclusion whichis held essential to epic poetry. Unity is, indeed, observed with greater exactness inFingal, than in almost any other epic composition. For not only is unity of subjectmaintained, but that of time and place also. The autumn is clearly pointed out as theseason of the action; and from beginning to end the scene is never shifted from theheath of Lena, along the seashore. The duration of the action in Fingal, is muchshorter than in the Iliad or Æneid; but sure there may be shorter as well longer heroicpoems; and if the authority of Aristotle be also required for this, he says expressly,that the epic composition is indefinite as to the time of its duration. Accordingly, theaction of the Iliad lasts only forty-seven days, whilst that of the Æneid is continuedfor more than a year.

Throughout the whole of Fingal, there reigns that grandeur of sentiment, style, andimagery, which ought ever to distinguish this high species of poetry. The story isconducted with no small art. The poet goes not back to a tedious recital of thebeginning of the war with Swaran; but hastening to the main action, he falls inexactly, by a most happy coincidence of thought, with the rule of Horace:

Semper ad eventum festinat, et in medias res,Non secus ac notas, auditorem rapit--Nec gemino bellum Trojanum orditur ab ovo.

De Arte Poet.

He invokes no muse, for he acknowledged none. but his occasional addresses toMalvina have a finer effect than the invocation of any muse. He sets out with noformal proposition of his subject; but the subject naturally and easily unfolds itself;the poem opening in an animated manner, with the situation of Cuthullin, and thearrival of a scout, who informs him of Swaran's landing. Mention is presently made ofFingal, and of the expected assistance from the ships of the lonely isle, in order togive farther light to the subject. For the poet often shows his address in graduallypreparing us for the events he is to introduce; and, in particular, the preparation for theappearance of Fingal, the previous expectations that are raised, and the extrememagnificence, fully answering these expectations, with which the hero is at lengthpresented to us, are all worked up with such skilful conduct as would do honor to anypoet of the most refined times. Homer's art in magnifying the character of Achilles,has been universally admired. Ossian certainly shows no less aft in aggrandizingFingal. Nothing could be more happily imagined for this purpose than the wholemanagement of the last battle, wherein Gaul, the son of Morni, had besought Fingal toretire, and to leave him and his other chiefs the honor of the day. The generosity of the

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king in agreeing to this proposal; the majesty with which he retreats to the hill, fromwhence he was to behold the engagement, attended by his bards, and waving thelightning of his sword; his perceiving the chiefs overpowered by numbers, but, fromunwillingness to deprive them of the glory of victory by coming in person to theirassistance, first sending Ullin, the bard, to animate their courage, and at last, when thedanger becomes more pressing, his rising in his might, and interposing, like a divinity,to decide the doubtful fate of the day; are all circumstances contrived with so muchart, as plainly discover the Celtic bards to have been not unpractised in heroic poetry.

The story which is the foundation of the Iliad, is in itself as simple as that of Fingal. Aquarrel arises between Achilles and Agamemnon concerning a female slave; on whichAchilles, apprehending himself to be injured, withdraws his assistance from the rest ofthe Greeks. The Greeks fall into great distress, and beseech him to be reconciled tothem. He refuses to fight for them in person, but sends his friend Patroclus; and uponhis being slain, goes forth to revenge his death, and kills Hector. The subject of Fingalis this: Swaran comes to invade Ireland; Cuthullin, the guardian of the young king,had applied for his assistance to Fingal, who reigned in the opposite coast of Scotland.But before Fingal's arrival, he is hurried by rash counsel to encounter Swaran. He isdefeated; he retreats, and desponds. Fingal arrives in this conjuncture. The battle is forsome time dubious; but in the end he conquers Swaran; and the remembrance ofSwaran's being the brother of Agandecca, who, had once saved his life, makes himdismiss him honorably. Homer, it is true, has filled up his story with a much greatervariety of particulars than Ossian; and in this has shown a compass of inventionsuperior to that of the other poet. But it must not be forgotten that though Homer bemore circumstantial, his incidents, however, are less diversified in kind than those ofOssian. War and bloodshed reign throughout the Iliad; and, notwithstanding all thefertility of Homer's invention, there is so much uniformity in his subjects, that thereare few readers, who, before the close, are not tired with perpetual fighting. Whereasin Ossian, the mind is relieved by a more agreeable diversity. There is a finer mixtureof war and heroism, with love and friendship--of martial, with tender scones, than isto be met with, perhaps, in any other poet. The episodes, too, have great propriety--asnatural, and proper to that age and country: consisting of the songs of bards, which areknown to have been the great entertainment of the Celtic heroes in war, as well as inpeace. These songs are not introduced at random; if you except the episode ofDuchommar and Morna, in the first book, which, though beautiful, is more unartfulthan any of the rest, they have always some particular relation to the actor who isinterested, or to the events which are going on; and, whilst they vary the scene, theypreserve a sufficient connection with the main subject by the fitness and propriety oftheir introduction.

As Fingal's love to Agandecca influences some circumstances of the poem,particularly the honorable dismission of Swaran at the end; it was necessary that weshould be let into this part of the hero's story. But as it lay without the compass of thepresent action, it could be regularly introduced nowhere except in an episode.Accordingly, the poet, with as much propriety as if Aristotle himself had directed theplan, has contrived an episode for this purpose in the song of Carril, at the beginningof the third book.

The conclusion of the poem is strictly according to rule, and is every way noble andpleasing. Th reconciliation of the contending heroes, the consolation of Cuthullin, and


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the general felicity that crowns the action, soothe the mind in a very agreeablemanner, and form that passage from agitation and trouble, to perfect quiet and repose,which critics require as the proper termination of the epic work. "Thus they passed thenight in song, and brought back the morning with joy. Fingal arose on the heath; andshook his glittering spear in his hand. He moved first towards the plains of Lena; andwe followed like a ridge of fire. Spread the sail, said the king of Morven, and catchthe winds that pour from Lena. We rose on the waves with songs; and rushed with joythrough the foam of the ocean." So much for the unity and general conduct of the epicaction in Fingal.

With regard to that property of the subject which Aristotle requires, that it should befeigned, not historical, he must not be understood so strictly is if he meant to excludeall subjects which have any foundation in truth. For such exclusion would both beunreasonable in itself, and what is more, would be contrary to the practice of Homer,who is known to have founded his Iliad on historical facts concerning the war of Troy,which was famous throughout all Greece. Aristotle means no more than that it is thebusiness of a poet not to be a more annalist of facts, but to embellish truth withbeautiful, probable, and useful fictions; to copy nature as he himself explains it, likepainters, who preserve a likeness, but exhibit their objects more grand and beautifulthan they are in reality. That Ossian has followed this course, and building upon truehistory, has sufficiently adorned it with poetical fiction for aggrandizing his charactersand facts, will not, I believe, be questioned by most readers. At the same time, thefoundation which those facts and characters had in truth, and the share which the poethad himself in the transactions which he records, must be considered as no smalladvantage to his work. For truth makes an impression on the mind far beyond anyfiction; and no man, let his imagination be ever so strong, relates any events sofeelingly as those in which he has been interested; paints any scene so naturally as onewhich he has seen; or draws any characters in such strong colors as those which hehas personally known. It is considered as an advantage of the epic subject to be takenfrom a period so distant, as, by being involved in the darkness of tradition, may givelicense to fable. Though Ossian's subject may at first view appear unfavorable in thisrespect, as being taken from his own times, yet, when we reflect that he lived to anextreme old age; that he relates what had been transacted in another country, at thedistance of many years, and after all that race of men who had been the actors weregone off the stage; we shall find the objection in a great measure obviated. In so rudean age, when no written records were known, when tradition was loose, and accuracyof any kind little attended to, what was great and heroic in one generation, easilyripened into the marvellous in the next.

The natural representation of human character in an epic poem is highly essential toits merit; and, in respect of this, there can be no doubt of Homer's excelling all theheroic poets who have ever wrote. But though Ossian be much inferior to Homer inthis article, he will be found to be equal at least, if not superior to Virgil; and has,indeed, given all the display of human nature, which the simple occurrences of histimes could be expected to furnish. No dead uniformity of character prevails inFingal; but, on the contrary, the principal characters are not only clearly distinguished,but sometimes artfully contrasted, so as to illustrate each other. Ossian's heroes arelike Homer's, all brave; but their bravery, like those of Homer's too, is of differentkinds. For instance: the prudent, the sedate, the modest and circumspect Connal, isfinely opposed to the presumptuous, rash, overbearing, but gallant and generous

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Calmar. Calmar hurries Cuthullin into action by his temerity; and when he sees thebad effects of his counsels, he will not survive the disgrace. Connal, like anotherUlysses, attends Cuthullin to his retreat, counsels and comforts him under hismisfortune. The fierce, the proud, and the high-spirited Swaran, is admirablycontrasted with the calm, the moderate, and generous Fingal. The character of Oscaris a favorite one throughout the whole poems. The amiable warmth of the youngwarrior; his eager impetuosity in the day of action; his passion for fame; hissubmission to his father; his tenderness for Malvina; are the strokes of a masterlypencil: the strokes are few; but it is the hand of nature, and attracts the heart. Ossian'sown character, the old man, the hero, and the bard, all in one, presents to us, throughthe whole work, a most respectable and venerable figure, which we alwayscontemplate with pleasure. Cuthullin is a hero of the highest class: daring,magnanimous, and exquisitely sensible to honor. We become attached to his interest,and are deeply touched with his distress; and after the admiration raised for him in thefirst part of the poem, it is a strong proof of Ossian's masterly genius, that he durstadventure to produce to us another hero, compared with whom, even the greatCuthullin should be only an inferior personage; and who should rise as far above him,as Cuthullin rises above the rest.

Here, indeed, in the character and description of Fingal, Ossian triumphs almostunrivalled; for we may boldly defy all antiquity to show us any hero equal to Fingal.Homer's Hector possesses several great and amiable qualities; but Hector is asecondary personage in the Iliad, not the hero of the work. We see him onlyoccasionally; we know much less of him than we do of Fingal; who, not only in this,epic poem, but in Temora, and throughout the rest of Ossian's works, is presented inall that variety of lights, which give the full display of a character. And though Hectorfaithfully discharges his duty to his country, his friends, and his family, he istinctured, however, with a degree of the same savage ferocity which prevails amongall the Homeric heroes: for we find him insulting over the fallen Patroclus with themost cruel taunts, and telling him, when he lies in the agonies of death, that Achillescannot help him now; and that in a short time his body, stripped naked, and deprivedof funeral honors, shall be devoured by the vultures. Whereas, in the character ofFingal, concur almost all the qualities that can ennoble human nature; that can eithermake us admire the hero, or love the man. He is not only unconquerable in war, but hemakes his people happy by his wisdom in the days of peace. He is truly too father ofhis people. He is known by the epithet or "Fingal of the mildest look;" anddistinguished on every occasion by humanity and generosity. He is merciful to hisfoes; full of affection to his children; full of concern about his friends; and nevermentions Agandecca, his first love, without the utmost tenderness. He is the universalProtector of the distressed; "None ever went sad from Fingal."--"O, Oscar! bend thestrong in arms; but spare the feeble hand. Be thou a stream of mighty tides against thefoes of thy people; but like the gale that moves the grass to those who ask thine aid.So Trenmor lived; such Trathal was; and such has Fingal been. My arm was thesupport of the injured; the weak rested behind the lightning of my steel." These werethe maxims of true heroism, to which he formed his grandson. His fame is representedas everywhere spread; the greatest heroes acknowledge his superiority; his enemiestremble at his name; and the highest encomium that can be bestowed on one whomthe poets would most exalt, is to say, that his soul was like the soul of Fingal.


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To do justice to the poet's merit, in supporting such a character as this, I must observe,what is not commonly attended to, that there is no part of poetical execution moredifficult, than to draw a perfect character in such a manner as to render it distinct, andaffecting to the mind. Some strokes of human imperfection and frailty, are whatusually give us the most clear view, and the most sensible impression of a character;because they present to us a man, such as we have seen; they recall known features ofhuman nature. When poets attempt to go beyond this range, and describe a faultlesshero, they for the most part set before us a sort of vague, undistinguishable character,such as the imagination cannot lay hold of, or realize to itself as the object ofaffection. We know how much Virgil has failed in this particular. His perfect hero,Æneas, is an unanimated, insipid personage, whom we may pretend to admire, butwhom no one can heartily love. But what Virgil has failed in, Ossian, to ourastonishment, has successfully executed. His Fingal, though exhibited without any ofthe common human failings, is, nevertheless, a real man; a character which touchesand interests every reader. To this it has much contributed that the poet hasrepresented him as an old man; and by this has gained the advantage of throwingaround him a great many circumstances, peculiar to that age, which paint him to thefancy in a more distinct light. He is surrounded with his family; he instructs hischildren in the principles of virtue; he is narrative of his past exploits he is venerablewith the gray locks of age; he is frequently disposed to moralize, like an old man, onhuman vanity, and the prospect of death. There is more art, at least more felicity, inthis, than may at first be imagined. For youth and old are the two states of human life,capable of being placed in the most picturesque lights. Middle age is more general andvague; and has fewer circumstances peculiar to the idea of it. And when any object isin a situation that admits it to be rendered particular, and to be clothed with a varietyof circumstances, it always stands out more clear and full of poetical description.

Besides human personages, divine or supernatural agents are often introduced intoepic poetry, forming what is called the machinery of it; which most critics hold to bean essential part. The marvellous, it must he admitted, has always a great charm forthe bulk of readers. It gratifies the imagination, and affords room for striking andsublime description. No wonder, therefore, that all poets should have a strongpropensity towards it. But I must observe, that nothing is more difficult than to adjustproperly the marvellous with the probable. If a poet sacrifice probability, and fill hiswork with extravagant supernatural scenes, he spreads over it an appearance ofromance and childish fiction; he transports his readers from this world into a fantasticvisionary region; and loses that weight and dignity which should reign in epic poetry.No work from which probability is altogether banished, can make a lasting or deepimpression. Human actions and manners are always, the most interesting objectswhich can be presented to a human mind. All machinery, therefore, is faulty, whichwithdraws these too much from view, or obscures them under a cloud of incrediblefictions. Besides being temperately employed, machinery ought always to have somefoundation in popular belief. A poet is by no means at liberty to invent what system ofthe marvellous he pleases; he must avail himself either of the religious faith, or thesuperstitious credulity of the country wherein he lives; so as to give an air ofprobability to events which are most contrary to the common course of nature.

In these respects, Ossian appears to me to have been remarkably happy. He has,indeed, followed the same course with Homer. For it is perfectly absurd to imagine, assome critics have done, that Homer's mythology was invented by him "in

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consequence of profound reflection on the benefits it would yield to poetry." Homerwas no such refining genius. He found the traditionary stories, on which he built hisIliad, mingled with popular legends concerning the intervention of the gods; and headopted these because they amused the fancy. Ossian, in like manner, found the talesof his country full of ghosts and spirits; it is likely he believed them himself; and heintroduced them, because they gave his poems that solemn and marvellous cast whichsuited his genius. This was the only machinery he could employ with propriety;because it was the only intervention of supernatural beings which agreed with thecommon belief of the country. It was happy; because it did not interfere in the leastwith the proper display of human characters and actions; because it had less of theincredible than most other kinds of poetical machinery; and because it served todiversify the scene, and to heighten the subject by an awful grandeur, which is thegreat design of machinery.

As Ossian's mythology is peculiar to himself, and makes a considerable figure in hisother poems, as well as in Fingal, it may be proper to make some observations on it,independent of its subserviency to epic composition. It turns, for the most part, on theappearances of departed spirits. These, consonantly to the notions of every rude age,are represented not as purely immaterial, but as thin airy forms, which can be visibleor invisible at pleasure; their voice is feeble, their arm is weak; but they are endowedwith knowledge more than human. In a separate state, they retain the samedispositions which animated them in this life. They ride on the wind; they bend theirairy bows; and pursue deer formed of clouds. The ghosts of departed bards continue tosing. The ghosts of departed heroes frequent the fields of their former fame. "Theyrest together in their caves, and talk of mortal men. Their songs are of other worlds.They come sometimes to the ear of rest, and raise their feeble voice." All this presentsto us much the same set of ideas concerning spirits, as we find in the eleventh book ofthe Odyssey, where Ulysses visits the regions of the dead; and in the twenty-thirdbook of the Iliad, the ghost of Patroclus, after appearing to Achilles, vanishesprecisely like one of Ossian's, emitting a shrill, feeble cry, and melting away likesmoke.

But though Homer's and Ossian's ideas concerning ghosts were of the same nature, wecannot but observe, that Ossian's ghosts are drawn with much stronger and liveliercolors than those of Homer. Ossian describes ghosts with all the particularity of onewho had seen and conversed with them, and whose imagination was full of theimpression they had left upon it. He calls up those awful and tremendous ideas whichthe

--Simulacra modis pallentia miris

are fitted to raise in the human mind; and which, in Shakspeare's style, "harrow up thesoul." Crugal's ghost, in particular, in the beginning of the second book of Fingal, mayvie with any appearance of this kind, described by any epic or tragic poet whatever.Most poets would have contented themselves, with telling us, that he resembled, inevery particular, the living Crugal; that his form and dress were the same, only hisface more pale and sad; and that he bore the mark of the wound by which he fell. ButOssian sets before our eyes a spirit from the invisible world, distinguished by all thosefeatures which a strong, astonished imagination would give to a ghost. "A dark redstream of fire comes down from the hill. Crugal sat upon the beam; he that lately fell


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by the band of Swaran, striving in the battle of heroes. His face is like the beam of thesetting moon. His robes are of the cloud of the hill. His eyes are like two decayingflames. Dark is the wound of his breast.--The stars dim twinkled through his form;and his voice was like the sound of a distant stream." The circumstance of the starsbeing beheld "dim twinkling through his form," is wonderfully picturesque, andconvoys the most lively impression of his thin and shadowy substance. The attitude inwhich he is afterward placed, and the speech put into his mouth, are full of thatsolemn and awful sublimity, which suits the subject. "Dim, and in tears he stood, andhe stretched his pale hand over the hero. Faintly he raised his feeble voice, like thegale of the reedy Lego.--My ghost, O Connal! is on my native hills; but my corse is onthe sands of Ulla. Thou shalt never talk with Crugal, or find his lone steps in theheath. I am light as the blast of Cromla; and I move like the shadow of mist. Connal,son of Colgar! I see the dark cloud of death; it hovers over the plains of Lena. Thesons of green Erin Shall fall. Remove from the field of ghosts.--Like the darkenedmoon, he retired in the midst of the whistling blast."

Several other appearances of spirits might be pointed out, as among the most sublimepassages of Ossian's poetry. The circumstances of them are considerably diversified,and the scenery always suited to the occasion. "Oscar slowly ascends the hill. Themeteors 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 andred behind her hill. Feeble voices are heard on the heath. Oscar drew his sword--."Nothing can prepare the fancy more happily for the awful scene that is to follow."Trenmor came from his hill at the voice of his mighty son. A cloud, like the steed ofthe stranger, supported his airy limbs. His robe is of the mist of Lano, that bringsdeath to the people. His sword is a green meteor, half extinguished. His face iswithout form, and dark. He sighed thrice over the hero; and thrice the winds of thenight roared around. Many were his words to Oscar.--He slowly vanished, like a mistthat melts on the sunny hill." To appearances of this kind, we can find no parallelamong the Greek or Roman poets. They bring to mind that noble description in thebook of Job: "In thoughts from the vision of the night, when deep sleep falleth onmen, fear came upon me, and trembling, which made all my bones to shake. Then aspirit passed before my face: the hair of my flesh stood up It stood still: but I couldnot discern the form thereof. An image was before mine eyes. There was silence; andI heard a voice--Shall mortal man be more just than God?"

As Ossian's supernatural beings are described with a surprising force of imagination,so they are introduced with propriety. We have only three ghosts in Fingal: that ofCrugal, which comes to warn the host of impending destruction, and to advise them tosave themselves by retreat; that of Evir-allen, the spouse of Ossian, which calls onhim to rise and rescue their son from danger; and that of Agandecca, which, justbefore the last engagement with Swaran, moves Fingal to pity, by mourning for theapproaching destruction of her kinsman and people. In the other poems, ghostssometimes appear, when invoked, to foretell futurity; frequently, according to thenotions of these times, they come as forerunners of misfortune or death, to thosewhom they visit; sometimes they inform their friends at a distance of their own death;and sometimes they are introduced to heighten the scenery on some great and solemnoccasion. "A hundred oaks burn to the wind; and faint light gleams over the heath.The ghosts of Ardven pass through the beam, and show their dim and distant forms.Comala is half unseen on her meteor; and Hidallan is sullen and dim."--"The awful

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faces of other times looked from the clouds of Crona."--"Fercuth! I saw the ghost ofnight. Silent he stood on that bank; his robe of mist flew on the wind. I could beholdhis tears. An aged man he seemed, and full of thought."

The ghosts of strangers mingle not with those of the natives. "She is seen: but not likethe daughters of the hill. Her robes are from the strangers' land; and she is still alone."When the ghost of one whom we had formerly known is introduced, the propriety ofthe living character is still preserved. This is remarkable in the appearance of Calmar'sghost, in the poem entitled, The death of Cuthullin. He seems to forebode Cuthullin'sdeath, and to beckon him to his cave. Cuthullin reproaches him for supposing that hecould be intimidated by such prognostics. "Why dost thou bend thy dark eyes on me,ghost of the car-borne Calmar? Wouldst thou frighten me, O Matha's son! from thebattles 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! Retire thou to thycave thou art not Calmar's ghost; lie delighted in battle and his arm was like thethunder of heaven." Calmar makes no return to this seeming reproach: but "he retiredin his blast with joy; for he had heard the voice of his praise." This is precisely theghost of Achilles in Homer; who, notwithstanding all the dissatisfaction he expresseswith his state in the region of the dead, as soon as he had heard his son Neoptolemuspraised for his gallant behavior, strode away with silent joy to rejoin the rest of theshades.

It is a great advantage of Ossian's mythology, that it is not local and temporary, likethat of most other ancient poets; which of course is apt to seem ridiculous, after thesuperstitions have passed away on which it is founded. Ossian's mythology is, tospeak so, the mythology of human nature; for it is founded on what has been thepopular belief, in all ages and countries, and under all forms of religion, concerningthe appearances of departed spirits. Homer's machinery is always lively and amusing;but far from being always supported with proper dignity. The indecent squabblesamong his gods surely do no honor to epic poetry. Whereas Ossian's machinery hasdignity upon all occasions. It is indeed a dignity of the dark and awful kind; but this isproper; because coincident with the strain and spirit of the poetry. A light and gaymythology, like Homer's, would have been perfectly unsuitable to the subjects onwhich Ossian's genius was employed. But though his machinery be always solemn, itis not, however, always dreary or dismal; it as enlivened, as much as the subjectwould permit, by those pleasant and beautiful appearances, which he sometimesintroduces, of the spirits of the hill. These are gentle spirits: descending on sunbeams,fair moving on the plain; their forms white and bright; their voices sweet; and theirvisits to men propitious. The greatest praise that can be given to the beauty of a livingwoman, is to say, "She is fair as the ghost of the hill, when it moves in a sunbeam atnoon, over the silence of Morven." "The hunter shall hear my voice from his booth.He shall fear, but love my voice. For sweet shall my voice be for my friends; forpleasant were they to me."

Besides ghosts, or the spirits of departed men, we find in Ossian some instances ofother kinds of machinery. Spirits of a superior nature to ghosts are sometimes alludedto, which have power to embroil the deep; to call forth winds and storms, and pourthem on the land of the stranger; to overturn forests, and to send death among thepeople. We have prodigies too; a shower of blood; and when some disaster isbefalling at a distance, the sound of death is heard on the strings of Ossian's harp: all


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perfectly consonant, not only to the peculiar ideas of northern nations, but to thegeneral current of a superstitious mention in all countries. The description of Fingal'sairy hall, in the poem called Errathon, and of the ascent of Malvina into it, deservesparticular notice, as remarkably noble and magnificent. But, above all, theengagement of Fingal with the spirit of Loda, in Carric-thura, cannot be mentionedwithout admiration. I forbear transcribing the passage, as it must have drawn theattention of every one who has read the works of Ossian. The undaunted courage ofFingal, opposed to all the terrors of the Scandinavian god; the appearance and thespeech of that awful spirit; the wound which he receives, and the shriek which hesends forth, "as, rolled into himself, he rose upon the wind;" are full of the mostamazing and terrible majesty. I know no passage more sublime in the writings of anyuninspired author. The fiction is calculated to aggrandize the hero; which it does to ahigh degree: nor is it so unnatural or wild a fiction as might at first be thought.According to the notions of those times, supernatural beings were material, and,consequently, vulnerable. The spirit of Loda was not acknowledged as a deity byFingal; he did not worship at the stone of his power; he plainly considered him as thegod of his enemies only; as a local deity, whose dominion extended no farther than tothe regions where he was worshipped; who had, therefore, no title to threaten him, andno claim to his submission. We know there are poetical precedents of great authority,for fictions fully as extravagant; and if Homer be forgiven for making Diomed attackand wound in battle the gods whom that chief himself worshipped, Ossian surely ispardonable for making his hero superior to the god of a foreign territory.

Notwithstanding the poetical advantages which I have ascribed to Ossian's machinery,I acknowledge it would have been much more beautiful and perfect had the authordiscovered some knowledge of a Supreme Being. Although his silence on this headhas been accounted for by the learned and ingenious translator in a very probable,manner, yet still it must be held a considerable disadvantage to the poetry. For themost august and lofty ideas that can embellish poetry are derived from the belief of adivine administration of the universe; and hence the invocation of a Supreme Being,or at least of some superior powers, who are conceived as presiding over humanaffairs, the solemnities of religious worship, prayers preferred, and assistanceimplored on critical occasions, appear with great dignity in the works of almost allpoets, as chief ornaments of their compositions. The absence of all such religiousideas from Ossian's poetry is a sensible blank in it; the more to be regretted, as we caneasily imagine what an illustrious figure they would have made under themanagement of such a genius as his; and how finely they would have been adapted tomany situations which occur in his works.

After so particular an examination of Fingal, it were needless to enter into as full adiscussion of the conduct of Temora, the other epic poem. Many of the sameobservations, especially with regard to the great characteristics of heroic poetry, applyto both. The high merit, however, of Temora, requires that we should not pass it bywithout some remarks.

The scene of Temora, as of Fingal, is laid in Ireland; and the action is of a posteriordate. The subject is, an expedition of the hero to dethrone and punish a bloodyusurper, and to restore the possession of the kingdom to the posterity of the lawfulprince: an undertaking worthy of the justice and heroism of the great Fingal. Theaction is one, and complete. The Poem opens with the descent of Fingal on the coast,

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and the consultation held among the chiefs of the enemy. The murder of the youngprince Cormac, which was the cause of the war, being antecedent to the epic action, isintroduced with great propriety as an episode in the first book. In the progress of thepoem, three battles are described, which rise in their importance above, one another;the success is various, and the issue for some time doubtful; till at last, Fingal, broughtinto distress, by the wound of his great general Gaul, and the death of his son Fillan,assumes the command himself; and, having slain the Irish king in single combat,restores the rightful heir to his throne.

Temora has perhaps less fire than the other epic poem; but in return it has morevariety, more tenderness, and more magnificence. The reigning idea, so often resentedto us, of "Fingal, in the last of his fields, is venerable and affecting; nor could anymore noble conclusion be thought of, than the aged hero, after so many successfulachievements, taking his leave of battles, and, with all the solemnities of those times,resigning his spear to his son. The events are less crowded in Temora than in Fingal;actions and characters are more particularly displayed: we are let into the transactionsof both hosts, and informed of the adventures of the night as well as of the day. Thestill, pathetic, and the romantic scenery of several of the night adventures, soremarkably suited to Ossian's genius, occasion a fine diversity in the poem; and arehappily contrasted with the military operations of the day.

In most of our author's poems, the horrors of war are softened by intermixed scenes oflove and friendship. In Fingal these are introduced as episodes: in Temora we have anincident of this nature wrought into the body of the piece, in the adventure of Cathmorand Sulmalla. This forms one of the most conspicuous beauties of that poem. Thedistress of Sulmalla, disguised and unknown amongst strangers, her tender andanxious concern for the safety of Cathmor, her dream, and her melting remembranceof the land of her fathers; Cathmor's emotion when he first discovers her, his strugglesto conceal and suppress his passion, lest it should unman him in the midst of war,though "his soul poured forth in secret, when he beheld her fearful eye," and the lastinterview between them, when, overcome by her tenderness, he lets her know he haddiscovered her, and confesses his passion; are all wrought up with the most exquisitesensibility and delicacy.

Besides the characters which appeared in Fingal, several new ones are hereintroduced; and though, as they are all the characters of warriors, bravery is thepredominant feature, they are nevertheless diversified in a sensible and strikingmanner. Foldath, for instance, the general of Cathmor, exhibits the perfect picture of asavage chieftain; bold and daring, but presumptuous, cruel, and overbearing. He isdistinguished, on his first appearance, as the friend of the tyrant Cairbar, "His stride ishaughty; his red eye rolls in wrath." In his person and whole deportment he iscontrasted with the mild and wise Hidalla, another leader of the same army, on whosehumanity and gentleness he looks with great contempt. He professedly delights instrife and blood. He insults over the fallen. He is imperious in his counsels, andfactious when they are not followed. He is unrelenting in all his schemes of revenge,even to the length of denying the funeral song to the dead; which, from the injurythereby done to their ghosts, was in those days considered as the greatest barbarity.Fierce to the last, he comforts himself in his dying moments with thinking that hisghost shall often leave its blast to rejoice over the graves of those he had slain. YetOssian, ever prone to the pathetic, has contrived to throw into his account of the


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death, even of this man, some tender circumstances, by the moving description of hisdaughter Dardulena, the last of his race.

The character of Foldath tends much to exalt that of Cathmor, the chief commander,which is distinguished by the most humane virtues. He all fraud and cruelty, is famousfor his hospitality to strangers; open to every generous sentiment, and to every softand compassionate feeling. he is so amiable as to divide the reader's attachmentbetween him and the hero of the poem; though our author has artfully managed it soas to make Cathmor himself indirectly acknowledge Fingal's superiority, and toappear somewhat apprehensive of the event, after the death of Fillan, which he knewwould call forth Fingal in all his might. It is very remarkable, that although Ossian hasintroduced into his poems three complete heroes, Cuthullin, Cathmor, and Fingal, hehas, however, sensibly distinguished each of their characters; Cuthullin is particularlyhonorable; Cathmor particularly amiable; Fingal wise and great, retaining anascendant peculiar to himself in whatever light he is viewed.

But the favorite figure in Temora, and the one most highly finished, is Fillan. Hischaracter is of that sort for which Ossian shows a particular fondness; an eager,fervent, young warrior, fired with all the impatient enthusiasm for military glorypeculiar to that time of life. He had sketched this in the description of his own sonOscar; but as he has extended it more fully in Fillan, and as the character is soconsonant to the epic strain, though, as far as I remember, not placed in such aconspicuous light by any other epic poet, it may be worth while to attend a little toOssian's management of it in this instance.

Fillan was the youngest of all the sons of Fingal younger, it is plain, than his nephewOscar, by whose fame and great deeds in war we may naturally suppose his ambitionto have been highly stimulated. Withal, as lie is younger, he is described as more rashand fiery. His first appearance is soon after Oscar's death, when he was employed towatch the motions of the foe by night. In a conversation with his brother Ossian, onthat occasion, we learn that it was not long since he began to lift the spear. "Few arethe marks of my sword in battle; but my soul is fire." He is with some difficultyrestrained by Ossian from going to attack the enemy; and complains to him, that hisfather had never allowed him any opportunity of signalizing his valor. "The king hathnot remarked my sword; I go forth with the crowd; I return without my fame." Soonafter, when Fingal, according to custom, was to appoint one of his chiefs to commandthe army, and each was standing forth, and putting in his claim to this honor, Fillan ispresented in the following most picturesque and natural attitude: "On his spear stoodthe Son of Clatho, in the wandering of his locks. Thrice he raised his eyes to Fingal;his voice thrice failed him as he spoke. Fillan could not boast of battles; at once hestrode away. Bent over a distant stream he stood; the tear hung in his eye. He struck,at times, the thistle's head with his inverted spear." No less natural and beautiful is thedescription of Fingal's paternal emotion on this occasion. "Nor is he unseen of Fingal.Sidelong he beheld his son. He beheld him with bursting joy. He hid the big tear withhis locks, and turned amidst his crowded soul." The command, for that day, beinggiven to Gaul, Fillan rushes amidst the thickest of the foe, saves Gaul's life, who iswounded by a random arrow, and distinguishes himself so in battle, that "the days ofold return on Fingal's mind, as he beholds the renown of his son. As the sun rejoicesfrom the cloud, over the tree his beams have raised, whilst it shakes its lonely head onthe heath, so joyful is the king over Fillan." Sedate, however, and wise, he mixes the

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praise which he bestows on him with some reprehension of his rashness. "My son, Isaw thy deeds, and my soul was glad. Thou art brave, son of Clatho, but headlong inthe strife. So did not Fingal advance, though he never feared a foe. Let thy people be aridge behind thee; they are thy strength in the field. Then shalt thou be long renowned,and behold the tombs of thy fathers."

On the next day, the, greatest and the last of Fillan's life, the charge is committed tohim of leading on the host to battle. Fingal's speech to his troops on this occasion isfull of noble sentiment; and, where he recommends his son to their care, extremelytouching. "A young beam is before you: few are his steps to war. They are few, but heis valiant; defend my dark-haired son. Bring him back with joy; hereafter he maystand alone. His form is like his fathers; his soul is a flame of their fire." When thebattle begins, the poet puts forth his strength to describe the exploits of the younghero; who, at last encountering and killing with his own hand Foldath, the oppositegeneral, attains the pinnacle of glory. In what follows, when the fate of Fillan is drawnnear, Ossian, if anywhere, excels himself. Foldath being slain, and a general routbegun, there was no resource left to the enemy but in the great Cathmore himself, whoin this extremity descends from the hill, where, according to the custom of thoseprinces, he surveyed the battle. Observe how this critical event is wrought up by thepoet. "Wide-spreading over echoing Lubar, the flight of Bolga is rolled along. Fillanhung forward on their steps, and strewed the heath with dead. Fingal rejoiced over hisson.--Blue-shielded Cathmor rose.--Son of Alpin, bring the harp! Give Fillan's praiseto the wind: raise high his praise in my hall, while yet he shines in war. Leave, blue-eyed Clatho! leave thy hall; behold that early beam of thine! The host is withered inits course. No farther look--it is dark--light trembling from the harp, strike, virgins!strike the sound." The sudden interruption and suspense of the narration on Cathmor'srising from his hill, the abrupt bursting into the praise of Fillan, and the passionateapostrophe to his mother Clatho, are admirable efforts of poetical art, in order tointerest us in Fillan's danger; and the whole is heightened by the immediate followingsimile, one of the most magnificent and sublime that is to be met with in any poet, andwhich, if it had been found in Homer, would have been the frequent subject ofadmiration to critics: "Fillan is like a spirit of heaven, that descends from the skirt ofbig blast. The troubled ocean feels his steps as he strides from wave to wave. His pathkindles behind him; islands shake their heads on the heaving seas."

But the poet's art is not yet exhausted. The fall of this noble young, warrior, or, inOssian's style, the extinction of this beam of heaven, could not be rendered toointeresting and affecting. Our attention is naturally drawn towards Fingal. He beholdsfront his hill the rising of Cathmor, and the danger of his son. But what shall he do?"Shall Fingal rise to his aid, and take the sword of Luno? What then shall become ofthy fame, son of white-bosomed Clatho? Turn not thine eves from Fingal, daughter ofInistore! I shall not quench thy early beam. No cloud of mine shall rise, my son, uponthy soul of fire." Struggling between concern for the fame, and fear for the safety ofhis son, be withdraws from the sight of the engagement, and despatches Ossian inhaste to the field, with this affectionate and delicate injunction: "Father of Oscar!"addressing him by a title which on this occasion has the highest propriety: "Father ofOscar! lift the spear, defend the young in arms. But conceal thy steps from Fillan'seyes. He must not know that I doubt his steel." Ossian arrived too late. But unwillingto describe Fillan vanquished, the poet suppresses all the circumstances of the combatwith Cathmor; and only shows us the dying hero. We see him animated to the end


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with the same martial and ardent spirit; breathing his last in bitter regret for-being soearly cut off from the field of glory. "Ossian, lay me in that hollow rock. Raise nostone above me, lest one should ask about my fame. I am fallen in the first of myfields; fallen without renown. Let thy voice alone send joy to my flying soul. Whyshould the bard know where dwells the early-fallen Fillan?" He who, after tracing thecircumstances of this story, shall deny that our bard is possessed of high sentimentand high art, must be strangely prejudiced indeed. Let him read the story of Pallas inVirgil, which is of a similar kind; and after all the praise he may justly bestow on theelegant and finished description of that amiable author, let him say which of the twopoets unfolds most of the human soul. I waive insisting on any more of the particularsin Temora; as my aim is rather to lead the reader into the genius and spirit of Ossian'spoetry, than to dwell on all his beauties.

The judgment and art discovered in conducting works of such length as Fingal andTemora, distinguish them from the other poems in this collection. The smaller pieces,however, contain particular beauties, no less eminent. They are historical poems,generally of the elegiac kind; and plainly discover themselves to be the work of thesame author. One consistent face of manners is everywhere presented to us; one spiritof poetry reigns; the masterly hand of Ossian appears throughout; the same rapid andanimated style; the same strong coloring of imagination, and the same glowingsensibility of heart. Besides the unity which belongs to the compositions of one man,there is moreover a certain unity of subject, which very happily connects all thesepoems. They form the poetical history of the age, of Fingal, The same race of heroeswhom we had met with in the greater poems, Cuthullin, Oscar, Connar, and Gaul,return again upon the stage; and Fingal himself is always the principal figure,presented on every occasion, with equal magnificence, nay, rising upon us to the last.The circumstances of Ossian's old age and blindness, his surviving all his friends, andhis relating their great exploits to Malvina, the spouse or mistress of his beloved sonOscar, furnish the finest poetical situations that fancy could devise for that tenderpathetic which reigns in Ossian's poetry.

On each of these poems there might be room for separate observations, with regard tohe conduct and dispositions of the incidents, as well as to the beauty of thedescriptions and sentiments. Carthon is a regular and highly finished piece. The mainstory is very properly introduced by Clessamore's relation of the adventure of hisyouth; and this introduction is finely heightened by Fingal's song of mourning overMoina; in which Ossian, ever fond of doing honor to his father, has contrived todistinguish him for being an eminent poet, as well as warrior. Fingal's song upon thisoccasion, when "his thousand bards leaned forwards from their seats, to hear the voiceof the king," is inferior to no passage in the whole book; and with great judgement putin his mouth, as the seriousness, no less than the sublimity of the strain, is peculiarlysuited to the hero's character. In Darthula are assembled almost all the tender imagesthat can touch the heart of man, friendship, love, the affections of parents, sons, andbrothers, the distress of the aged, and the unavailing bravery of the young. Thebeautiful address to the moon, with which the poem opens, and the transition fromthence to the subject, most happily prepare the mind for that train of affecting eventsthat is to follow. The story is regular, dramatic, interesting to the last. He who canread it without emotion may congratulate himself, if he pleases, upon beingcompletely armed against sympathetic sorrow. As Fingal had no occasion ofappearing in the action of this poem, Ossian makes a very artful transition from his

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narration, to what was passing in the halls of Selma. The sound heard there on thestrings of his harp, the concern which Fingal shows on bearing it, and the invocationof the ghosts of their fathers, to receive the heroes falling in a distant land, areintroduced with great beauty of imagination to increase the solemnity, and to diversifythe scenery of the poem.

Carric-thura is full of the most sublime dignity; and has this advantage, of being morecheerful in the subject, and more happy in the catastrophe, than most of the otherpoems: though tempered at the same time with episodes in that strain of tendermelancholy which seems to have been the great delight of Ossian and the bards of hisage. Lathmon is peculiarly distinguished by high generosity of sentiment. This iscarried so far, particularly in the refusal of Gaul, on one side, to take the advantage ofa sleeping foe; and of Lathmon, on the other, to overpower by numbers the two youngwarriors as to recall into one's mind the manners of chivalry; some resemblance towhich may perhaps be suggested by other incidents in this collection of poems.Chivalry, however, took rise in an age and country too remote from those of Ossian,to admit the suspicion that the one could have borrowed any thing from the other. Sofar as chivalry had any real existence, the same military enthusiasm which gave birthto it in the feudal times, might, in the days of Ossian, that is, in the infancy of a risingstate, through the operation of the same cause, very naturally produce effects of thesame kind on the minds and manners of men. So far as chivalry was an ideal system,existing only in romance, it will not be thought surprising, when we reflect on theaccount before given of the Celtic bards, that this imaginary refinement of heroicmanners should be found among, them, as much, at least, as among the Troubadors, orstrolling Provençal bards, in the 10th or 11th century; whose songs, it is said, firstgave rise to those romantic ideas of heroism, which for so long a time enchantedEurope. Ossian's heroes have all the gallantry and generosity of those fabulousknights, without their extravagance; and his love scenes have native tenderness,without any mixture of those forced and unnatural conceits which abound in the oldromances. The adventures related by our poet which resemble the most those ofromance, concern women who follow their lovers to war disguised in the armor ofmen; and these are so managed as to produce, in the discovery, several of the mostinteresting situations; one beautiful instance of which may be seen in Carric-thura,and another in Calthon and Colmal.

Oithona presents a situation of a different nature. In the absence of her lover Gaul, shehad been carried off and ravished by Dunrommath. Gaul discovers the place whereshe is kept concealed, and comes to revenge her. The meeting of the two lovers, thesentiments and the behavior of Oithona on that occasion, are described with suchtender and exquisite propriety, as does the greatest honor both to the heart and to thedelicacy of our author; and would have been admired in any poet of the most refinedage. The conduct of Cruma must strike every reader as remarkably judicious andbeautiful. We are to be prepared for the death of Malvina, which is related in thesucceeding poem. She is therefore introduced in person; "she has heard a voice in herdream; She feels the fluttering of her soul:" and in a most moving lamentationaddressed to her beloved Oscar, she sings her own death-song. Nothing could becalculated with more art to sooth and comfort her than the story which Ossian relates.In the young and brave Fovargormo, another Oscar is introduced: his praises are sung;and the happiness is set before her of those who die in their youth "when their renown


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is around them; before the feeble behold them in the hall, and smile at their tremblinghands."

But nowhere does Ossian's genius appear to greater advantage, than in Berrathon,which is reckoned the conclusion of his songs, 'The last sound of the voice of Cona.'

Qualis olor noto positurus littore vitam,Ingemit, et mœstis mulcens concentibus aurasPræsago quæritur venientia funera cantu.

The whole train of ideas is admirably suited to the subject. Every thing is full of thatinvisible world, into which the aged bard believes himself now ready to enter. Theairy ball of Fingal presents itself to his view; "he sees the cloud that shall receive hisghost; he beholds the mist that shall form his robe when he appears on his hill;" andall the natural objects around him seem to carry the presages of death. "The thistleshakes its beard to the wind. The flower hangs its heavy head; it seems to any, I amcovered with the drops of heaven; the time of my departure is near, and the blast thatshall scatter my leaves." Malvina's death is hinted to him in the most delicate mannerby the son of Alpin. His lamentation over her, her apotheosis, or ascent to thehabitation of heroes, and the introduction to the story which follows from the mentionwhich Ossian supposes the father of Malvina to make of him in the ball of Fingal, areall in the highest spirit of poetry. "And dost thou remember Ossian, O Toscar, son ofConloch? The battles of our youth were many; our swords went together to the field."Nothing could be more proper than to end his songs with recording an exploit of thefather of that Malvina, of whom his heart was now so full; and who, from first to last,had been such a favorite object throughout all his poems.

The scene of most of Ossian's poems is laid in Scotland, or in the coast of Ireland,opposite to the territories of Fingal. When the scene is in Ireland, we perceive nochange of manners from those of Ossian's native country. For as Ireland wasundoubtedly peopled with Celtic tribes, the language, customs, and religion of bothnations were the same. They had been separated from one another by migration, onlya few generations, as it should seem, before our poet's age; and they still maintained aclose and frequent intercourse. But when the poet relates the expeditions of any of hisheroes to the Scandinavian coast, or to the islands of Orkney, which were then part ofthe Scandinavian territory, as he does in Carric-thura, Sul-malla of Lumon, andCathloda, the case is quite altered. Those countries were inhabited by nations of theTeutonic descent, who, in their manners and religious rites, differed widely from theCeltæ; and it is curious and remarkable, to find this difference clearly pointed out inthe poems of Ossian. His descriptions bear the native marks of one who was presentin the expeditions which he relates, and who describes what he had seen with his owneyes. No sooner are we carried to Lochlin, or the islands of Inistore, than we perceivewe are in a foreign region. New objects begin to appear. We meet everywhere withthe stones and circles of Loda, that is, Odin, the great Scandinavian deity. We meetwith the divinations and enchantments for which it is well known those northernnations were early famous. "There, mixed with the murmur of waters, rose the voiceof aged men, who called the forms of night to aid them in their war;" whilst theCaledonian chiefs, who assisted them, are described as standing at a distance, heedlessof their rites. That ferocity of manners which distinguished those nations, alsobecomes conspicuous. In the combats of their chiefs there is a peculiar savageness;

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even their women are bloody and fierce. The spirit. and the very ideas of RegnerLodbrog, that northern scalder, whom I formerly quoted, occur to us again. "Thehawks," Ossian makes one of the Scandinavian chiefs say, "rush from all their winds;they are wont to trace my course. We rejoiced three days above the dead, and calledthe hawks of heaven, They came from all their winds, to feast on the foes of Annir."

Dismissing now the separate consideration of any of our author's works, I proceed tomake some observations on his manner of writing, under the general heads ofDescription, Imagery, and Sentiment.

A poet of original genius is always distinguished by his talent for description. Asecond-rate writer discerns nothing new or peculiar in the object he means to describe.His conceptions of it are vague and loose; his expressions feeble; and of course theobject is presented to us indistinctly, and as through a cloud. But a true poet makes usimagine that we see it before our eyes; he catches the distinguishing features; he givesit the colors of life and reality; he places it in such a light that a painter could copyafter him. This happy talent is chiefly owing to a lively imagination, which firstreceives a strong impression of the object; and then, by a proper selection of capitalpicturesque circumstances employed in describing it, transmits that impression in itsfull force to the imaginations of others. That Ossian possesses this descriptive powerin a high degree, we have a clear proof, from the effect which his descriptions produceupon the imaginations of those who read him with any degree of attention, or taste.Few poets are more interesting. We contract an intimate acquaintance with hisprincipal heroes. The characters, the manners, the face of the country, becomefamiliar; we even think we could draw the figure of his ghost. In a word, whilstreading him we are transported as into a new region, and dwell among his objects as ifthey were all real.

It were easy to point out several instances of exquisite painting in the works of ourauthor. Such, for instance, is the scenery with which Temora opens, and the attitude inwhich Cairbar is there presented to us; the description of the young prince Cormac, inthe same book; and the ruins of Balclutha, in Cartho. "I have seen the walls ofBalclutha, but they were desolate. The fire had resounded in the balls: and the voice ofthe people is heard no more. The stream of Clutha was removed from its place by thefall of the walls. The thistle shook there its lonely head; the moss whistled to thewind. The fox looked out from the windows; the rank grass of the wall waved roundhis head. Desolate is the dwelling of Moina; silence is in the house of her fathers."Nothing also can be more natural and lively than the manner in which Carthonafterward describes how the conflagration of his city affected him when a child:"Have I not seen the fallen Balclutha? And shall I feast with Comhal's son? Comhal!who threw his fire in the midst of my father's hall! 1 was young, and knew not thecause why the virgins wept. The columns of smoke pleased mine eye, when theyarose above my walls: I often looked back with gladness, when my friends fled abovethe hill. But when the years of my youth came on, I beheld the moss of my fallenwalls. My sigh arose with the morning; and my tears descended with night. Shall I notfight, I said to my soul, against the children of my foes? And I will fight, O bard! Ifeel the strength of my soul." In the same poem, the assembling of the chiefs roundFingal, who had been warned of some impending danger by the appearance of aprodigy, is described with so many picturesque circumstances, that one imagineshimself present in the assembly. "The king alone beheld the terrible sight, and he


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foresaw the death of his people. He came in silence to his hall, and took his father'sspear: the mail rattled on his breast. The heroes rose around. They looked in silenceon each other, marking the eyes of Fingal. They saw the battle in his face. A thousandshields are placed at once on their arms; and they drew a thousand swords. The hall ofSelma brightened around. The clang of arms ascends. The gray dogs howl in theirplace. No word is among the mighty chiefs. Each marked the eyes of the king; andhalf assumed his spear."

It has been objected to Ossian, that his descriptions of military actions are imperfect,and much less diversified by the circumstances than those of Homer. This is in somemeasure true. The amazing fertility of Homer's invention, is nowhere so muchdisplayed as in the incidents of his battles, and in the little history pieces he gives ofthe persons slain. Nor, indeed, with regard to the talent of description, can too muchbe said in praise of Homer. Every thing is alive in his writings. The colors with whichhe paints are those of nature. But Ossian's genius was of a different kind fromHomer's. It led him to hurry towards grand objects, rather than to amuse himself withparticulars of less importance. He could dwell on the death of a favorite hero; but thatof a private man seldom stopped his rapid course. Homer's genius was morecomprehensive than Ossian's. It included a wider circle of objects; and could work upany incident into description. Ossian's was more limited; but the region within whichit chiefly exerted itself was the highest of all, the region of the pathetic and thesublime.

We must not imagine, however, that Ossian's battles consist only of general indistinctdescription. Such beautiful incidents are sometimes introduced, and the circumstancesof the persons slain so much diversified, as show that be could have embellished hismilitary scenes with an abundant variety of particulars, if his genius had led him todwell upon them. "One man is stretched in the dust of his native land; he fell, whereoften he had spread the feast, and often raised the voice of the harp." The maid ofInistore is introduced in a moving apostrophe, as weeping for another; and a third, "asrolled in the dust he lifted his faint eyes to the king," is remembered and mourned byFingal as the friend of Agandecca. The blood pouring from the wound of one whowas slain by night, is heard "hissing on the half-extinguished oak," which had beenkindled for giving light. Another climbing up a tree to escape from his foe, is piercedby his spear from behind; shrieking, panting he fell; whilst moss and witheredbranches pursue his fall, and strew the blue arms of Gaul. Never was a finer picturedrawn of the ardor of two youthful warriors than the following: "I saw Gaul in hisarmor, and my soul was mixed with his; for the fire of the battle was in his eyes, lielooked to the foe with joy. We spoke the words of friendship in secret; and thelightning of our swords poured together. We drew them behind the wood, and triedthe strength of our arms on the empty air.`

Ossian is always concise in his descriptions, which adds much to their beauty andforce. For it is a great mistake to imagine, that a crowd of particulars, or a very falland extended style, is of advantage to description. On the contrary, such a diffusemanner for the most part weakens it. Any one redundant circumstance is a nuisance. Itencumbers and loads the fancy, and renders the main image indistinct. "Obstat," asQuintilian says with regard to style, "quicquid non adjuvat." To be concise indescription, is one thing: and to be general, is another. No description that rests ingenerals can possibly be good; it can convey no lively idea; for it is of particulars only

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that we have a distinct conception. But, at the same time, no strong imaginationdwells long upon any one particular; or heaps together a mass of trivial ones. By thehappy choice of some one, or of a few that are the most striking, it presents the imagemore complete, shows us more at one glance than a feeble imagination is able to do,by turning its object round and round into a variety of lights. Tacitus is of all prosewriters the most concise. He has even a degree of abruptness resembling our author:yet no writer is more eminent for lively description. When Fingal, after havingconquered the haughty Swaran, proposes to dismiss him with honor: "Raise to-morrow thy white sails to the wind, thou brother of Agandecca!" he conveys, by thusaddressing his enemy, a stronger impression of the emotions then passing within hismind, than if whole paragraphs had been spent in describing the conflict betweenresentment against Swaran and the tender remembrance of his ancient love. Noamplification is needed to give us the most full idea of a hardy veteran, after the fewfollowing words: "His shield is marked with the strokes of battle; his red eye despisesdanger." When Oscar left alone, was surrounded by foes, "he stood," it is said,"growing in his place, like the flood of the narrow vale;" a happy representation ofone, who, by daring intrepidity in the midst of danger, seems to increase in hisappearance, and becomes more formidable every moment, like the sudden rising ofthe torrent hemmed in by the valley. And a whole crowd of ideas, concerning thecircumstances of domestic sorrow, occasioned by a young warrior's first going forthto battle, is poured upon the mind by these words: "Calmar leaned on his father'sspear; that spear which he brought from Lara's hall, when the soul of his mother wassad."

The conciseness of Ossian's descriptions is the more proper, on account of hissubjects. Descriptions of gay and smiling scenes may, without any disadvantage, beamplified and prolonged. Force is not the predominant quality expected in these. Thedescription may be weakened by being diffuse, yet, notwithstanding, may be beautifulstill; whereas, with respect to grand, solemn, and pathetic subjects, which are Ossian'schief field, the case is very different. In these, energy is above all things required. Theimagination must be seized at once, or not at all; and is far more deeply impressed byone strong and ardent image, than by the anxious minuteness of labored illustration.

But Ossian's genius, though chiefly turned towards the sublime and pathetic, was notconfined to it. In subjects also of grace and delicacy, he discovers the hand of amaster. Take for an example the following elegant description of Agandecca, whereinthe tenderness of Tibullus seems united with the majesty of Virgil. "The daughter ofthe snow overheard, and left the hall of her secret sigh. She came in all her beauty;like the moon from the cloud of the east. Loveliness was around her as light. Her stepswere like the music of songs. She saw the youth and loved him. He was the stolensigh of her soul. Her blue eyes rolled on him in secret; and she blest the chief ofMorven." Several other instances might be produced of the feelings of love andfriendship, painted by our author with a most natural and happy delicacy.

The simplicity of Ossian's manner adds great beauty to his descriptions, and indeed tohis whole poetry. We meet with no affected ornaments; no forced refinement; nomarks either in style or thought of a studied endeavor to shine or sparkle. Ossianappears everywhere to be prompted by his feelings; and to speak from the abundanceof his heart. I remember no more than one instance of what may be called a quaintthought in this whole collection of his works. It is in the first book of Fingal, where,


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from the tombs of two lovers, two lonely yews are mentioned to have sprung, "whosebranches wished to meet on high." This sympathy of the trees with the lovers, may bereckoned to border on an Italian conceit; and it is somewhat curious to find this singleinstance of that sort of wit in our Celtic poetry.

"The joy of grief" is one of Ossian's remarkable expressions, several times repeated. Ifany one shall think that it needs to be justified by a precedent, he may find it twiceused by Homer: in the Iliad, when Achilles is visited by the ghost of Patroclus; and inthe Odyssey, when Ulysses meets his mother in the shades. On both these occasions,the heroes, melted with tenderness, lament their not having it in their power to throwtheir arms round the ghost, "that we might," say they, "in mutual embrace, enjoy thedelight of grief. "

Κρυεροιο τοταρπωμεσθα γοαιο.

But, in truth, the expression stands in need of no defence from authority; for it is anatural and just expression; and conveys a clear idea of that gratification which avirtuous heart often feels in the indulgence of a tender melancholy. Ossian makes avery proper distinction between this gratification and the destructive effect ofoverpowering grief. "There is a joy in grief when peace dwells in the breasts of thesad. But sorrow wastes the mournful, O daughter of Toscar, and their days are few."To "give the joy of grief," generally. signifies, to raise the strain of soft and gravemusic; and finely characterizes the taste of Ossian's age and country. In those days,when the songs of bards were the great delight of heroes, the tragic muse was hold inchief honor: gallant actions and virtuous sufferings, were the chosen theme;preferably to that light and trifling strain, of poetry and music, which promotes lightand trifling manners, and serves to emasculate the mind. "Strike the harp in my hall,"said the great Fingal, in the midst of youth and victory; "strike the harp in my hall,and let Fingal hear the song. Pleasant is the joy of grief! It is like the shower O ofspring, 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."

Personal epithets have been much used by all the poets of the most ancient ages; andwhen well chosen, not general and unmeaning, they contribute not a little to renderthe style descriptive and animated. Besides epithets founded on bodily distinctions,akin to many of Homer's, we find in Ossian several which are remarkably beautifuland poetical. Such as Oscar of the future fights, Fingal of the mildest look, Carril ofother times, the mildly blushing Evir-allin: Bragela, the lonely sun-beam ofDunscaich; a Culdee, the son of the secret cell.

But of all the ornaments employed in descriptive poetry, comparisons or similes arethe most splendid. These chiefly form what is called the imagery of a poem; and asthey abound go much in the works of Ossian, and are commonly among the favoritepassages of all poets, it may be expected that I should be somewhat particular in myremarks upon them.

A poetical simile always supposes two objects brought together, between which thereis some near relation or connection in the fancy. What that relation ought to be, cannotbe precisely defined. For various, almost numberless, are the analogies formed amongobjects, by a sprightly imagination. The relation of actual similitude, or likeness of

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appearance, is far from being the only foundation of poetical comparison. Sometimesa resemblance in the effect produced by two objects, is made the connecting principle:sometimes a resemblance in one distinguishing property or circumstance. Very oftentwo objects are brought together in a simile, though they resemble one another,strictly speaking, in nothing, only because they raise in the mind a train of similar, andwhat may be called concordant, ideas; so that the remembrance of the one, whenrecalled, serves to quicken and heighten the impression made by the other. Thus, togive an instance from our poet, the pleasure with which an old man looks back on theexploits of his youth, has certainly no direct resemblance to the beauty of a fineevening; further than that both agree in producing a certain calm, placid joy. YetOssian has founded upon this, one of the most beautiful comparisons that is to be metwith in any poet. "Wilt thou not listen, son of the rock, to the song of Ossian? My soulis 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 theirdewy heads. The blue streams rejoice in the vale. The aged hero comes forth on hisstaff; and his gray hair glitters in the beam." Never was there a finer group of objects.It raises a strong conception of the old man's joy and elation of heart, by displaying ascene which produces in every spectator a corresponding train of pleasing emotions;the declining sun looking forth in his brightness after a storm; the cheerful face of allnature; and the still life finely animated by the circumstance of the aged hero, with hisstaff and his gray locks: a circumstance both extremely picturesque, in itself, andpeculiarly suited to the main object of the comparison. Such analogies andassociations of ideas as these, are highly pleasing to the fancy. They give opportunityfor introducing many a fine poetical picture. They diversify the scene; they aggrandizethe subject; they keep the imagination awake and sprightly. For as the judgment isprincipally exercised in distinguishing objects, and remarking the differences amongthose which seem alike, so the highest amusement of the imagination is to tracelikenesses and agreements among those which seem different.

The principal rules which respect poetical comparisons are, that they be introduced onproper occasions, when the mind is disposed to relish them; and not in the midst ofsome severe and agitating passion, which cannot admit this play of fancy; that they befounded on a resemblance neither. too near and obvious, so as to give littleamusement to the imagination in tracing it, nor too faint and remote, so as to heapprehended with difficulty; that they serve either to illustrate the principal object,and to render the conception of it more clear and distinct; or, at least, to heighten andembellish it, by a suitable association of images.

Every country has a scenery peculiar to itself; and the imagery of a good poet willexhibit it. For as he copies after nature, his allusions will of course be taken fromthose objects which he sees around him, and which have often struck his fancy. Forthis reason, In order to judge of the propriety of poetical imagery, we ought to be insome measure acquainted with the natural history of the country where the scene ofthe poem is laid. The introduction of foreign images betrays a poet, copying not fromnature, but from other writers. Hence so many lions, and tigers, and eagles, andserpents, which we meet, with in the similes of modern poets; as if these animals hadacquired some right to a place in poetical comparisons for ever, because employed byancient authors. They employed them with propriety, as objects generally known intheir, country, but they are absurdly used for illustration by us, who know them onlyat second hand, or by description. To most readers of modern poetry, it were more to


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the purpose to describe lions or tigers by similes taken from men, than to comparemen to lions. Ossian is very correct in this particular. His imagery is, withoutexception, copied from that face of nature which be saw before his eyes; and byconsequence may be expected to be lively. We meet with no Grecian or Italianscenery; but with the mists and clouds, and storms, of a northern mountainous region.

No poet abounds more in similes than Ossian. There are in this collection as many, atleast, as in the whole Iliad and Odyssey of Homer. I am indeed inclined to think, thatthe works of both poets are too much crowded with them. Similes are sparklingornaments; and, like all things that sparkle, are apt to dazzle and tire us by their lustre.But if Ossian's similes be too frequent, they have this advantage, of being commonlyshorter than Homer's; they interrupt his narration less; he just glances aside to someresembling, object, and instantly returns to his former track. Homer's similes include awider range of objects; but, in return, Ossian's, are, without exception, taken fromobjects of dignity, which cannot be said for all those which Homer employs. The sun,the moon, and the stars, clouds and meteors, lightning and thunder, seas and whales,rivers, torrents, winds, ice, rain, snow, dews, mist, fire and smoke, trees and forests,heath and grass and flowers, rocks and mountains, music and songs, light anddarkness, spirits and ghosts; these form the circle within which Ossian's comparisonsgenerally run. Some, not many, are taken from birds and beasts: as eagles, sea-fowl,the horse, the deer, and the mountain bee; and a very few from such operations of artas were then known. Homer has diversified his imagery, by many more allusions tothe animal world; to lions, bulls, goats, herds of cattle, serpents, insects; and tovarious occupations of rural and pastoral life. Ossian's defect in this article, is plainlyowing to the desert, uncultivated state of his country, which suggested to him fewimages beyond natural inanimate objects, in their rudest form. The birds and animalsof the country were probably not numerous; and his acquaintance with them wasslender, as they were little subjected to the uses of man.

The great objection made to Ossian's imagery, is its uniformity, and the too frequentrepetition of the same comparison. In a work so thick-sown with similes one could notbut expect to find images of the same kind sometimes suggested to the poet byresembling objects; especially to a poet like Ossian, who wrote from the immediateimpulse of poetical enthusiasm, and without much preparation of study or labor.Fertile as Homer's imagination is acknowledged to be, who does not know how oftenhis lions, and bulls, and flocks of sheep, recur with little or no variation; nay,sometimes, in the very same words? The objection made to Ossian is, however,founded, in a great measure, upon a mistake. It has been supposed by inattentivereaders, that wherever the moon, the cloud, or the thunder, returns in a simile, it is thesame simile, and the same moon, or cloud, or thunder, which they had met with a fewpages before. Whereas very often the similes are widely different. The object, fromwhence they are taken, is indeed in substance the same; but the image is new; for theappearance of the object is changed; it is presented to the fancy in another attitude:and clothed with new circumstances, to make it suit the different illustration for whichit is employed. In this lies Ossian's great art; in so happily varying the form of the fewnatural appearances with which he was acquainted, as to make them correspond to agreat many different objects.

Let us take for one instance the moon, which is very frequently introduced in hiscomparisons; as in northern climates, where the nights are long, the moon is a greater

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object of attention than in the climate of Homer; and let us view how much our poethas diversified its appearance. The shield of it warrior is like "the darkened moonwhen it moves a dun circle through the heavens." The face of a ghost, wan and ale, islike "the beam of the setting moon." And a different appearance of a ghost, thin andindistinct, is like "the new moon seen through the gathered mist, when the sky poursdown its flaky snow, and the world is silent and dark;" or, in a different form still, islike "the watery beam of the moon, when it rushes from between two clouds, and themidnight shower is on the field." A very opposite use is made of the moon in thedescription of Agandecca: "She came in all her beauty, like the moon from the cloudof the east." Hope succeeded by disappointment, is "joy rising on her face and sorrowreturning again, like a thin cloud on the moon." But when Swaran, after his defeat, ischeered by Fingal's generosity, "his face brightened like the full moon of heaven,when the clouds vanish away, and leave her calm and broad in the midst of the sky."Venvela is "bright as the moon when it trembles o'er the western wave;" but the soulof the guilty Uthal is "dark as the troubled face of the moon, when it foretells thestorm." And by a very fanciful and uncommon allusion, it is said of Cormac, who wasto die in his early years, "Nor long shalt thou lift the spear, mildly-shining beam ofyouth! Death stands dim behind thee, like the darkened half of the moon behind itsgrowing light."

Another instance of the same nature may be taken from mist, which, as being a veryfamiliar appearance in the country of Ossian, he applies to a variety of purposes, andpursues through a great many forms. Sometimes, which one would hardly expect, heemploys it to heighten the appearance of a beautiful object. The hair of Morna is "likethe mist of Cromla, when it curls on the rock, and shines to the beam of the west.""The song comes with its music to melt and please the ear. It is like soft mist, thatrising from the lake pours on the silent vale. The green flowers are filled with dew.The sun returns in its strength, and, the mist is gone." But, for the most part, mist isemployed as a similitude of some disagreeable or terrible object. "The soul of Nathoswas sad, like the sun in the day of mist, when his face is watery and dim."--"Thedarkness of old age comes like the mist of the desert." The face of a ghost is "pale asthe mist of Cromla."--"The gloom of battle is rolled along as mist that is poured on thevalley, when storms invade the silent sunshine of heaven." Fame, suddenly departing,is likened to "mist that flies away before the rustling wind of the vale." A ghost,slowly vanishing, to "mist that melts by degrees on the sunny hill." Cairbar, after histreacherous assassination of Oscar, is compared to a pestilential fog. "I love a foe likeCathmor," says Fingal, "his soul is great; his arm is strong; his battles are full of fame.But the little soul is like a vapor that hovers round the marshy lake. It never rises onthe green hill, lest the winds meet it there. Its dwelling is in the cave; and it sendsforth the dart of death." This is a simile highly finished. But there is another which isstill more striking, founded also on mist, in the fourth book of Temora. Two factiouschiefs are contending: Cathmor, the king, interposes, rebukes, and silences them. Thepoet intends to give us the highest idea of Cathmor's superiority; and most effectuallyaccomplishes his intention by the following happy image. "They sunk from the kingon either side, like two columns of morning mist, when the sun rises between them onhis glittering rocks. Dark is their rolling on either side; each towards its reedy pool."These instances may sufficiently show with what richness of imagination Ossian'scomparisons abound, and, at the same time, with what propriety of judgment they areemployed. If his field was narrow, it must be admitted to have been as well cultivatedas its extent would allow.


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As it is usual to judge of poets from a comparison of their similes more than of otherpassages, it will, perhaps, be agreeable to the reader, to see how Homer and Ossianhave conducted some images of the same kind. This might be shown in manyinstances. For as the great objects of nature are common to the poets of all nations,and make the general storehouse of all imagery, the groundwork of their comparisonsmust, of course, be Frequently the same. I shall select only a few of the mostconsiderable from both poets. Mr. Pope's translation of Homer can be of no use to ushere. The parallel is altogether unfair between prose and the imposing harmony offlowing numbers. It is only by viewing Homer in the simplicity of a prose translation,that we can form any comparison between the two bards.

The shock of two encountering armies, the noise and the tumult of battle, afford oneof the most grand and awful subjects of description; on which all epic poets haveexerted their strength. Let us first hear Homer. The following description is a favoriteone, for we find it twice repeated in the same words. "When now the conflicting hostsjoined in the field of battle, then were mutually opposed shields, and swords, and thestrength of armed men. The bossy bucklers were dashed against each other. Theuniversal tumult rose. There were mingled the triumphant shouts and the dying groansof the victors and the vanquished. The earth streamed with blood. As when wintertorrents, rushing from the mountains, pour into a narrow valley their violent waters.They issue from a thousand springs, and mix in the hollowed channel. The distantshepherd hears on the mountain their roar from afar. Such was the terror and the shoutof the engaging armies." In another passage, the poet, much in the manner of Ossian,heaps simile on simile, to express the vastness of the idea with which his imaginationseems to labor. "With a mighty shout the hosts engage. Not so loud roars the wave ofocean, when driven against the shore by the whole force of the boisterous north; notso loud in the woods of the mountain, the noise of the flame, when rising in its fury toconsume the forest; not so loud the wind among the lofty oaks, when the wrath of theworm rages; as was the clamor of the Greeks and Trojans, when, roaring terrible, theyrushed against each other." To these descriptions and similes, we may oppose thefollowing from Ossian, and leave the reader to judge between them. He will findimages of the same kind employed; commonly less extended; but thrown forth with aglowing rapidity which characterizes our poet. "As autumn's dark storms pour fromtwo echoing hills, towards each other approached the heroes. As two dark streamsfrom high rocks meet and mix, and roar on the plains; loud, rough, and dark in battle,meet Lochlin and Inisfail. Chief mixed his strokes with chief, and man with man.Steel clanging, sounded on steel. Helmets are cleft on high; blood bursts and smokesaround.--As the troubled noise of the ocean, when roll the waves on high; as the lastpeal of the thunder of heaven; such is the noise of battle." "As roll a thousand wavesto the rock, so Swaran's best came on; as meets a rock a thousand waves, so Inisfailmet Swaran. Death raises all his voices around, and mixes with the sound of shields.--The field echoes from wing to wing, as a hundred hammers that rise by turns on thered son of the furnace."--"As a hundred winds on Morven; as the streams of a hundredhills; as clouds fly successive over heaven or as the dark ocean assaults the shore ofthe desert so roaring, so vast, so terrible, the armies mixed on Lena's echoing heath."In several of these images there is a remarkable similarity to Homer's: but whatfollows is superior to any comparison that Homer uses on this subject. "The groan ofthe people spread over the hills; it was like the thunder of night, when the cloud burstson Cona, and a thousand ghosts shriek at once on the hollow wind." Never was animage of, more awful sublimity employed to heighten the terror of battle.

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Both poets compare the appearance of an army approaching, to the gathering of darkclouds. "As when a shepherd," says Homer, "beholds from the rock a cloud bornealong the sea by the western wind; black as pitch it appears from afar sailing over theocean, and carrying the dreadful storm. He shrinks at the sight, and drives his flockinto the cave: such, under the Ajaces, moved on the dark, the thickened phalanx to thewar." 1--"They came," says Ossian, "over the desert like stormy clouds, when thewinds roll them over the heath; their edges are tinged with lightning; and the echoinggroves foresee the storm." The edges of the clouds tinged with lightning, is a sublimeidea: but the shepherd and his flock render Homer's simile more picturesque. This isfrequently the difference between the two poets. Ossian gives no more than the mainimage, strong and full: Homer adds circumstances and appendages, which amuse thefancy by enlivening the scenery.

Homer compares the regular appearance of an army, to "clouds that are settled on themountain-top, in the day of calmness, when the strength of the north wind sleeps."fn_32

Ossian, with full as much propriety, compares the appearance of a disordered army, to"the mountain cloud, when the. blast hath entered its womb, and scatters the curlinggloom on every side." Ossian's clouds assume a great many forms, and, as we mightexpect from his climate, are a fertile source of imagery to him. "The warriors followedtheir chiefs like the gathering of the rainy clouds behind the red meteors of heaven."An army retreating without coming to action, is likened to "clouds, that having longthreatened rain, retire slowly behind the hills." The picture of Oithona, after she haddetermined to die, is lively and delicate. "Her soul was resolved, and the tear wasdried from her wildly-looking eye. A troubled joy rose on her mind, like the red pathof the lightning on a stormy cloud." The image also of the gloomy Cairbar,meditating, in silence, the assassination of Oscar, until the moment came when hisdesigns were ripe for execution, is extremely noble and complete in all its parts."Cairbar heard their words in silence, like the cloud of a shower; it stands dark onCromla till the lightning bursts its side. The valley gleams with red light; the spirits ofthe storm rejoice. So stood the silent king of Temora; at length his words are heard."

Homer's comparison of Achilles to the Dog-Star, is very sublime. "Priam beheld himrushing along the plain, shining in his armor, like the star of autumn bright are itsbeams, distinguished amidst the multitude of stars in the dark hour of night. It rises inits splendor; but its splendor is fatal; betokening to miserable men the destroyingheat." 1 The first appearance of Fingal is, in like manner, compared by Ossian to a staror meteor. "Fingal, tall in his ship, stretched his bright lance before him. Terrible wasthe gleam of his steel; it was like the green meteor of death, setting in the heath ofMalmor, when the traveller is alone, and the broad moon is darkened in heaven." Thehero's appearance in Homer is more magnificent; in Ossian, more terrible.

A tree cut down, or overthrown by a storm, is a similitude frequent among poets fordescribing the fall of a warrior in battle. Homer employs it often. But the mostbeautiful, by far, of his comparisons, founded on this object, indeed one of the mostbeautiful in the whole Iliad, is that on the death of Euphorbus. "As the young andverdant olive, which a man hath reared with care in a lonely field, where the springsof water bubble around it; it is fair and flourishing; it is fanned by the breath of all thewinds, and loaded with white blossoms; when the sudden blast of a whirlwind


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descending, roots it out from its bed, and stretches it on the dust." To this, elegant as itis, we may oppose the following simile of Ossian's, relating to the death of the threesons of Usnoth. "They fell, like three young oaks which stood alone on the hill. Thetraveller saw the lovely trees, and wondered how they grew so lonely. The blast of thedesert came by night, and laid their green heads low. Next day he returned; but theywere withered, and the heath was bare." Malvina's allusion to the same object, in herlamentation over Oscar, is so exquisitely tender, that I cannot forbear giving it a placealso. "I was a lovely tree in thy presence, Oscar! with all my branches round me. Butthy death came, like a blast from the desert, and laid my green head low. The springreturned with its showers; but no leaf of mine arose." Several of Ossian's similes,taken from trees, are remarkably beautiful, and diversified with well-chosencircumstances such as that upon the death of Ryno and Orla: They have fallen like theoak of the desert; when it lies across a stream, and withers in the wind of themountains." Or that which Ossian applies to himself: "I, like an ancient oak inMorven, moulder alone in my place; the blast hath lopped my branches away; and Itremble at the winds of the north."

As Homer exalts his heroes by comparing them to gods, Ossian makes the same useof comparisons taken from spirits and ghosts. "Swaran roared in battle, like the shrillspirit of a storm, that sits dim on the clouds of Gormal, and enjoys the death of themariner." His people gathered round Erragon, "like storms around the ghost of night,when he calls them from the top of Morven, and prepares to pour them on the land ofthe stranger."--"They fell before my son like groves in the desert, when an angryghost rushes through night, and takes their green heads in his hand." In such images,Ossian appears in his strength; for very seldom have supernatural beings been paintedwith so much sublimity, and such force of imagination, as by this poet. Even Homer,great as he is, must yield to him in similes formed upon these. Take, for instance, thefollowing, which is the most remarkable of this kind in the Iliad. "Meriones followedIdomeneus to battle, like Mars, the destroyer of men, when lie rushes to war. Terror,his beloved son, strong and fierce, attends him; who fills with dismay the most valianthero. They come from Thrace armed against the Ephyrians and Phlegyans; nor dothey regard the prayers of either, but dispose of success at their will." 1 The idea hereis undoubtedly noble, but observe what a figure Ossian sets before the astonishedimagination, and with what sublimely terrible circumstances he has heightened it. "Herushed, in the sound of his arms, like the dreadful spirit of Loda, when he comes inthe roar of a thousand storms, and scatters battles from his eyes. He sits on a cloudover Lochlin's seas. His mighty hand is on his sword. The wind lifts his flaming locks.So terrible was Cuthullin in the day of his fame."

Homer's comparisons relate chiefly to martial subjects, to the appearances andmotions of armies, the engagement and death of heroes, and the various incidents ofwar. In Ossian, we find a greater variety of other subjects, illustrated by similes,particularly the songs of bards, the beauty of women, the different circumstances ofold age, sorrow, and private distress; which give occasion to much beautiful imagery.What, for instance, can be more delicate and moving, than the following simile ofOithona's, in her lamentation over the dishonor she had suffered "Chief of Strumon."replied the sighing maid, why didst thou come over the dark blue wave to Nuath'smournful daughter? Why did not I pass away in secret, like the flower of the rock, thatlifts its fair head unseen, and strews its withered leaves on the blast?" The music ofbards, a favorite object with Ossian, is illustrated by a variety of the most beautiful

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appearances that are to be found in nature. It is compared to the calm shower ofspring; to the dews of the morning on the hill of roes; to the face of the blue and stilllake. Two similes on this subject I shall quote, because they would do honor to any ofthe most celebrated classics. The one is: "Sit thou on the heath, O bard! and let us hearthy voice; it is pleasant as the gale of the spring that sighs on the hunter's ear, when heawakens from dreams of joy, and has heard the music of the spirits of the hill." Theother contains a short but exquisitely tender image, accompanied with the finestpoetical painting. "The music of Carril was like the memory of joys that are past,pleasant, and mournful to the soul. The ghosts of departed bards heard it fromSlimora's side. Soft sounds spread along the wood; and the silent valleys of nightrejoice." What a figure would such imagery and such scenery have made, had theybeen presented to us adorned with the sweetness and harmony of the Virgiliannumbers!

I have chosen all along to compare Ossian with Homer, rather than Virgil, for anobvious reason. There is a much nearer correspondence between the times andmanners of the two former poets. Both wrote in an early period of society; both areoriginals; both are distinguished by simplicity, sublimity, and fire. The correctelegances of Virgil, his artful imitation of Homer, the Roman stateliness which heeverywhere maintains, admit no parallel with the abrupt boldness and enthusiasticwarmth of the Celtic bard. In one article, indeed, there is a resemblance. Virgil ismore tender than Homer, and thereby agrees more with Ossian; with this difference,that the feelings of the one are more gentle and polished--those of the other morestrong: the tenderness of Virgil softens--that of Ossian dissolves and overcomes theheart.

A resemblance may be sometimes observed between Ossian's Comparisons and thoseemployed by the sacred writers. They abound much in this figure, and they use it withthe utmost propriety. The imagery of Scripture exhibits a soil and climate altogetherdifferent from those of Ossian: a warmer country, a more smiling face of nature, thearts of agriculture and of rural life much farther advanced. The wine-press and thethreshing-floor are often presented to us; the cedar and the palm-tree, the fragrance ofperfumes the voice of the turtle, and the beds of lilies. The similes are, like Ossian's,generally short, touching on one point of resemblance, rather than spread out into littleepisodes. In the following example may be perceived what inexpressible grandeurpoetry receives from the intervention of the Deity. "The nations shall rush like therushing of many waters; but God shall rebuke them, and they shall fly far off, andshall be chased as the chaff of the "mountains before the wind, and like the down ofthe thistle before the whirlwind." Besides formal comparisons, the poetry of Ossian isembellished with many beautiful metaphors; such as that remarkably fine one appliedto Deugala: "She was covered with the light of beauty; but her heart was the house ofpride." This mode of expression, which suppresses the mark of comparison, andsubstitutes a figured description in room of the object described, is a great enlivener ofstyle. It denotes that glow and rapidity of fancy, which, without pausing to form aregular simile, paints the object at one stroke. "Thou art to me the beam of the cast,rising in a land unknown."--"In peace, thou art the gale of spring; In war, themountain storm."--"Pleasant be thy rest, O lovely beam! soon hast thou set on ourhills! The steps of thy departure were stately, like the moon on the blue tremblingwave. But thou hast left us in darkness, first of the maids of Lutha!--Soon hast thouset, Malvina! but thou risest, like the beam of the east, among the spirits of thy


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friends, where they sit in their stormy halls, the chambers of the thunder." This iscorrect, and finely supported. But in the following instance, the metaphor, thoughvery beautiful at the beginning, becomes imperfect before it closes, by beingimproperly mixed with the literal sense. "Trathal went forth with the stream of hispeople: but they met a rock; Fingal stood unmoved; broken, they rolled back from hisside. Nor did they roll in safety; the Spear of the king pursued their flight."

The hyperbole is a figure which we might expect to find often employed by Ossian; asthe undisciplined imagination of early ages generally prompts exaggeration, andcarries its objects to excess; whereas longer experience, and farther progress in thearts of life, chasten men's ideas and expressions. Yet Ossian's hyperboles appear not,to me, either so frequent or so harsh as might at first have been looked for; anadvantage owing, no doubt, to the more cultivated state in which, as was beforeshown, poetry subsisted among the ancient Celtæ, than among most other barbarousnations. One of the most exaggerated descriptions in the whole work, is what meets usat the beginning of Fingal, where the scout makes his report to Cuthullin of thelanding of the foe. But this is so far from deserving censure, that it merits praise, asbeing on that occasion natural and proper. The scout arrives, trembling and full offears; and it is well known that no passion disposes men to hyperbolize more thanterror. It both annihilates themselves in their own apprehension, and magnifies everyobject which they view through the medium of a troubled imagination. Hence allthose indistinct images of formidable greatness, the natural marks of a disturbed andconfused mind, which occur in Moran's description of Swaran's appearance, and in hisrelation of the conference which they held together; not unlike the report which theaffrighted Jewish spies made to their leader, of the land of Canaan. "The land throughwhich we have gone to search it, is a land that eateth up the inhabitants thereof; andall the people that we saw in it are men of a great stature: and there saw we giants, thesons of Anak, which come of the giants; and we were in our own sight asgrasshoppers, and so we were in their sight."

With regard to personifications, I formerly observed that Ossian was sparing, and Iaccounted for his being so. Allegorical personages he has none; and their absence isnot to be regretted. For the intermixture of those shadowy beings, which have not thesupport even of mythological or legendary belief, with human actors, seldomproduces a good effect. The fiction becomes too visible and fantastic; and overthrowsthat impression of reality, which the probable recital of human actions is calculated tomake upon the mind. In the serious and pathetic scenes of Ossian, especially,allegorical characters would have been as much out of place as in tragedy; servingonly unseasonably to use the fancy, whilst they stopped the current and weakened theforce of passion.

With apostrophes, or addresses to persons absent or dead, which have been in, all agesthe language of passion, our poet abounds; and they are among his highest beauties.Witness the apostrophe, in the first book of Fingal, to the maid of Inistore, whoselover had fallen in battle; and that inimitably fine one of Cuthullin to Bragela, at theconclusion of the same book. He commands his harp to be struck in her praise; andthe mention of Bragela's name immediately suggesting to him a crowd of tenderideas--"Dost thou raise thy fair face from the rocks," he exclaims, "to find the sails ofCuthullin? The sea is rolling far distant, and its white foam shall deceive thee for mysails." And now his imagination being wrought up to conceive her as, at that moment,

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really in this situation, he becomes afraid of the harm she may receive from theinclemency of the night; and with an enthusiasm happy and affecting, though beyondthe cautious strain of modern poetry, "Retire," he proceeds, "retire, for it is night, mylove, and the dark winds sigh in thy hair. Retire to the hall of my feasts, and think ofthe times that are past: for I will not return until the storm of war has ceased. O,Connal! speak of wars and arms, and send her from my mind; for lovely with herraven hair is the white-bosomed daughter of Sorglan." This breathes all the nativespirit of passion and tenderness.

The addresses to the sun, to the moon, and to the evening star, must draw the attentionof every reader of taste, as among the most splendid ornaments of this collection. Thebeauties of each are too great and too obvious to need any particular comment. In onepassage only of the address to the moon, there appears some obscurity. "Whither dostthou retire from thy course when the darkness of they countenance grows? Hast thouthy hall like Ossian? Dwellest thou in the shadow of grief? Have thy sisters fallenfrom heaven? Are they who rejoiced with thee, at night, no more? Yes, they havefallen, fair light! and thou dost often retire to mourn." We may be at a loss tocomprehend, at first view, the ground of those speculations of Ossian concerning themoon: but when all the circumstances are attended to, they will appear to flownaturally from the present situation of his mind. A mind under the domination of anystrong passion, tinctures with its own disposition every object which it beholds. Theold bard, with his heart bleeding for the loss of all his friends, is meditating on thedifferent phases of the moon. Her waning and darkness present to his melancholyimagination the image of sorrow; and presently the idea arises, and is indulged, thatlike himself, she retires to mourn over the loss of other moons, or of stars, whom hecalls her sisters, and fancies to have once rejoiced with her at night, now fallen fromheaven. Darkness suggested the idea of mourning, and mourning suggested nothing sonaturally to Ossian as the death of beloved friends. An instance precisely similar, ofthis influence of passion, may be seen in a passage, which has always been admired,of Shakspeare's King Lear. The old man, on the point of distraction through theinhumanity of his daughters, sees Edgar appear, disguised as a beggar and a madman.

Lear. Didst thou give all to thy daughters? And art thou come to this?Couldst thou leave nothing? Didst thou give them all?

Kent. He hath no daughters, sir.

Lear. Death, traitor! nothing could have subdued natureTo such a lowness, but his unkind daughters.

The apostrophe to the winds, in the opening of Dar-thula, is in the highest spirit ofpoetry. "But the winds deceive me, O Dar-thula! and deny the woody Etha to thysails. These are not the mountains, Nathos, nor is that roar of thy climbing waves. Thehalls of Cairbar are near, and the towers of the foe lift their heads. Where have yebeen, ye southern winds! when the sons of thy love were deceived? But ye have beensporting on plains, and pursuing the thistle's beard. O that ye had been rustling in thesails of Nathos, till the hills of Etha rose! till they rose in the clouds, and saw theircoming chief." This passage is remarkable for the resemblance it bears to anexpostulation with the wood nymphs, on their absence at a critical time; which, as a


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favorite poetical idea, Virgil has copied from Theocritus, and Milton has very happilyimitated from both.

Where were ye, nymphs! when the remorseless deepClosed o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas?For neither were ye playing on the steepWhere your old bards, the famous Druids, he!Nor on the shaggy top of Mona, high,Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream.--Lycid.

Having now treated fully of Ossian's talents, with respect to description and imagery,it only remains to make some observations on his sentiments. No sentiments can bebeautiful without being proper; that is, suited to the character and situation of thosewho utter them. In this respect Ossian is as correct as most writers. His characters, asabove described, are, in general, well supported; which could not have been the case,had the sentiments been unnatural or out of place. A variety of personages, ofdifferent ages, sexes, and conditions, are introduced into his poems; and they speakand act with a propriety of sentiment and behavior which it is surprising to find in sorude an age. Let the poem of Dar-thula, throughout, be taken as an example.

But it is not enough that sentiments be natural and proper. In order to acquire any highdegree of poetical merit, they must also be sublime and pathetic.

The sublime is not confined to sentiment alone. It belongs to description also; andwhether in description or in sentiment, imports such ideas presented to the mind, asraise it to an uncommon degree of elevation, and fill it with admiration andastonishment. This is the highest effect either of eloquence or poetry; and, to producethis effect, requires a genius glowing with the strongest and warmest conception ofsome object, awful, great, or magnificent. That this character of genius belongs toOssian, may, I think, sufficiently appear from many of the passages I have already hadoccasion to quote. To produce more instances were superfluous. If the engagement ofFingal with the spirit of Loda, in Carric-thura; if the encounters of the armies, inFingal; if the address to the sun, in Carthon; if the similes founded upon ghosts andspirits of the night, all formerly mentioned, be not admitted as examples, andillustrious ones too, of the true poetical sublime, I confess myself entirely ignorant ofthis quality in writing.

All the circumstances, indeed, of Ossian's composition, are favorable to the sublime,more perhaps than to any other species of beauty. Accuracy and correct. ness, artfullyconnected narration, exact method and proportion. of parts, we may look for inpolished times. The gay and the beautiful will appear to more advantage in the midstof smiling scenery and pleasurable themes; but, amidst the rude scenes of nature,amidst rocks and torrents, and whirlwinds and battles, dwells the sublime. It is thethunder and the lightning of genius. It is the offspring of nature, not of art. It isnegligent of all the lesser graces, and perfectly consistent with a certain nobledisorder. It associates naturally with that grave and solemn spirit which distinguishesour author. For the sublime is an awful and serious emotion; and is heightened by allthe Images of trouble, and terror, and darkness.

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Ipse pater, media nimborum in nocte, coruscâFulmina molitur dextra; quo maxima motuTerra tremit; fugere feræ; et mortalia cordaPer gentes, humilis stravit pavor; ille, flagrantiAut Atho, aut Rhodopen, aut alta Ceraunia teloDejicit.----Virg. Georg. i.

Simplicity and conciseness are never-failing characteristics of the style of a sublimewriter. He rests on the majesty of his sentiments, not on the pomp of his expressions.The main secret of being sublime is to say great things in few, and in plain words: forevery superfluous decoration degrades a sublime idea. The mind rises and swells,when a lofty description or sentiment is presented to it in its native form. But nosooner does the poet attempt to spread out this sentiment, or description, and to deck itround and round with glittering ornaments, than the mind begins to fall from its highelevation; the transport is over; the beautiful may remain, but the sublime is gone.Hence the concise and simple style of Ossian gives great advantage to his sublimeconceptions, and assists them in seizing the imagination with full power.

Sublimity, as belonging to sentiment, coincides, in a great measure, withmagnanimity, heroism, and generosity of sentiment. Whatever discovers humannature in its greatest elevation; whatever bespeaks a high effort of soul, or shows amind superior to pleasures, to dangers, and to death, forms what may be called themoral of sentimental sublime. For this Ossian is eminently distinguished. No poetmaintains a higher tone of virtuous and noble sentiment throughout all his works.Particularly in all the sentiments of Fingal there is a grandeur and loftiness, proper toswell the mind with the highest ideas of human perfection. Wherever he appears, webehold the hero. The objects which he pursues are always truly great: to bend theproud; to protect the injured; to defend his friends; to overcome his enemies bygenerosity more than by force. A portion of the same spirit actuates all the otherheroes. Valor reigns; but it is a generous valor, void of cruelty, animated by honor, notby hatred. We behold no debasing passions among Fingal's warriors; no spirit ofavarice or of insult; but a perpetual contention for fame; a desire of beingdistinguished and remembered for gallant actions; a love of justice; and a zealousattachment to their friends and their country. Such is the strain of sentiment in theworks of Ossian.

But the sublimity of moral sentiments, if they wanted the softening of the tender,would be in hazard of giving a hard and stiff air to poetry. It is not enough to admire.Admiration is a cold feeling, in comparison of that deep interest which the heart takesin tender and pathetic scenes; where, by a mysterious attachment to the objects ofcompassion, we are pleased and delighted, even whilst we mourn. With scenes of thiskind Ossian abounds; and his high merit in these is incontestible. He may be blamedfor drawing tears too often from our eyes; but that he has the power of commandingthem, I believe no man, who as the least sensibility, will question. The generalcharacter of his poetry is the heroic mixed with the elegiac strain; admirationtempered with pity. Ever fond of giving, as he expresses it, "the joy of grief," it isvisible that, on all moving subjects, he delights to exert his genius; and, accordingly,never were there finer pathetic situations than what his works present. His great art inmanaging them lies in giving vent to the simple and natural emotions of the heart. We


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meet with no exaggerated declamation; no subtile refinements on sorrow; nosubstitution of description in place of passion. Ossian felt strongly himself; and theheart, when uttering its native language, never fails, by powerful sympathy, to affectthe heart. A great variety of examples might be produced. We need only open thebook to find them everywhere. What, for instance, can be more moving than thelamentations of Oithona, after her misfortune? Gaul, the son of Morni, her lover,ignorant of what she had suffered, comes to her rescue. Their meeting is tender in thehighest degree. He proposes to engage her foe, in single combat, and gives her incharge what she is to do if he himself shall fall. "And shall the daughter of Nuathlive?" she replied, with a bursting sigh. "Shall I live in Tromathon, and the son ofMorni low? My heart is not of that rock; nor my soul careless as that sea, which liftsits blue waves to every wind, and rolls beneath the storm. The blast, which shall laythee low, shall spread the branches of Oithona, on earth. We shall wither together, sonof car-borne Morni! The narrow house is pleasant to me, and the gray stone of thedead; for never more will I leave my rocks, sea-surrounded Tromathon!--Chief ofStrumon! why comest thou over the waves to Nuath's mournful daughter? Why did Inot pass away in secret, like the flower of the rocks that lifts its fair head unseen, andstrews its withered leaves on the blast? Why didst thou come, O Gaul I to bear mydeparting sigh ?--O, had I dwelt at Duvranna, in the bright beam of my fame! Thenhad my years come on with joy: and the virgins would bless my steps. But I fall inyouth, son of Morni! and my father shall blush in his hall!"

Oithona mourns like a woman: in Cuthullin's expressions of grief after his defeat, webehold the sentiments of a hero--generous, but desponding. The situation isremarkably fine. Cuthullin, roused from his cave by the noise of battle, sees Fingalvictorious in the field. He is described as kindling at the sight. "His hand is on thesword of his fathers; his red-rolling eyes on the foe. He thrice attempted to rush tobattle; and thrice did Connal stop him;" suggesting that Fingal was routing the foe;and that he ought not, by the show of superfluous aid, to deprive the king of any partof the honor of a victory, which was owing to him alone. Cuthullin yields to thisgenerous sentiment; but we see it stinging him to the heart with the sense of his owndisgrace. "Then, Carril, go," replied the chief, "and greet the king of Morven. WhenLochlin fails away like a stream after rain, and the noise of the battle is over, then bethy voice sweet in his ear, to praise the king of swords. Give him the sword ofCaithbat; for Cuthullin is worthy no more to lift the arms of his fathers. But, O yeghosts of the lonely Cromla! ye souls of chiefs that are no more! be ye thecompanions of Cuthullin, and talk to him in the cave of his sorrow. For never moreshall I be renowned among the mighty in the land. I am like a beam that has shone:like a mist that has fled away; when the blast of the morning came, and brightened theshaggy side of the hill. Connal! talk of arms no more: departed is my fame. My sighsshall be on Cromla's wind; till my footsteps cease to be seen. And thou, white-bosomed Bragela! mourn over the fall of my fame: for vanquished, I will never returnto thee, thou sunbeam of Dunscaich!"

--Æstuat ingensUno in corde pudor, luctusque, et conscia virtus.

Besides such extended pathetic scenes, Ossian frequently pierces the heart by a singleunexpected stroke. When Oscar fell in battle, "No father mourned his son slain inyouth; no brother, his brother of love; they fell without tears, for the chief of the

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people was low." In the admirable interview of Hector with Andromache, in the sixthIliad, the circumstance of the child in his nurse's arms, has often been remarked asadding much to the tenderness of the scene. In the following passage, relating to thedeath of Cuthullin, we find a circumstance that must strike the imagination with stillgreater force. "And is the son of Semo fallen?" said Carril, with a sigh. "Mournful areTura'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? Heshall lift his eyes to the wall, and see his father's sword. Whose sword is that? he willsay; and the soul of his mother is sad." Soon after Fingal had shown all the grief of afather's heart for Ryno, one of his sons, fallen in battle, he is calling, after hisaccustomed manner, his sons to the chase. "Call," says he, "Fillan and Ryno.--But heis not here.--My son rests on the bed of death." This unexpected start of anguish isworthy of the highest tragic poet.

If she come in, she'll sure speak to I wife--My wife!--my wife!--What wife!--I have no wife--Oh, insupportable! Oh, heavy hour!--Othello.

The contrivance of the incident in both poets is similar: but the circumstances arevaried with judgment. Othello dwells upon the name of wife, when it had fallen fromhim, with the confusion and horror of one tortured with guilt. Fingal, with the dignityof a hero, corrects himself, and suppresses his rising grief. The contrast which Ossianfrequently makes between his present and his former state, diffuses over his wholepoetry a solemn pathetic air, which cannot fail to make impression on every heart.The conclusion of the songs of Selma is particularly calculated for this purpose.Nothing can be more poetical and tender, or can leave upon the mind a stronger andmore affecting idea of the venerable and aged bard. "Such were the words of the bardsin the days of the song; when the king heard the music of harps, and the tales of othertimes. The chiefs gathered from all their hills, and heard the lovely sound. Theypraised the voice of Cona, the first among a thousand bards. But age is now on mytongue, and my soul has failed. I hear, sometimes, the ghosts of bards, and learn theirpleasant song. But memory fails on my mind; I hear the call of years. They say, asthey pass along, Why does Ossian sing? Soon shall he lie in the narrow house, and nobard shall raise his fame. Roll on, ye dark-brown years! for ye bring no joy in yourcourse. Let the tomb open to Ossian, for his strength has failed. The sons of the songare gone to rest. My voice remains, like a blast, that roars lonely on the sea-rur-rounded rock, after the winds are laid. The dark moss whistles there, and the distantmariner sees the waving trees."

Upon the whole, if to feel strongly, and to describe naturally, be the two chiefingredients in poetical genius, Ossian must, after fair examination, be held to possessthat genius in a high degree. The question is not, whether a few improprieties may bepointed out in his works?-whether this or that passage might not have been worked upwith more art and skill, by some writer of happier times? A thousand such cold andfrivolous criticisms are altogether indecisive as to his genuine merit. But has he thespirit, the fire the inspiration of a poet? Does he utter the voice of nature? Does heelevate by his sentiments? Does lie interest by his description? Does be paint to theheart as well as to the fancy? Does he make his readers glow, and tremble, and weep?These are the great characteristics of true poetry. Where these are found, he must be a


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minute critic, indeed, who can dwell, upon slight defects. A few beauties of this highkind transcend whole volumes of faultless mediocrity. Uncouth and abrupt Ossianmay sometimes appear, by reason of his conciseness; but he is sublime, he is pathetic,in an eminent degree. If he has not the extensive knowledge, the regular dignity ofnarration, the fulness and accuracy of description, which we find in Homer and Virgil,yet in strength of imagination, in grandeur of sentiment, in native majesty of passion,he is fully their equal. If he flows not always like a clear stream, yet he breaks forthoften like a torrent of fire. Of art, too, he is far from being destitute; and hisimagination is remarkable for delicacy as well as strength. Seldom or never is heeither trifling or tedious; and if he be thought too melancholy, yet he is always moral.Though his merit were in other respects much less than it is, this alone ought to entitlehim to high regard, that his writings are remarkably favorable to virtue. They awakethe tenderest sympathies, and inspire the most generous emotions. No reader can risefrom him without being warmed with the sentiments of humanity, virtue, and honor.

Though unacquainted with the original language, there is no one but must judge thetranslation to deserve the highest praise, on account of its beauty and elegance. Of itsfaithfulness and accuracy, I have been assured by persons skilled in the Gaelic tongue,who from their youth were acquainted with many of these poems of Ossian. Totransfuse such spirited and fervid ideas from one language into another; to translateliterally, and yet with such a glow of poetry; to keep alive so much passion, andsupport so much dignity throughout; is one of the most difficult works of genius, andproves the translator to have been animated with no small portion of Ossian's spirit.

The measured prose which he has employed, possesses considerable advantagesabove any sort of versification he could have chosen. While it pleases and fills the earwith a variety of harmonious cadences, being, at the same time, freer from constraintin the choice and arrangement of words, it allows the spirit of the original to beexhibited, with more justness, force, and simplicity. Elegant, however, and masterly,as Mr. Macpherson's translation is, we must never forget, whilst we read it, that weare putting the merit of the original to a severe test. For we are examining a poetstripped of his native dress; divested of the harmony of his own numbers. We knowhow much grace and energy the works of the Greek and Latin poets receive from thecharm of versification in their original languages. If then, destitute of this advantage,exhibited in a literal version, Ossian still has power to please as a poet; and not toplease only, but often to command, to transport, to melt the heart; we may very safelyinfer that his productions are the off-spring of a true and uncommon genius; and wemay proudly assign him a place among those whose works are to last for ages.

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Funeral Song by Regner Lodbrog

Translated into Latin from the Gothic

by Olaus Wormius

Pugnavimus ensibusHaud post longum tempusCum in Gotlandia accessimusAd serpentis immensi necemTunc impetravimus ThoramEx hoc vocarunt me virumQuod serpentem transfodiHirsutam braccam ob illam cædemCuspide ictum intuli in colubrumFerro lucidorum stupendiorum.

Multum juvenis fui quando acquisivimusOrientem versus in Oreonico fretoVulnerum amnes avidæ feræEt flavipedi aviAccepimus ibidem sonueruntAd sublimes galeasDura ferra magnam escamOmnis erat oceanus vulnusVadavit corvus in sanguine cæsorum.

Alte tulimus tune lanceasQuando viginti annos numeravimusEt celebrem laudem comparavimus passimVicimus octo baronesIn oriente ante Dimini portumAquilæ impetravimus tunc sufficientemHospitii sumptum in illa strageSudor decidit in vulnerumOceano perdidit exercitus ætatem.

Pugnæ facta copiaCum Helsingianos postulavimusAd aulam OdiniNaves direximus in estium VistulæMucro potuit tum mordereOmnis erat vulnus undaTerra rubefacta calidoFrendebat gladius in loricasGladius findebat clypeos.

Memini neminem tunc fugissePriusquam in navibus


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Heraudus in bello caderetNon findit navibusAlius baro præstantiorMare ad portumIn navibus longis post iliumSic attulit princeps passimAlacre in bellum, cor.

Exercitus abjecit clypeosCum hasta volavitArdua ad virorum pectoraMomordit Scarforum cautesCladius in pugnaSanguineus erat clypeusAntequam Rafho rex caderetFluxit ex virorum capitibusCalidas in loricas sudor.

Habere potuerunt tum, corviAnte Indirorum insulasSufficientem prædam dilaniandamAcquisivimus feris carnivorisPlenum prandium unico actuDifficile erat unius facere mentionemOriente soleSpicula, vidi pungere,Propulerunt arcus ex se ferra.

Altum mugierunt ensesAntequam in Laneo campoEislinus rex ceciditProcessimus auro, ditatiAd terram prostratorum dimicandumGladius secuit clypeorumPicturas in galearum conventu,Cervicum mustum ex vulneribusDiffusum per cerebrum fissum.

Tenuimus clypeos in sanguineCum hastam unximusAnte Boring holmumTelorum nubes disrumpunt clypeumExtrusit arcus ex se metallum,Volnir cecidit in conflictu.Non erat illo rex majorCæsi dispersi late per littoraFeræ amplectebantur escam.

Pugna manifeste crescebatAntequam Freyr rex caderet

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In Flandorum terraCœpit cæruleus ad incidendumSanguine illitus in aureamLoricam in pugnaDurus armorum mucro olimVirgo deploravit matutinam lanienamMulta præda dabatur feris.

Centies centenos vidi jacereIn navibusUbi Ænglanes vocaturNavigavimus ad pugnamPer sex dies antequam exercitus missamIn exortu solisCoactus est pro nostris gladiisValdiofur in bello occumbere

Ruit pluvia sanguinis de gladiisPræceps in BardafyrdePallidum corpus pro accipitribusMurmumvit arcus ubi mucroAcriter mordebat loricasIn conflictu,Odini pileus gales.Cucurrit arcus ad vulnusVenenate acutus conspersus sudore sanguineo.

Tenuimus magica scutaAlte in pugnæ ludoAnte Hiadningum sinumVidere licuit tum virosQui gladiis lacerarunt clypeosIn gladiatorio murmureGaleæ attritæ virorumErat sicut splendidam virginemIn lecto, juxta se collocare.

Dura venit tempestas clypeisCadaver cecidit in terramIn NortumbriaErat circa matutinum tempusHominibus necessum erat fugereEx prælio ubi acuteCassidis campos mordebant gladiiErat hoc veluti juvenem viduamIn primaria sede osculari.

Herthiofe evasit fortunatusIn Australibus Orcadibus ipseVictoriæ in nostris hominibus


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Cogrebatur in armorum nimbo,Rogvaldus occumbereIste venit summus super accipitresLuctus in gladiorum ludoStrenue jactabat concussorGaleæ sanguinis teli.

Quilibet jacebat transversim supra aliumGaudebat pugna lætusAccipiter ob gladiorum ludumNon fecit aquilam aut aprumQui Irlandiam gubernavitConventus fiebat ferri et clypeiMarstanus rex jejunisFiebat in vedræ sinuPræda data corvis.

Bellatorem multum vidi cadereMante ante machæramVirum in mucronum dissidioFilio meo incidit matureGladius juxta corEgillus fecit Agnerum spoliatumImperterritum virum vitaSonuit lancea prope HamdiGriseam loricam splendebant vexilla.

Verborum tenaces vidi dissecareHaud minutim pro lupisEndili maris ensibusErat per hebdomadæ spatiumQuasi mulieres vinum apportarentRubefactæ erant navesValde in strepitu armorumScissa erat loricaIn Scioldungorum prælio.

Pulcricomum vidi crepuscuascereVirginis amatorem circa matutinumEt confabulationis amicum viduarumErat sicut calidum balneumVinei vasis nympha portaretNos in Ilæ fretoAntequam Orn rex caderetSanguineum clypeum vidi ruptumHoc invertit virorum vitam.

Egimus gladiorum ad cædemLudum in Lindis insulaCum regibus tribus

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Pauci potuerunt inde lætariCecidit multus in rictum ferarumAccipiter dilaniavit carnem cum lupoUt satur inde discederetHybernorum sanguinis in oceanumCopiose decidit per mactationis tempus.

Alte gladius mordebat clypeosTune cum aurei colorsHasta fricabat loricasVidere licuit in Onlugs insulaPer sæcula multum postIbi fuit ad gladiorum ludosReges processeruntRubicundum erat circa insulam,At volans Draco vulnerum.

Quid est viro forti morte certiusEtsi ipse in armorum nimboAdversus collocatus sitSæpe deplorat ætatemQui nunquam premiturMalum ferunt timidum incitareAquilam ad gladiorum ludumMeticulosus venit nuspiamCordi suo usui.

Hoc numero æquum ut procedatIn contactu gladiorumJuvenis unus contra alterumNon retrocedat vir a viroHoe fuit viri fortis nobilitas ditiSemper debet amoris amicus virginum,Audax esse in fremitu armorum.

Hoc videtur mihi re veraQuod fata sequimurRarus transgreditur fata ParcarumNon destinavi EllæDe vitæ exitu meæCum ego sanguinem semimortuus tegeremEt naves in aquas protrusiPassim impetravimus tum ferisEscam in Scotiæ sinubus.

Hoc ridere me facit semperQuod Balderi patris scamneParata scio in aulaBibemus cerevisiam breviEx concavis crateribus craniorum


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Non gemit vir fortis contra mortemMagnifici in Odini domibusNon venio disperabundisVerbis ad Odini aulam.

Hic vellent nunc omnesFilii Aslaugæ gladiisAmarum bellum excitareSi exacte scirentCalamitates nostrasQuem non pauci anguesVenenati me discerpuntMatrem accepi meisFiliis ita ut corda valeant.

Valde inclinatur ad hæreditatemCrudele stat nocumentum a viperaAnguis inhabitat aulam cordisSperamus alterius ad OthiniVirgam in Ellæ sanguineFiliis meis livescetSua ira rubescetNon acres juvenesSessionem tranquillam facient.

Habeo quinquagiesPrælia sub signis factaEx belli invitatione et semelMinime putavi hominumQuod me futurus essetJuvenis didici mucronem rubefacoreAlius rex præstantiorNos Asæ invitabuntNon est lugenda mors.

Fert animus finireInvitant me DysæQuas ex Othini aulaOthinus mihi misitLætus cerevisiam cum AsisIn summa sede, bibamVitæ elapsæ suot horæRidens moriar.

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CATH-LODA — DUAN I.

ARGUMENT

Fingal when very young, making a voyage to the Orkney Islands, was driven by stressof weather into a bay of Scandinavia, near the residence of Starno, king of Lochlin.Starno invites Fingal to a feast. Fingal, doubting the faith of the king, and mindful of aformer breach of hospitality, refuses to go. — Starno gathers together his tribes;Fingal resolves to defend himself. — Night coming on, Duth-maruno proposes toFingal to observe the motions of the enemy. — The king himself undertakes thewatch. Advancing towards the enemy, he accidentally comes to the cave of Turthor,where Starno had confined Conban-Cargla, the captive daughter of a neighboringchief. — Her story is imperfect, a part of the original being lost. — Fingal comes to aplace of worship, where Starno, and his son Swaran, consulted the spirit of Lodaconcerning the issue of the war. — The rencounter of Fingal and Swaran.— Duanfirst concludes with a description of the airy hall of Cruth-loda, supposed to be theOdin of Scandinavia.

<1> The bards distinguished those compositions in which the narration is ofteninterrupted by episodes and apostrophes, by the name of Duan.

A TALE of the times of old!

Why, thou wanderer unseen! thou bender of the thistle of Lora; why, thoubreeze of the valley, hast thou left mine ear? I hear no distant roar of streams! Nosound of the harp from the rock! Come, thou huntress of Lutha, Malvina, call back hissoul to the bard. I look forward to Lochlin of lakes, to the dark billowy bay of U-thorno, where Fingal descends from ocean, from the roar of winds. Few are the heroesof Morven in a land unknown!

Starno sent a dweller of Loda to bid Fingal to the feast; but the kingremembered the past, and all his rage arose. "Nor Gormal's mossy towers, nor Starno,shall Fingal behold. Deaths wander, like shadows, over his fiery soul! Do I forget thatbeam of light, the white-handed daughter of kings? <1> Go, son of Loda; his wordsare wind to Fingal: wind, that, to and fro drives the thistle in autumn's dusky vale.Duth-maruno, arm of death! Cromma-glas, of Iron shields! Struthmor, dweller ofbattle's wing! Cromar, whose ships bound on seas, careless as the course of a meteor,on dark-rolling clouds! Arise around me, children of heroes, in a land unknown! Leteach look on his shield like Trenmor, the ruler of wars." — "Come down," thusTrenmor said, "thou dweller between the harps! Thou shalt roll this stream away, orwaste with me in earth."

Around the king they rise in wrath. No words come forth: they seize theirspears. Each soul is rolled into itself. At length the sudden clang is waked on all their


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echoing shields. Each takes his hill by night; at intervals they darkly stand. Unequalbursts the hum of songs, between the roaring wind!

Broad over them rose the moon!

In his arms came tall Duth-maruno: he, from Croma of rocks, stern hunter ofthe boar! In his dark boat he rose on waves, when Crumthormo <2> awaked itswoods. In the chase he shone, among foes: No fear was thine, Duth-maruno!

'O Son of daring Comhal, shall my steps be forward through night? From thisshield shall I view them, over their gleaming tribes? Starno, king of lakes, is beforeme, and Swaran, the foe of strangers. Their words are not in vain, by Loda's stone ofpower. Should Duth-maruno not return, his spouse is lonely at home, where meet tworoaring streams on Crathmocraulo's plain. Around are hills, with echoing woods; theocean is rolling near. My son looks on screaming sea-fowl, a young wanderer on thefield. Give the head of a boar to Candona, tell him of his father's joy, when the bristlystrength of U-thorno rolled on his lifted spear. Tell him of my deeds in war! Tellwhere his father fell!"

"Not forgetful of my fathers," said Fingal, "I have bounded over the seas.Theirs were the times of danger in the days of old. Nor settles darkness on me, beforefoes, though youthful in my locks. Chief of Crathmocraulo, the field of night is mine."

Fingal rushed, in all his arms, wide bounding over Turthor's stream, that sentits sullen roar, by night, through Gormal's misty vale. A moonbeam glittered on arock; in the midst stood a stately form; a form with floating locks, like Lochlin'swhite-bosomed maids. Unequal are her steps, and short. She throws a broken song onwind. At times she tosses her white arms: for grief is dwelling in her soul.

"Torcal-torno, of aged locks," she said, "where now are thy steps, by Lulan?Thou hast failed at thine own dark streams, father of Conban-cargla! But I beholdthee, chief of Lulan, sporting by Loda's hall, when the dark-skirted night is rolledalong the sky. Thou sometimes hidest the moon with thy shield. I have seen her dim,in heaven. Thou kindlest thy hair into meteors, and sailest along the night. Why am Iforgot, in my cave, king of shaggy boars? Look from the hall of Loda, on thy lonelydaughter."

"Who art thou," said Fingal, "voice of night?"

She, trembling, turned away.

"Who art thou, in thy darkness?"

She shrunk into the cave.

The king loosed the thong from her hands. He asked about her fathers.

"Torcul-torno," she said, "once dwelt at Lulan's foamy stream: he dwelt-butnow, in Loda's hall, he shakes the sounding shell. He met Starno of Lochlin in war;long fought the dark-eyed kings. My father fell, in his blood, blue-shielded Torcul-

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torno! By a rock, at Lulan's stream, I had pierced the bounding roe. My white handgathered my hair from off the rushing winds. I heard a noise. Mine eyes were up. Mysoft breast rose on high. My step was forward, at Lulan, to meet thee, Torcul-torno. Itwas Starno, dreadful king! His red eves rolled on me in love. Dark waved his shaggybrow, above his gathered smile. Where is my father, I said, he that was mighty in war!Thou art left alone among foes, O daughter of Torcul-torno! He took my hand. Heraised the sail. In this cave he placed me dark. At times he comes a gathered mist. Helifts before me my father's shield. But often passes a beam of youth far distant frommy cave. The son of Starno moves in my sight. He dwells lonely in my soul."

"Maid of Lulan," said Fingal, "white-handed daughter of grief! a cloud,marked with streaks of fire, is rolled along my soul. Look not to that dark-robedmoon; look not to those meteors of heaven. My gleaming steel is around thee, theterror of my foes! It is not the steel of the feeble, nor of the dark in soul! The maidsare not shut in our caves of streams! They toss not their white arms alone. They bendfair within their locks, above the harps of Selma. Their voice is not in the desert wild.We melt along the pleasing sound!"

* * * * * * *

Fingal again advanced his steps, wide through the bosom of night, to wherethe trees of Loda shook amid squally winds. Three stones, with heads of moss, arethere; a stream with foaming course: and dreadful, rolled around them, is the dark redcloud of Loda. High from its top looked forward a ghost, half formed of the shadowystroke. He poured his voice, at times, amidst the roaring stream. Near, bendingbeneath a blasted tree, two heroes received his words: Swaran of lakes, and Starno,foe of strangers. On their dun shields they darkly leaned: their spears are forwardthrough night. Shrill sounds the blast of darkness in Starno's floating beard.

They heard the tread of Fingal. The warriors rose in arms. "Swaran, lay thatwanderer low," said Starno, in his pride. "Take the shield of thy father. It is a rock inwar." Swaran threw his gleaming spear. It stood fixed in Loda's tree. Then came thefoes forward with swords. They mixed their rattling steel. Through the thongs ofSwaran's shield rushed the blade <3> of Luno. The shield fell rolling on earth. Cleft,the helmet fell down. Fingal stopt the lifted steel. Wrathful stood Swaran, unarmed.He rolled his silent eyes; he threw his sword on earth. Then, slowly stalking over thestream, he whistled as he went.

Nor unseen of his father is Swaran. Starno turns away in wrath. His shaggybrows were dark above his gathered rage. He strikes Loda's tree with his spear. Heraises the hum of songs. They come to the host of Lochlin, each in his own dark path;like two foam-covered streams from two rainy vales!

To Turthor's plain Fingal returned. Fair rose the beam of the east. It shone on thespoils of Lochlin in the hand of the king. From her cave came forth, in her beauty, thedaughter of Torcul-torno. She gathered her hair from wind. She wildly raised hersong. The song of Lulan of shells, where once her father dwelt. She saw Starno'sbloody shield. Gladness rose, a light. on her face. She saw the cleft helmet of SwaranShe shrunk, darkened, from Fingal. "Art thou fallen by thy hundred streams, O love ofthe mournful maid?"


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U-thorno that risest in waters! on whose side are the meteors of night? Ibehold the dark moon descending behind thy resounding woods. On thy top dwellsthe misty Loda: the house of the spirits of men! In the end of his cloudy hall bendsforward Cruth-loda of swords. His form is dimly seen amid his wavy mist. His righthand is on his shield. In his left is the half viewless shell. The roof of his dreadful hallis marked with nightly fires!

The race of Cruth-loda advance, a ridge of formless shades. He reaches thesounding shell to those who shone in war. But between him and the feeble, his shieldrises a darkened orb. He is a setting meteor to the weak in arms. Bright as a rainbowon streams, came Lulan's white-bosomed maid.

<1> The white-handed daughter of kings: Agandecca, the daughter of Starno, whomher father killed, on account of her discovering to Fingal a plot laid against his life.

<2> Crumthormoth: one of the Orkney or Shetland Islands

<3> The blade of Luno: The sword of Fingal, so called from its maker, Luno ofLochlin

JAMES MACPHERSON

-104-

CATH-LODA — DUAN II.

ARGUMENT

Fingal, returning with day, devolves the command on Duth-maruno, who engages theenemy, and drives them over the stream of Turthor. Having recalled his people, hecongratulates Duth-maruno on his success, but discovers that that hero had beenmortally wounded in the action — Duth-maruno dies. Ullin, the bard in honor of thedead, introduces the episode of Colgorm and Strina-dona, which concludes this duan.

"WHERE art thou, son of the king?" said darkhaired Duth-maruno. "Wherehast thou failed, young beam of Selma? He returns not from the bosom of night!Morning is spread on U-thorno. In his mist is the sun on his hill. Warriors, lift theshields in my presence. He must not fall like a fire from heaven, whose place is notmarked on the ground. He comes like an eagle, from the skirt of his squally wind! inhis hand are the spoil of foes. King of Selma, our souls were sad!"

"Near us are the foes, Duth-maruno. They come forward, like waves in mist,when their foamy tops are seen at times above the low-sailing vapor. The travellershrinks on his journey; he knows not whither to fly. No trembling travellers are we!Sons of heroes call forth the steel. Shall the sword of Fingal arise, or shall a warriorlead?"

The deeds of old, said Duth-maruno, are like paths to our eyes, O Fingal!Broad-shielded Trenmor is still seen amidst his own dim years. Nor feeble was thesoul of the king. There no dark deed wandered in secret. From their hundred streamscame the tribes, to glassy Colglan-crona. Their chiefs were before them. Each stroveto lead the war. Their swords were often half unsheathed. Red rolled their eyes ofrage. Separate they stood, and hummed their surly songs. "Why should they yield toeach other? their fathers were equal in war." Trenmor was there, with his peoplestately, in youthful locks. He saw the advancing foe. The grief of his soul arose. Hebade the chiefs to lead by turns; they led, but they were rolled away. From his ownmossy hill blue-shielded Trenmor came down. He led wide-skirted battle, and thestrangers failed. Around him the dark-browed warriors came: they struck the shield ofjoy. Like a pleasant gale the words of power rushed forth from Selma of kings. Butthe chiefs led by turns, in war, till mighty danger rose: then was the hour of the kingto conquer in the field.

"Not unknown," said Cromma-glas of shields, "are the deeds of our fathers.But who shall now lead the war before the race of kings? Mist settles on these fourdark hills: within it let each warrior strike his shield. Spirits may descend in darkness,and mark us for the war." They went each to his hill of mist. Bards marked the soundsof the shields. Loudest rung thy boss Duth-maruno. Thou must lead in war!


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Like the murmurs of waters the race of U-thorno came down. Starno led thebattle, and Swaran of stormy isles. They looked forward from iron shields like Cruth-loda, fiery-eyed, when he looks from behind the darkened moon, and strews his signson night. The foes met by Turthor's stream. They heaved like ridgy waves. Theirechoing strokes are mixed. Shadowy death flies over the hosts. They were clouds ofhail. with squally winds in their skirts. Their showers are roaring together. Belowthem swells the dark-rolling deep.

Strife of gloomy U-thorno, why should I mark thy wounds? Thou art with theyears that are gone; thou fadest on my soul!

Starno brought forward his skirt of war, and Swaran his own dark wing. Nor aharmless fire is Duthmaruno's sword. Lochlin is rolled over her streams. The wrathfulkings are lost in thought. They roll their silent eyes over the flight of their land. Thehorn of Fingal was heard; the sons of woody Albion returned. But many lay, byTurthor's stream, silent in their blood.

" Chief of Crathmo," said the king, " Duth-maruno, hunter of boars! notharmless returns my eagle from the field of foes! For this white-bosomed Lanul shallbrighten at her streams; Candona shall rejoice as he wanders in Crathmo's fields."

" Colgorm," replied the chief, " was the first of my race in Albion; Colgorm,the rider of ocean; through Its watery vales. He slew his brother in I-thorno:<1> heleft the land of his fathers. He chose his place in silence, by rocky Crathmo-craulo.His race came forth in their years; they came forth to war, but they always fell. Thewound of my fathers is mine, king of echoing isles!

He drew an arrow from his side! He fell pale in a land unknown. His soulcame forth to his fathers, to their stormy isle. There they pursued boars of mist, alongthe skirts of winds. The chiefs stood silent around, as the stones of Loda, on their hill.The traveller sees them, through the twilight, from his lonely path. He thinks them theghosts of the aged, forming future wars.

Night came down on U-thorno. Still stood the chiefs in their grief. The blastwhistled, by turns, through every warrior's hair. Fingal, at length, broke forth from thethoughts of his soul. He called Ullin of harps, and bade the song to rise. "No fallingfire, that is only seen, and then retires in night; no departing meteor was he that is laidso low. He was like the strong-beaming sun, long rejoicing on his hill, Call the namesof his fathers from their dwellings old!'"

I-thorno, said the bard, that risest midst ridgy seas! Why is thy head so gloomyin the ocean's mist? From thy vales came forth a race, fearless as thy strong wingedeagles: the race of Colgorm of iron shields, dwellers of Loda's hall.

In Tormoth's resounding isle arose Lurthan, streamy hill. It bent its woodyhead over a silent vale. There, at foamy Cruruth's source, dwelt Rurmar, hunter ofboars! His daughter was fair as a sunbeam, white-bosomed Strina-dona!

JAMES MACPHERSON

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Many a king of heroes, and hero of iron shields; many a youth of heavy lockscame to Rurmar's echoing hall. They came to woo the maid, the stately huntress ofTormoth wild. But thou lookest careless from thy steps, high-bosomed Strina-dona!

If on the heath she moved, her breast was whiter than the down of cana;<2> Ifon the sea-beat shore, than the foam of the rolling ocean. Her eyes were two stars oflight. Her face was heaven's bow in showers. Her dark hair flowed round it, like thestreaming clouds. Thou wert the dweller of souls, white-handed Strina-dona!

Colgorm came in his ship, and Corcul-suran, king of shells. The brothers camefrom I-thorno to woo the sunbeam of Tormoth wild. She saw them in their echoingsteel. Her soul was fixed on blue-eyed Colgorm. Ul-lochlin's <3> nightly eye lookedin, and saw the tossing arms of Strina-dona.

. Wrathful the brothers frowned. Their flaming eyes in silence met. They turnedaway. They struck their shields. Their hands were trembling on their swords. Theyrushed into the strife of heroes for long haired Strina-dona.

Corcul-suran fell in blood. On his isle raged the strength of his father. Heturned Colgorm from I-thorno, to wander on all the winds. In Crathmocraulo's rockyfield he dwelt by a foreign stream. Nor darkened the king alone, that beam of lightwas near, the daughter of echoing Tormoth, white armed Strina-dona.

<1> I-thorno: an island of Scandinavia.

<2> The cana is a certain kind of grass, which grows plentifully in the heathymorasses of the north.

<3> Ul-lochlin "the guide to Lochlin;" the name of a star


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CATH-LODA — DUAN III.

ARGUMENT

Ossian, after some general reflections, describes the situation of Fingal, and theposition of the army of Lochlin. — The conversation of Starno and Swaran. — Theepisode of Corman-trunar and Foina-bragal. — Starno, from his own example,recommends to Swaran to surprise Fingal, who had retired alone to a neighboring hill.Upon Swaran's refusal, Starno undertakes the enterprise himself, is overcome andtaken prisoner by Fingal. He is dismissed after a severe reprimand for his cruelty.

WHENCE is the stream of years? Whither do they roll along? Where havethey hid, in mist, their many colored sides.

I look unto the times of old, but they seem dim to Ossian's eyes, like reflectedmoonbeams on a distant lake. Here rise the red beams of war! There, silent dwells afeeble race! They mark no years with their deeds, as slow they pass along. Dwellerbetween the shields! thou that awakest the failing soul! descend from thy wall, harp ofCona, with thy voices three! Come with that which kindles the past: rear the forms ofold, on their own dark-brown years!

U-thorno, hill of storms, I behold my race on thy side. Fingal is bending innight over Duthmaruno's tomb. Near him are the steps of his heroes, hunters of theboar. By Turthor's stream the host of Lochlin is deep in shades. The wrathful kingsstood on two hills: they looked forward on their bossy shields. They looked forwardto the stars of night, red wandering in the west. Cruth-loda bends from high, likeformless meteor in clouds. He sends abroad the winds and marks them with his signs.Starno foresaw that Morven's king was not to yield in war.

He twice struck the tree in wrath. He rushed before his son. He hummed asurly song, and heard his air in wind. Turned from one another, they stood like twooaks, which different winds had bent; each hangs over his own loud rill, and shakeshis boughs in the course of blasts.

" Annir," said Starno of lakes, "was a fire that consumed of old. He poureddeath from his eyes along the striving fields. His joy was in the fall of men. Blood tohim was a summer stream, that brings joy to the withered vales, from its own mossyrock. He came forth to the lake Luth-cormo, to meet the tall Corman-trunar, he fromUrlor of streams, dweller of battle's wing."

The chief of Urlor had come to Gormal with his dark-bosomed ships. He sawthe daughter of Annir, white-armed Foina-bragal. He saw her! Nor careless rolled hereyes on the rider of stormy waves. She fled to his ship in darkness, like a moonbeamthrough a nightly veil. Annir pursued along the deep; he called the winds of heaven.

JAMES MACPHERSON

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Nor alone was the king! Starno was by his side. Like U-thorno's young eagle, I turnedmy eyes on my father.

We rushed into roaring Urlor. With his people came tall Corman-trunar. Wefought; but the foe prevailed. In his wrath my father stood. He lopped the young treeswith his sword. His eyes rolled red in his rage. I marked the soul of the king, and Iretired in night. From the field I took a broken helmet; a shield that was pierced withsteel; pointless was the spear in my hand. I went to find the foe.

On a rock sat tall Corman-trunar beside his burning oak; and near him beneatha tree, sat deep-bosomed Foina-bragal. I threw my broken shield before her! I spokethe words of peace. "Beside his rolling sea lies Annir of many lakes. The king waspierced in battle; and Starno is to raise his tomb. Me, a son of Loda, he sends to white-handed Foina, to bid her send a lock from her hair, to rest with her father in earth. Andthou, king of roaring Urlor, let the battle cease, till Annir receive the shell from fiery-eyed Cruth-loda."

Bursting into tears, she rose, and tore a lock from her hair; a lock, whichwandered in the blast, along her heaving breast. Corman-trunar gave the shell, andbade me rejoice before him. I rested in the shade of night, and hid my face in myhelmet deep. Sleep descended on the foe. I rose, like a stalking ghost. I pierced theside of Corman-trunar. Nor did Foina-bragal escape. She rolled her white bosom inblood.

Why, then, daughter of heroes, didst thou wake my rage?

Morning rose. The foe were fled, like the departure of mist. Annir struck hisbossy shield. He called his dark-haired son. I came, streaked with wandering blood:thrice rose the shout of the king, like the bursting forth of a squall of wind from acloud by night. We rejoiced three days above the dead, and called the hawks ofheaven. They came from all their winds to feast on Annir's foes. Swaran, Fingal isalone in his hill of night. Let thy spear pierce the king in secret; like Annir, my soulshall rejoice.

"O Son of Annir," said Swaran, "I shall not slay in shades: I move forth inlight: the hawks rush from all their winds. They are wont to trace my course: it is notharmless through war."

Burning rose the rage of the king. He thrice raised his gleaming spear. But,starting, he spared his son, and rushed into the night. By Turthor's stream, a cave isdark, the dwelling of Conban-carglas. There he laid the helmet of kings, and called themaid of Lulan; but she was distant far in Loda's resounding hall.

Swelling in his rage, he strode to where Fingal lay alone. The king was laid onhis shield, on his own secret hill.

Stern hunter of shaggy boars! no feeble maid is laid before thee. No boy on hisferny bed, by Turthor's murmuring stream. Here is spread the couch of the mighty,from which they rise to deeds of death! Hunter of shaggy boars, awaken not theterrible!


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Starno came murmuring on. Fingal arose in arms. "Who art thou, son ofnight!" Silent he threw the spear. They mixed their gloomy strife. The shield of Starnofell, cleft in twain. He is bound to an oak. The early beam arose. It was then Fingalbeheld the king. He rolled awhile his silent eyes. He thought of other days, whenwhite-bosomed Agandecca moved like the music of songs. He loosed the thong fromhis hands. Son of Annir, he said, retire. Retire to Gormal of shells; a beam that was setreturns. I remember thy white-bosomed daughter; dreadful king, away! Go to thytroubled dwelling, cloudy foe of the lovely Let the stranger shun thee, thou gloomy inthe hall"

A tale of the times of old!

JAMES MACPHERSON

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COMALA, A DRAMATIC POEM

ARGUMENT.

This poem. is valuable on account of the light it throws on the antiquity of Ossian'scompositions. The Caracul mentioned here is the same with Caracalla, the son ofSeverus, who, in the year 211, commanded an expedition against the Caledonians.The variety of the measure shows that the poem was originally set to music, andperhaps presented before the chiefs upon solemn occasions. Tradition has handeddown the story more complete than it is in the poem. "Comala, the daughter of Sarno,king of Inistore, or Orkney Islands, fell in love with Fingal, the son of Comhal, at afeast, to which her father had invited him [Fingal, B. III.] upon his return fromLochlin, after the death of Agandecca. Her passion was so violent, that she followedhim, disguised like a youth, who wanted to be employed in his wars. She was soondiscovered by Hidallan, the son of Lamor, one of Fingal's heroes, whose love she hadslighted some time before. Her romantic passion and beauty recommended her somuch to the king, that he had resolved to make her his wife; when news was broughthim of Caracul's expedition. He marched to stop the progress of the enemy, andComala attended him. He left her on a hill, within sight of Caracul's army, when hehimself went to battle, having previously promised, if he survived, to return thatnight." The sequel of the story may be gathered from the poem itself.

The Persons.

FINGAL

COMALA

HIDALLAN

MELILCOMA }Daughters

DERSAGRENA }of Morni.

BARDS

Dersagrena. The chase is over. No noise on Erdven 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; let our joy be great on Ardven.

Melilcoma. Night comes on apace, thou blue-eyed maid! gray night grows dimalong the plain, I saw a deer at Crona's stream; a mossy bank he seemed through thegloom, but soon he bounded away. A meteor played round his branching horns; theawful faces of other times looked from the clouds of Crona.


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Dersagrena. These are the signs of Fingal's death. The king of shields isfallen! and Caracul prevails. Rise, Comala, from thy rock; daughter of Sarno, rise intears! the youth of thy love is low; his ghost is on our hills.

Melilcoma. There Comala sits forlorn! two gray dogs near shake their roughears, and catch the flying breeze. Her red cheek rests upon her arm, the mountainwind is in her hair. She turns her blue eyes towards the fields of his promise. Whereart thou, O Fingal? The night is gathering around.

Comala. O Carun of the streams! why do I behold thy waters rolling in blood?Has the noise of the battle been heard; and sleeps the king of Morven? Rise, moon,thou daughter of the sky! look from between thy clouds; rise, that I may behold thegleam of his steel on the field of his promise. Or rather let the meteor, that lights ourfathers through the night, come with its red beam, to show me the way to my fallenhero. Who will defend me from sorrow? Who from the love of Hidallan? Long shallComala look before she can behold Fingal in the midst of his host; bright as thecoming forth of the morning in the cloud of an early shower.

Hidallan. Dwell, thou mist of gloomy Crona, dwell on the path of the king!Hide his steps from mine eyes, let me remember my friend no more. The bands ofbattle are scattered, no crowding tread round the noise of his steel. O Carun! roll thystreams of blood, the chief of the people is low.

Comala. Who fell on Carun's sounding banks, son of the cloudy night? Was hewhite as the snow of Ardven? Blooming as the bow of the shower? Was his hair likethe mist of the hill, soft and curling in the day of the sun? Was he like the thunder ofheaven in battle? Fleet as the roe of the desert?

Hidallan. O that I might behold his love, fair-leaning from her rock! Her redeye dim in tears, her blushing cheek half hid in her locks! Blow, O gentle breeze! liftthou the heavy locks of the maid, that I may behold her white arm, her lovely cheek inher grief.

Comala. And is the son of Comhal fallen, chief of the mournful tale! Thethunder rolls on the hill! The lightning flies on wings of fire! They frighten notComala; for Fingal is low. Say, chief of the mournful tale, fell the breaker of theshields?

Hidallan. The nations are scattered on their hills! they shall hear the voice ofthe king no more.

Comala. Confusion pursue thee over thy plains! Ruin overtake thee, thou kingof the world! Few be thy steps to thy grave; and let one virgin mourn thee! Let her belike Comala, tearful in the days of her youth! Why hast thou told me, Hidallan, thatmy hero fell? I might have hoped a little while his return; I might have thought I sawhim on the distant rock: a tree might have deceived me with his appearance; the windof the hill might have been the sound of his horn in mine ear. O that I were on thebanks or Carun; that my tears might be warm on his cheek.

JAMES MACPHERSON

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Hidallan. 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, thatComala may behold him in the light of his armor.

Comala. Stop, ye sons of the grave, till I behold lily love! He left me at thechase alone. I knew not that he went to war. He said he would return with the night;the king of Morven is returned! Why didst thou not tell me that he would fall, Otrembling dweller of the rock? <1> Thou sawest him in the blood of his youth; butthou didst not tell Comala.

Melilcoma. 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?

Comala. 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 thehart of the desert. It is Fingal in the crowd of his ghosts. Why dost thou come, mylove, to frighten and please my soul?

Fingal. Raise, ye bards, the song; raise the wars of the streamy Carun! Caraculhas fled from our arms along the field of his pride. He sets far distant like a meteor,that encloses a spirit of night, when the winds drive it over the heath, and the darkwoods are gleaming around. I heard a voice, or was it the breeze of my hills? Is it thehuntress of Ardven, the white-handed daughter of Sarno? Look from the rocks, mylove; let me hear the voice of Comala!

Comala. Take me to the cave of thy rest, O lovely son of death

Fingal. Come to the cave of my rest. The storm is past, the sun is on ourfields. Come to the cave of my rest, huntress of echoing Ardven!

Comala. He is returned with his fame! I feel the right hand of his wars! But Imust rest beside the rock till my soul returns from my fear! O let the harp be near!raise the song, ye daughters of Morna.

Dersagrena. Comala has slain three deer on Ardven, the fire ascends on therock; go to the feast of Comala, king of the woody Morven!

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

Bards. Roll, streamy Carun, roll in joy, the sons of battle are fled! the steed isnot seen on our fields; the wings of their pride spread on other lands. The sun willnow rise in peace, and the shadows descend in joy. The voice of the chase will beheard; the shields hang in the hall. Our delight will be in the war of the ocean, ourhands shall grow red in the blood of Lochlin. Roll, streamy Carun, roll in joy, the sonsof battle fled!

Melilcoma. Descend, ye light mists from high! Ye moonbeams, lift her soul!Pale lies the maid at the rock! Comala is no more!


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Fingal. 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.

Hidallan. Ceased the voice of the huntress of Ardven? why did I trouble thesoul of the maid? When shall I see thee, with joy, in the chase of the dark-brownhinds? Fingal. Youth of the gloomy brow! No more shalt thou feast in my halls! Thoushalt not pursue my chase, my foes shall not fall by thy sword. Lead me to the placeof her rest, that I may behold her beauty. Pale she lies as the rock, the cold winds lifther hair. Her bow-string sounds in the blast, her arrow was broken in her fall. Raisethe praise of the daughter of Sarno! give her name to the winds of heaven.

Bards. See! meteors gleam around the maid! See! moonbeams lift her soul!Around her, from their clouds, bend the awful faces of her father: Sarna of the gloomybrow! the red-rolling eyes of Hidallan! When shall thy white hand arise? When shallthy voice be heard on our rocks? The maids shall seek thee on the heath, but they shallnot find thee. Thou shalt come, at times, to their dreams, to settle peace in their soul.Thy voice shall remain in their ears, they shall think with joy on the dreams of theirrest. Meteors gleam around the maid, and moonbeams lift her soul!

<1> By the " dweller of the rock" she means a Druid.

JAMES MACPHERSON

-114-

CARRIC-THURA.

ARGUMENT.

Fingal, returning from an expedition which he had made into the Roman province,resolved to visit Cathulla, king of Inistore, and brother to Comala, whose story isrelated at large in the preceding dramatic poem. Upon his coming in sight of Carric-thura, the palace of Cathulla, he observed a flame on its top, which, in those days, wasa signal of distress. The wind drove him into a bay at some distance from Carric-thura, and he was obliged to pass the night on shore. Next day he attacked the army ofFrothal, king of Sora, who had besieged Cathulla in his palace of Carric-thura, andtook Frothal himself prisoner, after he had engaged him in a single combat. Thedeliverance of Carric-thura is the subject of the poem; but several other episodes areinterwoven with it. It appears, from tradition, that this poem was addressed to aCuldee, or one of the first Christian missionaries, and that the story of the spirit ofLoda, supposed to be the ancient Odin of Scandinavia, was introduced by Ossian inopposition to the Culdee's doctrine. Be this as it will, it lets us into Ossian's notions ofa superior Being; and shows us that he was not addicted to the superstition whichprevailed all the world over, before the introduction of Christianity.

HAST thou left thy blue course in heaven, golden-haired son of the sky! Thewest opened its gates; the bed of thy repose is there. The waves come to behold thybeauty. They lift their trembling heads. They see thee lovely in thy sleep; they shrinkaway with fear. Rest in thy shadowy cave, O sun! let thy return be in joy.

But let a thousand lights arise to the sound of the harps of Selma: let the beamspread in the hall, the king of shells is returned! The strife of Crona is past, likesounds that are no more. Raise the song, O bards! the king is returned with his fame!

Such were the words of Ullin, when Fingal returned from war; when hereturned in the fair blushing of youth with all his heavy locks. His blue arms were onthe hero; like a light cloud on the sun, when he moves in his robes of mist, and showsbut half his beams. His heroes followed the king: the feast of shells is spread. Fingalturns to his bards, and bids the song to rise.

Voices of echoing Cona! he said; O bards of other times! Ye, on whose soulsthe blue host of our fathers rise! strike the harp in my hall: and let me hear the song.Pleasant is the joy of grief; it is like the shower of spring when it softens the branch ofthe oak, and the young leaf rears its green head. Sing on, O bards! to-morrow we liftthe sail. My blue course is through the ocean, to Carric-thura's walls; the mossy wallsof Sarno, where Comala dwelt. There the noble Cathulla spreads the feast of shells.The boars of his woods are many; the sound of the chase shall arise!


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Cronnan, son of the song! said Ullin; Minona, graceful at the harp! raise thetale of Shilric, to please the king of Morven. Let Vinvela come in her beauty, like theshowery bow when it shows its lovely head on the lake, and the setting sun is bright.She comes, O Fingal! her voice is soft, but sad.

Vinvela. My love is a son of the hill. He pursues the flying deer. His gray dogsare panting around him; his bow-string sounds in the wind. Dost thou rest by the fountof the rock, or by the noise of the mountain stream? The rushes are nodding to thewind, the mist flies over the hill. I will approach my love unseen; I will behold himfrom the rock. Lovely I saw thee first by the aged oak of Branno; thou wert returningtall from the chase; the fairest among thy friends.

Shilric. What voice is that I hear? that voice like the summer wind! I sit not bythe nodding rushes; I hear not the fount of the rock . Afar, Vinvela, afar, I go to thewars of Fingal. My dogs attend me no more. No more I tread the hill. No more fromon 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.

Vinvela. Then thou art gone, O Shilric! I am alone on the hill! The deer areseen on the brow: void of fear they graze along. No more they dread the wind; nomore the rustling tree. The hunter is far removed, he is in the field of graves.Strangers! sons of the waves! spare my lovely Shilric!

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 themound, and produce his food at noon, "some warrior rests here," he will say; and myfame shall live in his praise. Remember me, Vinvela, when low on earth I lie!

Vinvela. Yes! I will remember thee! alas! my Shilric will fall! What shall I do,my love, when thou art for ever gone? Through these hills I will go at noon: I will gothrough the silent heath. There I will see the place of thy rest, returning from thechase. Alas! my Shilric will fall; but I will remember Shilric.

And I remember the chief, said the king of woody Morven; he consumed thebattle in his rage. But now my eyes behold him not. I met him one day on the hill; hischeek was pale: his brow was dark. The sigh was frequent in his breast: his steps weretowards the desert. But now he is not in the crowd of my chiefs, when the sounds ofmy shields arise. Dwells he in the narrow house,<1> the chief of high Carmora?

Cronnan! said Ullin of other times, raise the song of Shilric! when he returnedto his hills, and Vinvela was no more. He leaned on her gray mossy stone he thoughtVinvela lived. He saw her fair moving on the plain; but the bright form lasted not: thesunbeam fled from the field, and she was seen no more. Hear the song of Shilric; it issoft, but sad!

I sit by the mossy fountain; on the top of the hill of winds. One tree is rustlingabove me. Dark waves roll over the heath. The lake is troubled below. The deerdescend from the hill. No hunter at a distance is seen. It is mid-day: but all is silent.Sad are my thoughts alone. Didst thou but appear, O my love? a wanderer on theheath? thy hair floating on the wind behind thee; thy bosom heaving on the sight;

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thine eyes full of tears for thy friends, whom the mists of the hill had concealed? TheeI would comfort, my love, and bring thee to thy father's house?

But is it she that there appears, like a beam of light on the heath? bright as themoon in autumn, as the sun in a summer storm, comest thou, O maid, over rocks, overmountains, to me? She speaks: but how weak her voice! like the breeze in the reeds ofthe lake.

"Returnest thou safe from the war? Where are thy friends, my love? I heard ofthy death on the hill; I heard and mourned thee, Shilric! Yes, my fair, I return: but Ialone of my race. Thou shalt see them no more; their graves I raised on the plain. Butwhy 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 fell.Shilric, I am pale in the tomb."

She fleets, she sails away; as mist before the wind; and wilt thou not stay,Vinvela? 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 hills of winds. When mid-day is silent around, O talk with me, Vinvela! come on the light-winged gale! on thebreeze of the desert, come! Let me hear thy voice, as thou passest, when mid-day issilent around!

Such was the song of Cronnan, on the night of Selma's joy. But morning rosein the east; the blue waters rolled in light. Fingal bade his sails to rise; the winds camerustling from their hills. Inistore rose to sight, and Carric-thura's mossy towers! Butthe sign of distress was on their top: the warning flame edged with smoke. The king ofMorven struck his breast: he assumed at once his spear. His darkened brow bendsforward to the coast: he looks back to the lagging winds. His hair is disordered on hisback. The silence of the king is terrible!

Night came down on the sea: Rotha's bay received the ship. A rock bendsalong the coast with all its echoing wood. On the top is the circle of Loda, the mossystone of power! A narrow plain spreads beneath covered with grass and aged trees,which the midnight winds, in their wrath, had torn from their shaggy rock. The bluecourse of a stream is there! the lonely blast of ocean pursues the thistle's beard. Theflame of three oaks arose: the feast is spread round; but the soul of the king is sad, forCarric-thura's chief distrest.

The wan cold moon rose in the east. Sleep descended on the youths! Theirblue helmets glitter to the beam; the fading fire decays. But sleep did not rest on theking: he rose in the midst of his arms, and slowly ascended the hill, to behold theflame of Sarno's tower.

The flame was dim and distant; the moon hid her red face in the east. A blastcame from the mountain, on its wings was the spirit of Loda. He came to his place inhis terrors, and shook his dusky spear. His eyes appear like flames in his dark face; his


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voice is like distant thunder. Fingal advanced his spear in night, and raised his voiceon high.

Son of night, retire; call thy winds, and fly! Why dost thou come to mypresence, with thy shadowy arms? Do I fear thy gloomy form, spirit of dismal Loda!Weak is thy shield of clouds; feeble is that meteor, thy sword! The blast rolls themtogether; and thou thyself art lost. Fly from my presence, son of night; call thy winds,and fly!

Dost thou force me from my place? replied the hollow voice. The people bendbefore me. I turn the battle in the field of the brave. I look on the nations, and theyvanish: my nostrils pour the blasts of death. I come abroad on the winds; the tempestsare before my face. But my dwelling is calm, above the clouds; the fields of my restare pleasant.

Dwell in thy pleasant fields, said the king: Let Comhal's son be forgot. Do mysteps ascend from my hills into thy peaceful plains? Do I meet thee with a spear onthy cloud, spirit of dismal Loda? Why then dost thou frown on me? Why shake thineairy spear? Thou frownest in vain: I never fled from the mighty in war. And shall theSons of the wind frighten the king of Morven? No! he knows the weakness of theirarms!

Fly to thy land, replied the form: receive thy wind and fly? The blasts are inthe hollow of my hand the course of the storm is mine. The king of Sora is my son, hebends 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! He bent forward his dreadful height. Fingal,advancing, drew his sword; the blade of dark-brown Luno. The gleaming path of thesteel winds through the gloomy ghost. The form fell shapeless into the air, like acolumn 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 theircourse with fear; the friends of Fingal started at once, and took their heavy spears.They missed the king: they rose in rage; all their arms resound!

The moon came forth in the east. Fingal returned in the gleam of his arms. Thejoy of his youth was great, their souls settled, as a sea from a storm. Ullin raised thesong of gladness. The hills of Inistore rejoiced. The flame of the oak arose; and thetales of heroes are told.

But Frothal Sora's wrathful king sits in sadness beneath a tree. The host spreadsaround Carric-thura. He looks towards the walls with rage He longs for the blood ofCathulla, who once overcame him in war. When Annir reigned in Sora, the father ofsea-borne Frothal, a storm arose on the sea, and carried Frothal to Inistore. Three dayshe feasted in Sarno's halls, and saw the slow-rolling eyes of Comala. He loved her inthe flame of youth, and rushed to seize the white-armed maid. Cathulla met the chief.The gloomy battle arose. Frothal was bound in the hall: three days he pined alone. On

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the forth, Sarno sent him to his ship, and he returned to his land. But wrath darkenedin his soul against the noble Cathulla. When Annir's stone of fame arose, Frothal camein his strength. The battle burned round Carric-thura and Sarno's mossy walls.

Morning rose on Inistore. Frothal struck his dark brown shield. His chiefsstarted at the sound; they stood, but their eyes were turned to the sea. They saw Fingalcoming in his strength; and first the noble Thubar spoke, "Who comes, like the stagoft he desert, with all his herd behind him? Frothal, it is a foe! I see his forward spear.Perhaps it is the king of Morven, Fingal the first of men. His deeds are well known inLochlin! the blood of his foes is in Sarno's halls. Shall I ask the peace of kings? Hissword is the bolt of heaven!"

Son of the feeble hand, said Frothal, shall my days begin in a cloud? Shall Iyield before I have conquered, chief of streamy Tora? The people would say in Sora,Frothal flew forth like a meteor; but a darkness has met him, and his fame is no more.No, Thubar, I will never yield; my fame shall surround me like light. No: I will neveryield, chief of streamy Tora!

He went forth with the stream of his people, but they met a rock; Fingal stoodunmoved, broken they rolled back from his side. Nor did they safely fly; the spear ofthe king pursued their steps. The field is covered with heroes. A rising hill preservedthe foe.

Frothal saw their flight. The rage of his bosom rose. He bent his eyes to theground, and called the noble Thubar. Thubar! my people are fled. My fame has ceasedto rise. I will fight the king; I feel my burning soul! Send a bard to demand thecombat. Speak not against Frothal's words! But, Thubar! I love a maid; she dwells byThano's stream, the white-bosomed daughter of Herman, Utha, with soft-rolling eyes.She feared the low-laid Comala; her secret sighs rose when I spread the sail. Tell toUtha of harps that my soul delighted in her.

Such were his words, resolved to fight. The soft sigh of Utha was near! Shehad followed her hero in the armor of a man. She rolled her eye on the youth, insecret, from beneath her steel. She saw the bard as he went; the spear fell thrice fromher hand! Her loose hair flew on the wind. Her white breast rose with sighs. Sheraised 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 his steel. Theymixed their deathful spears: they raised the gleam of their arms. But the sword ofFingal 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 fear rolled down hercheek. 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 bosomheaved to the sigh; her dark-brown hair is spread on earth.

Fingal pitied the white-armed maid! he stayed the uplifted sword. The tear wasin the eye of the king, as, bending forward, he spoke, "King of streamy Sora! fear notthe sword of Fingal. it was never stained with the blood of the vanquished it neverpierced a fallen foe. Let thy people rejoice by their native Streams. Let the maid of thylove be glad. Why shouldst thou fall in thy youth, king of streamy Sora?" Frothal


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heard the words of Fingal, and saw the rising maid: they <2> stood in silence, in theirbeauty, 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 streams? didst thoucome in thy beauty to behold thy warrior low? But he was low before the mighty,maid of the slow-rolling 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 likethe sun when he looks through a silent shower: the flowers lift their fair heads beforehim; the gales shake their rustling wings. O that thou wert in Sora! that my feast werespread! The future kings of Sora would see thy arms and rejoice. They would rejoiceat the fame of their fathers, who beheld the mighty Fingal!

Son of Annir, replied the king, the fame of Sora's race shall be heard! When.chiefs are strong in war, then does the song arise! But if their swords are stretchedover the feeble; if the blood of the weak has stained their arms; the bard shall forgetthem in the song, and their tombs shall not be known. The stranger shall come andbuild there, and remove the heaped-up earth. An half-worn sword shall rise beforehim; bending above it, he will say, "These are the arms of the chiefs of old, but theirnames are not in song." Come thou, O Frothal! to the feast of Inistore: let the maid ofthy love be there; let our faces brighten with joy!

Fingal took his spear, moving in the steps of his might. The gates of Carric-thura are opened wide. The feast of shells is spread. The soft sound of music arose.Gladness brightened in the hall. The voice of Ullin was heard; the harp of Selma wasstrung. Utha rejoiced in his presence, and demanded the song of grief; the big tearhung in her eye when the soft Crimora spoke. Crimora, the daughter of Rinval, whodwelt at Lotha's roaring stream! The tale was long, but lovely; and pleased theblushing Utha.

Crimora. Who cometh from the hill, like a cloud tinged with the beam of thewest? Whose voice is that, loud as the wind, but pleasant as the harp of Carril? It ismy love in the light of steel; but sad is his darkened brow! Live the mighty race ofFingal? or what darkens Connal's soul?

Connal. They live. They return from the chase like a stream of light. The sunis on their shields. Like a ridge of fire they descend the hill. Loud is the voice of theyouth! the war, my love, is near! To-morrow the dreadful Dargo comes to try theforce of our race . The race of Fingal he defies; the race of battles and wounds!

Crimora. Connal, I saw his sails like gray mist on the dark-brown wave. Theyslowly came to land. Connal, many are the warriors of Dargo.

Connal. Bring me thy father's shield, the bossy iron shield of Rinval! thatshield like the full-orbed moon, when she moves darkened through heaven.

Crimora. That shield I bring, O Connal! but it did not defend my father. Bythe spear of Gormar he fell. Thou mayst fall, O Connal!

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Connal. Fall I may! but raise my tomb, Crimora! Gray stones, a mound ofearth, shall send my name to other times. Bend thy red eye over my grave, beat thymournful heaving breast. Though fair thou art, my love, as the light; more pleasantthan the gale of the hill; yet I will not hear remain. Raise my tomb, Crimora!

Crimora. Then give me those arms that gleam; that sword and that spear ofsteel. I shall meet Dargo with Connal, and aid him in the fight. Farewell, ye rocks ofArdven! ye deer! and ye streams of the hill! We shall return no more! Our tombs aredistant far!

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

Autumn is dark on the mountains; gray mist rests on the hills. The whirlwindis heard on the heath. Dark rolls the river through the narrow plain. A tree ands aloneon 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 departed,when the musing hunter alone stalks slowly over the heath.

Who can reach the source of thy race, O Connal, who recount thy fathers? Thyfamily 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 thedin of arms; here the groans of the dying. Bloody are the wars of Fingal, O Connal! itwas here thou didst fall. Thine arm was like a storm; thy sword a beam of the sky; thyheight a rock on the plain; thine eyes a furnace of fire. Louder than a storm was thyvoice, in the battles of thy steel. Warriors fell by thy sword, as the thistles by the staffof a boy. Dargo the mighty came on, darkened in his rage. His brows were gatheredinto wrath. His eyes like two caves in a rock. Bright rose their swords on each side;loud was the clang of their steel.

The daughter of Rinval was near; Crimora bright in the armor of man; heryellow 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, she pierced herConnal. He falls like an oak on the plain; like a rock from the shaggy hill. What shallshe do. hapless maid? He bleeds; her Connal dies! All the night long she cries, and allthe day, "O Connal, my love, and my friend!" With grief the sad mourner dies! Earthhere encloses the loveliest pair on the hill. The grass grows between the stones of thetomb: I often sit in the mournful shade. The wind sighs through the grass; theirmemory rushes on my mind. Undisturbed you now sleep together; in the tomb of themountain you rest alone!

And soft be their rest, said Utha, hapless children of dreamy Lotha! I willremember them with tears, and my secret song shall rise; when the wind is in thegroves of Tora, when the stream is roaring near. Then shall they come on my soul,with all their lovely grief!


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Three days feasted the kings: on the fourth their white sails arose. The windsof the north drove Fingal to Morven's woody land. But the spirit of Loda sat in hiscloud behind the ships of Frothal. He hung forward with all his blasts, and spread thewhite-bosomed sails. The wounds of his form were not forgotten! he still feared thehand of the king!

<1> The narrow house: The grave.

<2> They: Frothal and Utha.

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CARTHON.

"But thou shalt not die unknown," replied the king of woody Morven

ARGUMENT.

This poem is complete, and the subject of it, as of most of Ossian's compositions,tragical. In the time of Comhal, the son of Trathal, and father of the celebrated Fingal,Clessámmor, the son of Thaddu, and brother of Morna, Fingal's mother, was drivenby a storm into the river Clyde, on the banks of which stood Balclutha, a townbelonging to the Britons, between the walls. He was hospitably received byReuthámir, the principal man in the place, who gave him Moina, his only daughter, inmarriage. Reudo, the son of Cormo, a Briton, who was in love with Moina, came toReuthámir's house, and behaved haughtily towards Clessámmor. A quarrel ensued, inwhich Reudo was killed; the Britons who attended him, pressed so hard onClessámmor, that he was obliged to throw himself into the Clyde and swim to hisship. He hoisted sail, and the wind being favorable, bore him out to sea. He often


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endeavored to return, and carry off his beloved Moina by night; but the windcontinuing contrary, he was forced to desist.

Moina, who had been left with child by her husband, brought forth a son, anddied soon after. Reuthámir named the child Carthon, i. e., "the murmur of waves,"from the storm which carried off Clessámmor his father, who was supposed to havebeen cast away. When Carthon was three years old, Comhal, the father of Fingal, inone of his expeditions against the Britons, took and burnt Balclutha. Reuthámir waskilled in the attack; and Carthon was carried safe away by his nurse, who fled fartherinto the country of the Britons. Carthon, coming to man's estate, was resolved torevenge the fall of Balclutha on Comhal's posterity. He set sail from the Clyde, andfalling on the coast of Morven, defeated two of Fingal's heroes, who came to opposehis progress. He was, at last, unwittingly killed by his father Clessámmor, in a singlecombat. This story is the foundation of the present poem, which opens on the nightpreceding the death of Carthon, so that what passed before is introduced by way ofepisode. The poem is addressed to Malvina, the daughter of Toscar.

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. Thesound of thy woods, Garmaller, is lovely in mine ear. Dost thou not behold Malvina, arock with its head of heath! Three aged pines bend from its face; green is the narrowplain at its feet; there the flower of the mountain grows, and shakes its white head inthe breeze. The thistle is there alone, shedding its aged beard. Two stones, half sunk inthe ground, show their heads of moss. The deer of the mountain avoids the place, forhe beholds a dim ghost standing there. The mighty lie, O Malvina! in the narrow plainof 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? Thesunbeam pours its bright stream before him; his hair meets the wind of his hills. Hisface is settled from war. He is calm as the evening beam that looks from the cloud ofthe west, on Cona's silent vale. Who is it but Comhal's son, the king of mighty deeds!He beholds the hills with joy, he bids a thousand voices rise. "Ye have fled over yourfields, ye sons of the distant land! The king of the world sits in his hall, and hears ofhis people's flight. He lifts his red eye of pride; he takes his father's sword. Ye havefled over your fields, sons of the distant land!

Such were the words of the bards, when they came to Selma's halls. Athousand lights from the stranger's land rose in the midst of his people. The feast isspread around; the night passed away in joy. Where is the noble Clessámmor? said thefair-haired Fingal. Where is the brother of Morna, in the hour of my joy? Sullen anddark, he passes his days in the vale of echoing Lora: but, behold, he comes from the

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hill, like a steed in his strength, who finds his companions in the breeze, and tosses hisbright 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 therenown of Comhal in the battles of his youth. Often did we pass over Carun to theland of the strangers: our swords returned, not unstained with blood: nor did the kingsof the world rejoice. Why do I remember the times of our war? My hair is mixed withgray. My hand forgets to bend the bow: I lift a lighter spear. O that my joy wouldreturn, as when I first beheld 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 cloudon the sun, shades the soul of Clessámmor. Mournful are thy thoughts, alone, on thebanks of the roaring Lora. Let us hear the sorrow of thy youth and the darkness of thydays!

"It was in the days of peace," replied the great Clessámmor, "I came in mybounding ship to Balclutha's walls of towers. The winds had roared behind my sails,and Clutha's streams received my dark-bosomed ship. Three days I remained inReuthámir's halls, and saw his daughter, that beam of light. The joy of the shell wentround, and the aged hero gave the fair. Her breasts were like foam on the waves, andher eyes like stars of light; her hair was dark as the raven's wing: her soul wasgenerous and mild. My love for Moina was great; my heart poured forth in joy.

"The son of a stranger came; a chief who loved the white-bosomed Moina. Hiswords were mighty in the hall; he often half-unsheathed his sword. 'Where,' said he,'is the mighty Comhal, the restless wanderer of the heath? Comes he, with his host, toBalclutha, since Clessámmor is so bold?' My soul, I replied, O warrior! burns in alight of its own. I stand without fear in the midst of thousands, though the valiant aredistant far. Stranger! thy words are mighty, for Clessámmor is alone. But my swordtrembles by my side, and longs to glitter in my hand. Speak no more of Comhal, sonof the winding Clutha!

"The strength of his pride arose. We fought: he fell beneath my sword. Thebanks of Clutha heard his fall; a thousand spears glittered around. I fought: thestrangers prevailed: I plunged into the stream of Clutha. My white sails rose over thewaves, and I bounded on the dark-blue sea. Moina came to the shore, and rolled thered eye of her tears; her loose hair flew on the wind; and I heard her mournful, distantcries. Often did I turn my ship; but the winds of the east prevailed. Nor Clutha eversince have I seen, nor Moina of the dark-brown hair. She fell in Balclutha, for I haveseen her ghost. I knew her as she came through the dusky night, along the murmur ofLora: she was like the new moon, seen through the gathered mist; when the sky poursdown its flaky snow, and the world is silent and dark."

Raise, ye bards, said the mighty Fingal, the praise of unhappy Moina. Call herghost, with your songs, to our hills, that she may rest with the fair of Morven, thesunbeams of other days, the delight of heroes of old. I have seen the walls ofBalclutha, but they were desolate. The fire had resounded in the halls: and the voice ofthe people is heard no more. The stream of Clutha was removed from its place by thefall of the walls. The thistle shook there its lonely head: the moss whistled to the


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wind. The fox looked out from the windows, the rank grass of the wall waved roundits head. Desolate is the dwelling of Moina, silence is in the house of her fathers.Raise the song of mourning, O bards, over the land of strangers. They have but fallenbefore us: for one day we must fall. Why dost thou build the hall, son of the wingeddays? Thou lookest from thy towers to-day: yet a few years, and the blast of the desertcomes; it howls in thy empty

court, and whistles round thy half-worn shield. And let the blast of the desert come!we shall be renowned in our day! The mark of my arm shall be in battle; my name inthe song of bards. Raise the song, send round the shell: let joy be heard in my hall.When thou, sun of heaven! shalt fail; if thou shalt fail, thou mighty light! if thybrightness 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 thousand bards leanedforward from their seats, to hear the voice of the king. It was like the music of harpson the gale of the spring. Lovely were thy thoughts, O Fingal! why had not Ossian thestrength of thy soul? But thou standest alone, my father! who can equal the king ofSelma?

The night passed away in song; morning returned in joy. The mountainsshowed their gray heads; the blue face of ocean smiled. The white wave is seentumbling round the distant rock; a mist rose slowly from the lake. It came, in thefigure of an aged man, along the silent plain. Its large limbs did not move in steps, fora ghost supported it in mid air. It came towards Selma's hall, and dissolved in ashower of blood.

The king alone beheld the sight; he foresaw the death of the people. He camein silence to his hall, and took his father's spear. The mail rattled on his breast. Theheroes rose around. They looked in silence on each other, marking the eyes of Fingal.They saw battle in his face; the death of armies on his spear. A thousand shields atonce are placed on their arms; they drew a thousand swords. The hall of Selmabrightened around. The clang of arms ascends. The gray dogs howl in their place. Noword is among the mighty chiefs. Each marked the eyes of the king and half-assumedhis spear.

Sons of Morven, began the king, this is no time to fill the shell; the battledarkens near us, death hovers over the land. Some ghost, the friend of Fingal, hasforewarned 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 hisheavy spear, each gird on his father's sword. Let the dark helmet rise on every head;the mail pour its lightning from every side. The battle gathers like a storm; soon shallye 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 foresee a storm. On Cona's risingheath they stood: the white-bosomed maids beheld them above like a grove; theyforesaw the death of the youth, and looked towards the sea with fear. The white wavedeceived them for distant sails; the tear is on their cheek! The sun rose on the sea, andwe beheld a distant fleet. Like the mist of ocean they came and poured their youthupon the coast. The chief was among them, like the stag in the midst of the herd. His

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shield is studded with gold; stately strode the king of spears. He moved towardsSelma; his thousands moved behind.

Go, with a song of peace, said Fingal: go, Ullin, to the king of swords. Tellhim that we are mighty in war; that the ghosts of our foes are many. But renowned arethey who have feasted in my halls; show the arms of my fathers in a foreign land; theSons of the strangers wonder, and bless the friends of Morven's race; for our nameshave been heard afar: the kings of the world shook in the midst of their host.

Ullin went with his song. Fingal rested on his spear: he saw the mighty foe inhis armor: he blest the stranger's son. "How stately art thou, son of the sea!" said theking of woody Morven. "Thy sword is a beam of fire by thy side; thy spear is a pinethat 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 hismemory be forgot! The daughter of the stranger will be sad, looking to the rolling sea:the children will say, 'We see a ship; perhaps it is the king of Balclutha.' The tearstarts from their mother's eye: her thoughts are of him who sleeps in Morven!"

Such were the words of the king when Ullin came to the mighty Carthon: hethrew down the spear before him, he raised the song of peace. "Come to the feast ofFingal, Carthon, from the rolling sea! partake of the feast of the king, or lift the spearof 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 andrustling grass; these are the tombs of Fingal's foes, the Sons of the rolling sea!"

"Dost thou speak to the weak in arms!" said Carthon, "bard of the woodyMorven? Is my face pale for fear, son of the peaceful song? Why then dost thou thinkto darken my soul with the tales of those who fell? My arm has fought in battle, myrenown is known afar. Go to the feeble in arms, bid them yield to Fingal. Have not Iseen the fallen Balclutha? And shall I feast with Comhal's son? Comhal, who threwhis fire in the midst of my father's hall? I was young, and knew not the cause why thevirgins wept. The columns of smoke pleased mine eye, when they rose above mywalls! I often looked back with gladness when my friends flew along the hill. Butwhen the years of my youth came on, I beheld the moss of my fallen walls. My sigharose with the morning, and my tears descended with night. Shall I not fight, I said tomy soul, against the children of my foes? And I will fight, O bard! I feel the strengthof 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 hethought of the fallen Balclutha. The crowded pride of his soul arose. Sidelong helooked up to the hill, where our heroes shone in arms: the spear trembled in his hand.Bending forward, he seemed to threaten the king.

Shall I, said Fingal to his soul, meet at once the youth? Shall I stop him in themidst of his course before his fame shall arise! But the bard hereafter may say, whenhe sees the tomb of Carthon, Fingal took his thousands to battle, before the nobleCarthon fell. No: bard of the times to come! thou shalt not lessen Fingal's fame! myheroes will fight the youth, and Fingal behold the war. If he overcomes, I rush, in my


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strength, like the roaring stream of Cona. Who of my chiefs will meet the son of therolling sea? Many are his warriors on the coast, and strong is his ashen spear!

Cathul rose in his strength, the son of the mighty Lormar: three hundredyouths attend the chief, the race of his native streams. Feeble was his arm againstCarthon: he fell, and his heroes fled. Connal resumed the battle, but he broke hisheavy spear: he lay bound on the field: Carthon pursued his people.

Clessámmor, said the king of Morven, where is the spear of thy strength. Wiltthou behold Connal bound: thy friend at the stream of Lora? Rise, in the light of thysteel, companion of valiant Comhal! let the youth of Balclutha feel the strength ofMorven's race. He rose in the strength of his steel, shaking his grisly locks. He fittedthe steel to his side; he rushed in the pride of valor.

Carthon stood on a rock: he saw the hero rushing on. He loved the dreadful joyof his face: his strength in the locks of age! "Shall I lift that spear," he said, "thatnever strikes but once a foe? Or shall I, with the words of peace, preserve the warrior'slife? Stately are his steps of age! lovely the remnant of his years! Perhaps it is thehusband of Moina, the father of car-borne Carthon. Often have I heard that he dwelt atthe echoing stream of Lora."

Such were his words when Clessámmor came, and lifted high his spear. Theyouth received it on his shield, and spoke the words of peace. "Warrior of the agedlocks! is there no youth to lift the spear? Hast thou no son to raise the shield before hisfather to meet the arm of youth? Is the spouse of thy love no more? or weeps she overthe tombs of thy sons? Art thou of the kings of men? What will be the fame of mysword shouldst thou fall?"

It will be great, thou son of pride! begun the tall Clessámmor. I have beenrenowned in battle, but I - never told my name to a foe. <1> Yield to me, son of thewave, then shalt thou know that the mark of my sword is in many a field. " I neveryielded, king of spears!" replied the noble pride of Carthon: "I have also fought inwar, I behold my future fame. Despise me not, thou chief of men! my arm, my spearis strong. Retire among thy friends; let younger heroes fight." Why dost thou woundmy soul? replied Clessámmor, with a tear. Age does not tremble on my hand. I stillcan lift the sword. Shall I fly in Fingal's sight, in the sight of him I love? Son of thesea! I never fled: exalt thy pointed spear.

They fought like two contending winds, that strive to roil the wave. Calthonbade his spear to err: he still thought that the foe was the spouse of Moina. He brokeClessámmor's beamy spear in twain: he seized his shining sword. But as Carthon wasbinding the chief, the chief drew the dagger of his fathers. He saw the foe's uncoveredside, and opened there a wound.

Fingal saw Clessámmor low: he moved in the sound of his steel. The hoststood silent in his presence: they turned their eyes to the king. He came like the sullennoise of a storm before the winds arise: the hunter hears it in the vale, and retires tothe cave of the rock. Carthon stood in his place, the blood is rushing down his side: hesaw the coming down of the king, his hopes of fame arose, but pale was his cheek: his

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hair flew loose, his helmet shook on high: the force of Carthon failed, but his swordwas strong.

Fingal beheld the hero's blood; he stopt the uplifted spear. "Yield, king ofswords!" said Comhal's son, "I behold thy blood; thou hast been mighty in battle, andthy fame shall never fade." Art thou the king so far renowned? replied the car-borneCarthon: art thou that light of death, that frightens the kings of the world? But whyshould Carthon ask? for he is like the stream of his hills, strong as a river in hiscourse, swift as the eagle of heaven. O that I had fought with the king, that my famemight be great in song! that the hunter, beholding my tomb, might say, he fought withthe mighty Fingal. But Carthon dies unknown: he has poured out his force on theweak.

" But thou shalt not die unknown, replied the king of woody Morven: mybards are many, O Carthon! their songs descend to future times. The children of yearsto come shall hear the fame of Carthon, when they sit round the burning oak, and thenight is spent in songs of old. The hunter, sitting in the heath, shall hear the rustlingblast, and raising his eyes, behold the rock where Carthon fell. He shall turn to hisson, and show the place 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 toFingal, to lie within his hall, that the memory of Balclutha's king might remain inMorven. The battle ceased along the field, the bard had sung the song of peace. Thechiefs gathered round the falling Carthon; they heard his words with sighs. Silent theyleaned on their spears, while Balclutha's hero spoke. His hair sighed in the wind, andhis voice was sad and low.

"King of Morven," Carthon said, "I fall in the midst of my course. A foreigntomb receives, in youth, the last of Reuthámir's race. Darkness dwells in Balclutha;the shadows of grief in Crathmo. But raise my remembrance on the banks of Lora,where my fathers dwelt. Perhaps the husband of Moina will mourn over his fallenCarthon." His words reached the heart of Clessámmor: he fell in silence on his son.The host stood darkened around: no voice is on the plain. Night came: the moon, fromthe east, looked on the mournful field; but still they stood, like a silent grove that liftsits head on Gormal, when the loud winds are laid, and dark autumn is on the plain.

Three days they mourned above Carthon; on the fourth his father died. In thenarrow plain of the rock they lie; a dim ghost defends their tomb. There lovely Moinais often seen, when the sunbeam darts on the rock, and all around is dark. There she isseen, Malvina; but not like the daughters of the hill. Her robes are from the stranger'sland, and she is still alone!

Fingal was sad for Carthon; he commanded his bards to mark the day whenshadowy 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 istrembling 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 sullenghost of Morven! But there he lies, a goodly oak which sudden blasts overturned!When shalt thou rise, Balclutha's joy? When, Carthon, shalt thou arise? Who comes so


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dark from ocean's roar, like autumn's shadowy cloud?" Such were the words of thebards in the day of their mourning; Ossian often joined their voice, and added to theirsong. My soul has been mournful for Carthon: he fell in the days of his youth; andthou, O Clessámmor! where is thy dwelling in the wind? Has the youth forgot hiswound? Flies he on 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 ofheaven 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 thybeams, O sun! thy everlasting light! Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty; the starshide themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave; butthou thyself movest alone. Who can be a companion of thy course? The oaks of themountains fall; the mountains themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks andgrows again; the moon herself is lost in heaven: but thou art forever the same,rejoicing in the brightness of thy course. When the world is dark with tempests, whenthunder rolls and lightning flies, thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, andlaughest at the storm. But to Ossian thou lookest in vain, for he beholds thy beams nomore: whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at thegates of the west. But thou art, perhaps, like me, for a season; thy years will have anend. Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds, careless of the voice of the morning. Exult then, Osun, in the strength of thy youth! age is dark and unlovely; it is like the glimmeringlight of the moon, when it shines through broken clouds, and the mist is on the hills:the blast of the north is on the plain, the traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey.

<1> To tell one's name to an enemy, was reckoned, in those days of heroism, amanifest evasion of fighting him; for if it was once known that friendship subsisted ofold, between the ancestors of the combatants. the battle immediately ceased, and theancient amity of their forefathers was renewed. "A man who tells his name to hisenemy," was of old an ignominious term for a coward.

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OINA-MORUL.

ARGUMENT.

After an address to Malvina, the daughter of Toscar, Ossian proceeds to relate his ownexpedition to Fuärfed, an island of Scandinavia. Mal-orchol, king of Fuärfed, beinghard pressed in war by Ton-thormod, chief of Sar-dronto (who had demanded in vainthe daughter of Mal-orchol in marriage,) Fingal sent Ossian to his aid. Ossian, on theday after his arrival, came to battle with Ton-thormod, and took him prisoner. Mal-orchol offers his daughter, Oina-morul, to Ossian; but he, discovering her passion forTon-thormod, generously surrenders her to her lover, and brings about a reconciliationbetween the two kings.

As flies the inconstant sun over Larmon's grassy hill so pass the tales of oldalong my soul by night! When bards are removed to their place, when harps are hungin Selma's hall, then comes a voice to Ossian, and awakes his soul! It is the voice ofyears that are gone! they roll before me with all their deeds! I seize the tales as theypass, and pour them forth in song. Nor a troubled stream is the song of the king, it islike the rising of music from Lutha of the strings. Lutha of many strings, not silent arethy streamy rocks, when the white hands of Malvina move upon the harp! Light of theshadowy thoughts that fly across my soul, daughter of Toscar of helmets, wilt thounot hear the song? We call back, maid of Lutha, the years that have rolled away! Itwas in the days of the king, while yet my locks were young, that I marked Con-cathlin<1> on high, from ocean's nightly wave. My course was towards the isle of Fuärfed,woody dweller of seas! Fingal had sent me to the aid Mal-orchol, king of Fuärfedwild: for war was around him, and our fathers had met at the feast.

In Col-coiled I bound my sails. I sent my sword to Mal-orchol of shells. Heknew the signal of Albion, and his joy arose. He came from his own high hall, andseized my hand in grief. "Why comes the race of heroes to a falling king? Ton-thormod of many spears is the chief of wavy Sar-dronlo. He saw and loved mydaughter, white-bosomed Oina-morul. He sought. I denied the maid, for our fathershad been foes. He came with battle to Fuärfed; my people are rolled away. Whycomes the race of heroes to a falling king?"

I come not, I said, to look, like a boy, on the strife. Fingal remembers Mal-orchol, and his hall for strangers. From his waves the warrior descended on thy woodyisle: thou wert no cloud before him. Thy feast was spread with songs. For this mysword shall rise, and thy foes perhaps may fail. Our friends are not forgot in theirdanger, though distant is our land.

"Descendant of the daring Trenmor, thy words are like the voice of Cruth-Loda, when he speaks from his parting cloud, strong dweller of the sky! Many haverejoiced at my feast; but they all have forgot Mal-orchol. I have looked towards all the


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winds, but no white sails were seen! but steel resounds in my hall, and not the joyfulshells. Come to my dwelling, race of heroes! dark-skirted night is near. Hear the voiceof songs from the maid of Fuärfed wild."

We went. On the harp arose the white hands of Oina-morul. She waked herown sad tale from every trembling string. I stood in silence; for bright in her lockswas the daughter of many isles! Her eyes were two stars, looking forward through arushing shower. The mariner marks them on high, and blesses the lovely beams. Withmorning we rushed to battle, to Tormul's resounding stream: the foe moved to thesound of Ton-thormod's bossy shield. From wing to wing the strife was mixed. I metTon-thormod in fight. Wide flew his broken steel. I seized the king in war. I gave hishand, fast bound with thongs, to Mal-orchol, the giver of shells. Joy rose at the feastof Fuärfed, for the foe had failed. Ton-thormod turned his face away from Oina-morulof isles.

Son of Fingal, began Mal-orchol, not forgot shalt thou pass from me. A lightshall dwell in thy ship, Oina-morul of slow-rolling eyes. She shall kindle gladnessalong thy mighty soul. Nor unheeded shall the maid move in Selma through thedwelling of kings.

In the hall I lay in night. Mine eyes were half closed in sleep. Soft music cameto mine ear. It was like the rising breeze, that whirls at first the thistle's beard, thenflies dark-shadowy over the grass. It was the maid of Fuärfed wild! she raised thenightly song; she knew that my soul was a stream that flowed at pleasant sounds."Who looks," she said, "from his rock on ocean's closing mist? His long locks like theraven's wing, are wandering on the blast. — Stately are his steps in grief! The tearsare in his eyes! His manly breast is heaving over his bursting soul! Retire, I am distantafar, a wanderer in lands unknown. Though the race of kings are around me, yet mysoul is dark. Why have our fathers been foes, Ton-thormod, love of maids!"

"Soft voice of the streamy isle," I said, "why dost thou mourn by night? Therace of daring Trenmor are not the dark in soul. Thou shalt not wander by streamsunknown, blue-eyed Oina-morul! within this bosom is a voice: it comes not to otherears: it bids Ossian hear the hapless in their hour of woe. Retire, soft singer by night!Ton-thormod shall not mourn on his rock!"

With morning I loosed the king. I gave the long-haired maid. Mal-orchol heardmy words in the midst of his echoing halls. "King of Fuärfed wild, why should Ton-thormod mourn? He is of the race of heroes, and a flame in war. Your fathers havebeen foes, but now their dim ghosts rejoice in death. They stretch their hands of mistto the same shell in Loda. Forget their rage, ye warriors! It was the cloud of otheryears."

Such were the deeds of Ossian, while yet his locks were young; thoughloveliness, with a robe of beams, clothed the daughter of many isles. We call back, ofLutha, the years that have rolled away!

<1> Con-cathlin, "mild beam of the wave." What star was so called of old is noteasily ascertained. Some now distinguish the pole-star by that name.

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COLNA-DONA.

ARGUMENT.

Fingal despatches Ossian and Toscar, the son of Conloch, and father of Malvina, toraise a stone on the banks of the stream of Crona, to perpetuate the memory of avictory which he had obtained in that place. When they were employed in that work,Car-ul, a neighboring chief, invited them to a feast. They went, and Toscar felldesperately in love with Colna-dona, the daughter of Car-ul. Colna-dona became noless enamored of Toscar. An incident at a hunting party brings their loves to a happyissue.

COL-AMON <1> of troubled streams, dark wanderer of distant vales, I beholdthy course, between trees near Car-ul's echoing halls! There dwelt bright Colna-dona,the daughter of the king. Her eyes were rolling stars; her arms were white as the foamof streams. Her breast rose slowly to sight, like ocean's heaving wave. Her soul was astream of light. Who, among the maids was like the love of heroes?

Beneath the voice of the king we moved to Crona <2> of the streams, Toscarof grassy Lutha, and Ossian young in fields. Three bards attended with songs. Threebossy shields were borne before us; for we were to rear the stone in memory of thepast. By Crona's mossy course Fingal had scattered his foes; he had rolled away thestrangers like a troubled sea. We came to the place of renown; from the mountainsdescended night. I tore an oak from its hill, and raised a flame on high. I bade myfathers to look down from the clouds of their hall; for, at the fame of their race theybrighten in the wind.

I took a stone from the stream, amidst the song of bards. The blood of Fingal'sfoes hung curdled in its ooze. Beneath I placed, at intervals, three bosses from theshield of foes, as rose or fell the sound of Ullin's nightly song. Toscar laid a dagger inearth, a mail of sounding steel. We raised the mould around the stone, and bade itspeak to other years.

Oozy daughter of streams, that now art reared on high, speak to the feeble, Ostone! after Selma's race have failed! Prone from the stormy night, the traveller shalllay him by thy side: thy whistling moss shall sound in his dreams; the years that werepast shall return. Battles rise before him, blue-shielded kings descend to war: thedarkened moon looks from heaven on the troubled field. He shall burst with morningfrom dreams, and see the tombs of warriors round. He shall ask about the stone, andthe aged shall reply, "This gray stone was raised by Ossian, a chief of other years!"

From Col-amon came a bard, from Car-ul, the friend of strangers. He bade usto the feast of kings, to the dwelling of bright Colna-dona. We went to the hall of


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harps. There Car-ul brightened between his aged locks, when he beheld the sons of hisfriends, like two young branches before him.

"Sons of the mighty," he said, "ye bring back the days of old, when first Idescended from waves, on Selma's streamy vale! I pursued Duthmocarglos, dweller ofocean's wind. Our fathers had been foes; we met by Clutha's winding waters. He fledalong the sea, and my sails were spread behind him. Night deceived me on the deep. Icame to the dwelling of kings, to Selma of high-bosomed maids. Fingal came forthwith his bards, and Conloch, arm of heath. I feasted three days in the hall, and saw theblue eye. Erin, Roscrana, daughter of heroes, light of Cormac's race. Nor forgot didmy steps depart: the kings gave their shields to Car-ul: they hang on high in Col-amon, in memory of the past. Sons of the daring kings, ye bring back the days of old!

Car-ul kindled the oak of feasts, he took two bosses from our shields. He laidthem in earth beneath a stone, to speak to the hero's race. "When battle," said the king,"shall roar, and our sons are to meet in wrath, my race shall look perhaps on thisstone, when they prepare the spear. Have not our fathers met in peace? they will say,and lay aside the shield."

Night came down. In her long locks moved the daughter of Car-ul. Mixed withthe harp arose the voice of white-armed Colna-dona. Toscar darkened in his placebefore the love of heroes. She came on his troubled soul, like a beam to the dark-heaving ocean, when it bursts from a cloud, and brightens the foamy side of a wave.

* * * * * * * <3>

With morning we awaked the woods and hung forward on the path of the roes.They fell by their wonted streams. We returned through Crona's vale. From the wooda youth came forward, with a shield and pointless spear. — "Whence," said Toscar ofLutha, "is the flying beam? Dwells there peace at Col-amon, round bright Colna-donaof harps?"

"By Col-amon of streams," said the youth, "bright Colna-dona dwelt. Shedwelt; but her course is now in deserts with the son of the king; he that seized withlove her soul as it wandered through the hall." "Stranger of tales," said Toscar, "hastthou marked the warrior's course? He must fall; give thou that bossy shield." In wrathhe took the shield. Fair behind it rose the breasts of a maid, white as the bosom of aswan, rising graceful on swift-rolling waves, It was Colna-dona of harps, the daughterof the king! Her blue eyes had rolled on Toscar, and her love arose!

<1> Colna-dona signifies "the love of heroes." Col-amon, "narrow river." Car-ul,"dark-eyed."

<2> Crona, "murmuring," was the name of a small stream which discharged itself inthe river Carron.

<3> Here an episode is entirely lost; or, at least, is handed down so imperfectly, that itdoes not deserve a place in the poem.

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OITHONA.

ARGUMENT.

Gaul, the son of Morni, attended Lathmon into his own country, after his beingdefeated in Morven, as related in a preceding poem. He was kindly entertained byNuäth, the father of Lathmon, and fell in love with his daughter Oithona. The ladywas no less enamored of Gaul, and a day was fixed for their marriage. In the meantime Fingal, preparing for an expedition into the country of the Britons, sent for Gaul.He obeyed, and went; but not without promising to Oithona to return, it he survivedthe war, by a certain day. Lathmon too was obliged to attend his father Nuäth in hiswars, and Oithona was left alone at Dunlathmon, the seat of the family. Dunrommath,Lord of Uthal, supposed to be one of the Orkneys, taking advantage of the absence ofher friends, came and carried off, by force, Oithona, who had formerly rejected hislove, into Tromáthon, a desert island, where he concealed her in a cave.

Gaul returned on the day appointed; heard of the rape, and sailed toTromáthon, to revenge himself on Dunrommath. When he landed, he found Oithonadisconsolate, and resolved not to survive the loss of her honor. She told him the storyof her misfortunes, and she scarce ended when Dunrommath with his followersappeared at the farther end of the island. Gaul prepared to attack him, recommendingto Uithona to retire till the battle was over. She seemingly obeyed; but she secretlyarmed herself rushed into the thickest of the battle, and was mortally wounded. Gaul,pursuing the flying enemy, found her just expiring on the field; he mourned over her,raised her tomb, and returned to Morven. Thus is the story handed down by tradition;nor is it given with any material difference in the poem, which opens with Gaul'sreturn to Dunlathmon, after the rape of Oithona.

DARKNESS dwells around Dunlathmon, though the moon shows half her face on thehill. The daughter of night turns her eyes away; she beholds the approaching grief.The son of Morni is on the plain: there is no sound in the hall. No long streamingbeam of light comes trembling through the gloom. The voice of Oithona is not heardamidst the noise of the streams of Dunranna. "Whither art thou gone in thy beauty,dark-haired daughter of Nuäth? Lathmon is in the field of the valiant, but thou didstpromise to remain in the hall till the son of Morni returned. Till he returned fromStrumon, to the maid of his love! The tear was on thy cheek at his departure; the sighrose in secret in thy breast. But thou dost not come forth with songs, with the lightlytrembling sound of the harp!"


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Such were the words of Gaul, when he came to Dunlathmon's towers. Thegates were open and dark. The winds were blustering in the hall. The trees strewed thethreshold with leaves; the murmur of night was abroad. Sad and silent, at a rock, theson of Morni sat: his soul trembled for the maid; but he knew not whither to turn hiscourse! The son of Leth stood at a distance, and heard the winds in his bushy hair. Buthe did not raise his voice, for he saw the sorrow of Gaul!

Sleep descended on the chiefs. The visions of night arose. Oithona stood, in adream, before the eyes of Morni's son. Her hair was loose and disordered; her lovelyeye rolled deep in tears. Blood stained her snowy arm. The robe half hid the wound ofher breast. She stood over the chief, and her voice was feebly heard. " Sleeps the sonof 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 inmy tears in the cave! Nor do I sit alone, O Gaul! the dark chief of Cuthal is there. Heis there in the rage of his love. What can Oithona do?"

A rougher blast rushed through the oak. The dream of night departed. Gaultook his aspen spear. He stood in the rage of his soul. Often did hid turn to the east.He accused the lagging light. At length the morning came forth. The hero lifted up thesail. The winds came rustling from the hill; he bounded on the waves of the deep. Onthe third day arose Tromáthon, like a blue shield in the midst of the sea. The whitewave roared against its rocks; sad Oithona sat on the coast! She looked on the rollingwaters, and her tears came down. But when she saw Gaul in his arms, she started, andturned her eyes away. Her lovely cheek is bent and red; her white arm trembles by herside. Thrice she strove to fly from his presence; thrice her steps failed as she went!

"Daughter of Nuäth," said the hero, " why dost thou fly from Gaul? Do myeyes send forth the flame of death? Darkens hatred in my soul? Thou art to me thebeam of the east, rising in a land unknown. But thou coverest thy face with sadness,daughter of car-borne Nuäth! Is the foe of Oithona near! My soul burns to meet him infight. The sword trembles by the side of Gaul, and longs to glitter in his hand. Speak,daughter of Nuäth! Dost thou not behold my tears?"

" Young chief of Strumon," replied the maid, " why comest thou over thedark-blue wave, to Nuäth's mournful daughter! Why did I not pass away in secret, likethe flower of the rock, that lifts its fair head unseen, and strews its withered leaves onthe blast! Why didst thou come, O Gaul! to hear my departing sigh! I vanish in myyouth; my name shall not be heard. Or it will be heard with grief; the tears of Nuäthmust fall. Thou wilt be sad, son of Morni! for the departed fame of Oithona. But sheshall sleep in the narrow tomb, far from the voice of the mourner. Why didst thoucome, chief of Strumon! to the sea-beat rocks of Tromáthon!"

"I came to meet thy foes, daughter of car-borne Nuäth! The death of Cuthal'schief darkens before me; or Morni's son shall fall! Oithona! when Gaul is low, raisemy tomb on that oozy rock. When the dark, bounding ship shall pass, call the sons ofthe sea; call them, and give this sword, to bear it hence to Morni's hall. The gray-haired chief will then cease to look towards the desert for the return of his son!"

"Shall the daughter of Nuäth live?" she replied, with a bursting sig. "Shall Ilive in Tromáthon, and the son of Morni low? My heart is not of that rock; nor my

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soul careless as that sea, which lifts its blue waves to every wind, and rolls beneaththe storm! The blast which shall lay thee low, shall spread the branches of Oithona onearth. We shall wither together, son of car-borne Morni! The narrow house is pleasantto me, and the gray stone of the dead: for never more will I leave thy rocks, O sea-surrounded Tromáthon! Night came on with her clouds after the departure ofLathmon, when he went to the wars of his fathers, to the moss-covered rock ofDuthórmoth. Night came on. I sat in the hall, at the beam of the oak! The wind wasabroad in the trees. I heard the sound of arms. Joy rose in my face. I thought of thyreturn. It was the chief of Cuthal, the red-haired strength of Dunrommath. His eyesrolled in fire: the blood of my people was on his sword. They who defended Oithonafell by the gloomy chief! What could I do? My arm was weak. I could not lift thespear. He took me in my grief; amidst my tears he raised the sail. He feared thereturning Lathmon, the brother of unhappy Oithona! But behold, he comes with hispeople! the dark wave is divided before him! Whither wilt thou turn thy steps, son ofMorni? Many are the warriors of thy foe!"

"My steps never turned from battle," Gaul said, and unsheathed his sword: "shall I then begin to fear, Oithona! when thy foes are near? Go to thy cave, my love,till our battle tease on the field. Son of Leth bring the bows of our fathers! thesounding quiver of Morni! Let our three warriors bend the yew. Ourselves will lift thespear. They are a host on the rock! our souls are strong in war!

Oithona went to the cave. A troubled joy rose on her mind, like the red path oflightning on a stormy cloud! Her soul was resolved: the tear was dried from herwildly-looking eye. Dunrommath slowly approached. He saw the son of Morni.Contempt contracted his face, a smile is on his dark-brown cheek; his red eye rolledhalf concealed, beneath his shaggy brows!

"Whence are the sons of the sea?" began the gloomy chief. Have the windsdriven you on the rocks of Tromáthon? or come you in search of the white-handedmaid? the sons of the unhappy, ye feeble men, come to the hand of Dunrommath! Hiseye spares not the weak; he delights in the blood of strangers. Oithona is a beam oflight, and the chief of Cuthal enjoys it in secret; wouldst thou come on its lovelinesslike a cloud, son of the feeble hand? Thou mayest come, but shalt thou return to thehalls of thy fathers?"

" Dost thou not know me," said Gaul, "red-haired chief of Cuthal? Thy feetwere swift on the heath, in the battle of car-borne Lathmon; when the sword ofMorni's son pursued his host, in Morven's woody land. Dunrommath! thy words aremighty, for thy warriors gather behind thee. But do I fear them, son of pride? I am notof the race of the feeble!"

Gaul advanced in his arms; Dunrommath shrunk behind his people. But thespear of Gaul pierced the gloomy chief: his sword lopped off his head, as it bended indeath. 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 thesounding sail, and bound on the troubled deep. Gaul advanced towards the cave ofOithona. He beheld a youth leaning on a rock. An arrow had pierced his side; his eyerolled faintly beneath his helmet. The soul of Morni's son was sad; he came, andspoke the words of peace.


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" Can the hand of Gaul heal thee, youth of the mournful brow? I have searchedfor the herbs of the mountains; I have gathered them on the secret banks of theirstreams. My hand has closed the wound of the brave, their eyes have blessed the sonof Morni. Where dwelt thy fathers, warrior? Were they of the sons of the mighty!Sadness shall come, like night, on thy native streams. Thou art fallen in thy youth!"

" My fathers," replied the stranger, " were of the race of the mighty; but theyshall not be sad; for my fame is departed like morning mist. High walls rise on thebanks of Duvranna; and see their mossy towers in the stream; a rock ascends behindthem with its bending pines. Thou mayest behold it far distant. There my brotherdwells. He is renowned in battle: give him this glittering helmet."

The helmet fell from the hand of Gaul. It was the wounded Oithona! She hadarmed herself in the cave, and came in search of death. Her heavy eyes are halfclosed; the blood pours from her heaving side. "Son of Morni!" she said, "prepare thenarrow tomb. Sleep grows, like darkness, on my soul. The eyes of Oithona are dim! Ohad I dwelt at Duvranna, in the bright beam of my fame! then had my years come onwith joy; the virgins would then bless my steps. But I fall in youth, son of Morni! myfather shall blush in his hall!"

She fell pale on the rock of Tromáthon. The mournful warrior raised her tomb.He came to Morven; we saw the darkness of his soul. Ossian took the harp in thepraise of Oithona. The brightness of the face of Gaul returned. But his sigh rose, attimes, in the midst of his friends; like blasts that shake their unfrequent wings, afterthe stormy winds are laid!

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CROMA.

ARGUMENT.

Malvina, the daughter of Toscar, is overheard by Ossian lamenting the death of Oscarher lover. Ossian, to divert her grief, relates his own actions in expedition which heundertook, at Fingal's command, to aid Crothar the petty king of Croma, a country inIreland, against Rothmar, who invaded his dominions. The story is delivered downthus in tradition. Crothar, king of Croma, being blind with age, and his son too youngfor the field, Rothmar, the chief of Tromo resolved to avail himself of the opportunityoffered of annexing the dominions of Crothar to his own. He accordingly marchedinto the country subject to Crothar, but which he held of Arth or Artho, who was, atthe time, supreme king of Ireland.

Crothar being, on account of his age and blindness unfit for action, sent for aidto Fingal, king of Scotland; who ordered his son Ossian to the relief of Crothar. Butbefore his arrival Fovargormo, the son of Crothar, attacking Rothmar, was slainhimself, and his forces totally defeated. Ossian renewed the war; came to battle, killedRothmar, and routed his army. Croma being thus delivered of its enemies, Ossianreturned to Scotland.

"It was the voice of my love! seldom art thou in the dreams of Malvina! Openyour airy halls, O father of Toscar of shields! Unfold the gates of your clouds: thesteps of Malvina are near. I have heard a voice in my dream. I feel the fluttering of mysoul. Why didst thou come, O blast! from the dark-rolling face of the lake? Thyrustling wing was in the tree; the dream of Malvina fled. But she beheld her lovewhen his robe of mist flew on the wind. A sunbeam was on his skirts, they glitteredlike the gold of the stranger. It was the voice of my love! seldom comes he to mydreams!

"But thou dwellest in the soul of Malvina, son of mighty Ossian! My sighsarise with the beam of the east; my tears descend with the drops of night. I was alovely tree, in thy presence, Oscar, with all my branches round me; but thy deathcame like a blast from the desert, and laid my green head low. The spring returnedwith its showers; no leaf of mine arose! The virgins saw me silent in the hall; theytouched the harp of joy. The tear was on the cheek of Malvina: the virgins beheld mein my grief. Why art thou sad, they said, thou first of the maids of Lutha! Was helovely as the beam of the morning, and stately in thy sight?"

Pleasant is thy song in Ossian's ear, daughter of streamy Lutha! Thou hastheard the music of departed bards in the dream of thy rest, when sleep fell on thineeyes, at the murmur of Moruth. When thou didst return from the chase in the day of


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the sun, thou hast heard the music of bards, and thy song is lovely! It is lovely, OMalvina! but it melts the soul. There is a joy in grief when peace dwells in the breastof the sad. But sorrow wastes the mournful, O daughter of Toscar! and their days arefew! They fall away, like the flower on which the sun hath looked in his strength,after the mildew has passed over it, when its head is heavy with the drops of night.Attend to the tales of Ossian, O maid! He remembers 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.<1> High on the coast arose the towers ofCrothar king of spears; Crothar renowned in the battles of his youth; but age dweltthen around the chief. Rothmar had raised the sword against the hero; and the wrath ofFingal burned. He sent Ossian to meet Rothmar in war, for the chief of Croma was thefriend of his youth. I sent the bard before me with songs. I came into the hall ofCrothar. There sat the chief amidst the arms of his fathers, but his eyes had failed. Hisgray locks waved around a staff which the warrior leaned. He hummed the song ofother times; when the sound of our arms reached his ears Crothar rose, stretched hisaged hand, and blessed the son of Fingal.

"Ossian!" said the hero, "the strength of Crothar's arm has failed. O could I liftthe sword, as on the day that Fingal fought at Strutha! He was the first of men; butCrothar had also his fame. The king of Morven praised me; he placed on my arm thebossy shield of Calthar, whom the king had slain in his wars. Dost thou not behold iton the wall? for Crothar's eyes have failed. Is thy strength like thy father's, Ossian! letthe aged feel thine arm!"

I gave my arm to the king; he felt it with his aged hands. The sigh rose in hisbreast, and his tears came down. "Thou art strong, my son," he said, "but not like theking of Morven! But who is like the hero among the mighty in war? Let the feast ofmy hall be spread; and let my bards exalt the song. Great is he that is within my walls,ye sons of echoing Croma!" The feast is spread. The harp is heard; and joy is in thehall. But it was joy covering a sigh, that darkly dwelt in every breast. It was like thefaint beam of the moon spread on a cloud in heaven. At length the music ceased, andthe aged king of Croma spoke; he spoke without a tear, but sorrow swelled in themidst of his voice.

" Son of Fingal! beholdest thou not the darkness of Crothar's joy? My soul wasnot sad at the feast, when my people lived before me. I rejoiced in the presence ofstrangers, when my son shone in the hall. But, Ossian, he is a beam that is departed.He left no streak of light behind. He is fallen, son of Fingal! in the wars of his father.Rothmar the chief of grassy Tromlo heard that these eyes had failed; he heard that myarms 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 my wrath, but what could sightlessCrothar do? My steps were unequal; my grief was great. I wished for the days thatwere past. Days! wherein I fought; and won in the field of blood. My son returnedfrom the chase: the fair haired Fovargormo. He had not lifted his sword in battle, forhis arm was young. But the soul of the youth was great; the fire of valor burned in hiseyes. He saw the disordered steps of his father, and his sigh arose — "King ofCroma," he said, "is it because thou hast no son; is it for the weakness ofFovargormo's arm that thy sighs arise? I begin, my father, to feel my strength; I havedrawn the sword of my youth; and I have bent the bow. Let me meet this Rothmar,

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with the sons of Croma: let me meet him, O my father? I feel my burning soul!" —"And thou shalt meet him," I said, "son of the sightless Crothar! But let othersadvance before thee that I may hear the tread of thy feet at thy return; for my eyesbehold thee not, fair haired Fovargormo!" He went; he met the foe; he fell. Rothmaradvances to Croma. He who slew my son is near, with all his pointed spears."

This is no time to fill the shell, I replied, and took my spear! My people sawthe fire of my eyes; they all arose around. Through night we strode along the heath.Gray morning rose in the east. A green narrow vale appeared before us; nor wantingare its winding streams. The dark host of Rothmar are on its banks with all theirglittering arms. We fought along the vale. They fled. Rothmar sunk beneath mysword! Day had not descended in the west, when I brought his arms to Crothar. Theaged hero felt them with his hands; and joy brightened over all his thoughts.

The people gather to the hall! The shells of the feast are heard. Ten harps arestrung; five bards advance, and sing, by turns, the praise of Ossian; they poured forththeir burning souls, and the string answered to their voice. The joy of Croma wasgreat; for peace returned to the land. The night came on with silence; the morningreturned with joy. No foe came in darkness with his glittering spear. The joy of Cromawas great; for the gloomy Rothmar had fallen!

I raised my voice for Fovargormo, when they laid the chief in earth. The agedCrothar 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 toOssian. "King of spears!" he said, "my son has not fallen without his fame. The youngwarrior did not fly; but met death as he went forward in his strength. Happy are theywho die in youth, when their renown is heard! The feeble will not behold them in thehall; or smile at their trembling hands. Their memory shall be honored in song; theyoung tear of the virgin will fall. But the aged wither away by degrees; the fame oftheir youth, while yet they live, is all forgot. They fall in secret. The sigh of their sonis not heard. Joy is around their tomb; the stone of their fame is placed without a tear.Happy are they who die in their youth, when their renown is around them!"

<1> Inisfail: one of the ancient names of Ireland.


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CALTHON AND COLMAL.

ARGUMENT.

This piece, as many more of Ossian's compositions, is addressed to one of the firstChristian missionaries. The story of the poem is handed down by tradition thus:- Inthe country of the Britons, between the walls, two chiefs lived in the days of Fingal,Dunthalmo, Lord of Teutha, supposed to be the Tweed; and Rathmor, who dwelt atClutha, well known to be the river Clyde. Rathmor was not more renowned for hisgenerosity and hospitality, than Dunthalmo was infamous for his cruelty andambition. Dunthalmo, through envy, or on account of some private feuds, whichsubsisted between the families, murdered Rathmor at a feast; but being afterwardtouched with remorse, he educated the two sons of Rathmor, Calthon and Colmar, inhis own house. They growing up to man's estate, dropped some hints that theyintended to revenge the death of their father, upon which Dunthalmo shut them up intwo caves, on the banks of Teutha, intending to take them off privately. Colmal, thedaughter of Dunthalmo, who was secretly in love with Calthon, helped him to makehis escape from prison, and hied with him to Fingal, disguised in the habit of a youngwarrior, and implored his aid against Dunthalmo. Fingal sent Ossian with threehundred men to Colmar's relief. Dunthalmo, having previously murdered Colmar,came to a battle with Ossian, but he was killed by that hero, and his army totallydefeated. Calthon married Colmal his deliverer; and Ossian returned to Morven.

Pleasant is the voice of thy song, thou lonely dweller of the rock! It comes onthe sound of the stream, along the narrow vale. My soul awakes, O stranger, in themidst of my hall. I stretch my hand to the spear, as in the days of other years. I stretchmy hand, but it is feeble: and the sigh of my bosom grows. Wilt thou not listen, son ofthe rock! to the song of Ossian? My soul is full of other times; the joy of my youthreturns. Thus the sun appears in the west, after the steps of his brightness have movedbehind a storm: the green hills lift their dewy heads: the blue streams rejoice in thevale. The aged hero comes forth on his stair; his gray hair glitters in the beam. Dostthou not behold, son of the rock! a shield in Ossian's hall? It is marked with thestrokes of battle; and the brightness of its bosses has failed. That shield the greatDunthalmo bore, the chief of streamy Teutha. Dunthalmo bore it in battle before hefell 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 ball. The gates ofRathmor were never shut: his feast was always spread. The sons of the stranger came.They blessed the generous chief of Clutha. Bards raised the song, and touched theharp: joy brightened on the face of the sad! Dunthalmo came, in his pride, and rushedinto the combat of Rathmor. The chief of Clutha overcame: the rage of Dunthalmorose. He came, by night, with his warriors; the mighty Rathmor fell. He fell in hishalls, where his feast was often spread for strangers.

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Colmar and Calthon were young, the sons of car-borne Rathmor. They came,in the joy of youth, into their father's hall. They behold him in his blood; their burstingtears descend. The soul of Dunthalmo melted, when he saw the children of youth. Hebrought them to Alteutha's walls; they grew in the house of their foe. They bent thebow in his presence: and came forth to his wars. They saw the fallen walls of theirfathers; they saw the green thorn in the hall. Their tears rushed forth in secret. Attimes their faces were sad. Dunthalmo beheld their grief; his darkening soul designedtheir death. He closed them in two caves, on the echoing banks of Teutha. The sun didnot come there with his beams; nor the moon of heaven by night. The sons ofRathmor remained in darkness, and foresaw 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. Shetrembled for her warrior; but what could Colmal do? Her arm could not lift the spear;nor was the sword formed 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 thefalling chief? Her steps are unequal; her hair is loose; her eye looks wildly through hertears. She came, by night, to the hall. She armed her lovely form in steel; the steel of ayoung warrior, who fell in the first of his battles. She came to the cave of Calthon, andloosed the thong from his hands.

"Arise, son of Rathmor," she said, "arise, the night is dark! Let us fly to theking of Selma, chief of fallen Clutha! I am the son of Lamgal, who dwelt in thyfather's hall. I heard of thy dark dwelling in the cave, and my soul arose. Arise, son ofRathmor! arise, the night is dark!" — "Blest voice!" replied the chief, "comest thoufrom the clouds to Calthon? The ghosts of his fathers have often descended in hisdreams, 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 shall I fly toFingal, and Colmar my brother low? Will I fly to Morven, and the hero closed innight? No; give me that spear, son of Lamgal; Calthon will defend his brother!"

"A thousand warriors," replied the maid, "stretch their spears round car-borneColmar. What can Calthon do against a host so great? Let us fly to the king ofMorven, he will come with war. His arm is stretched forth to the unhappy; thelightning of his sword is round the weak. Arise, thou son of Rathmor; the shadowswill fly away. Arise, or thy steps may be seen, and thou must fall in youth."

The sighing hero rose; his tears descend for car-borne Colmar. He came withthe maid to Selma's hall: but he knew not that it was Colmal. The helmet covered herlovely face. Her bosom heaved beneath the steel. Fingal returned from the chase, andfound the lovely strangers. They were like two beams of light, in the midst of the hallof shells. The king heard the tale of grief, and turned his eyes around. A thousandheroes half rose before him; claiming the war of Teutha. I came with my spear fromthe hill; the joy of battle rose in my breast: for the king spoke to Ossian in the midst ofa thousand chiefs.

" Son of my strength," began the king, "take thou the spear of Fingal. Go toTeutha's rushing stream, and save the car-borne Colmar. Let thy fame return beforethee like a pleasant gale; that my soul may rejoice over my son, who renews therenown of fathers. Ossian! be thou a storm in war; but mild when the foe is low! it


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was thus my fame arose, O my son! be thou like Selma's chief. When the haughtycome to my halls, my eyes behold them not. But my arm is stretched forth to theunhappy. My sword defends the weak."

I rejoiced in the words of the king. I took my rattling arms. Diaran rose at myside, and Dargo, king of spears. Three hundred youths followed our steps; the lovelystrangers were at my side. Dunthalmo heard the sound of our approach. He gatheredthe strength of Teutha. He stood on a hill with his host. They were like rocks brokenwith thunder, when their bent trees are singed and bare, and the streams of theirchinks have failed. The stream of Teutha rolled in its pride, before the gloomy foe. Isent a bard to Dunthalmo, to offer the combat on the plain; but he smiled in thedarkness 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. Thechief is sad, but stately. His eye is on his friends; for we stood in our arms, whilstTeutha's waters rolled between. Dunthalmo came with his spear, and pierced thehero's side: he rolled on the bank in his blood. We heard his broken sighs. Calthonrushed 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 rageof his bosom burned against the car-borne Calthon. But Calthon stood in grief; hemourned the fallen Colmar; Colmar slain in youth before his fame arose!

I bade the song of wo to rise, to soothe the mournful chief; but he stoodbeneath a tree, and often threw his spear on the earth. The humid eye of Colmar rollednear in a secret tear: she foresaw the fall of Dunthalmo, or of Clutha's warlike chief.Now half the night had passed away. Silence and darkness were on the field. Sleeprested on the eyes of the heroes: Calthon's settling soul was still. His eyes were halfclosed; but the murmur of Teutha had not yet failed in his ear. Pale, and showing hiswounds, the ghost of Colmar came: he bent his head over the hero, and raised hisfeeble voice!

" Sleeps the son of Rathmor in his night, and his brother low? Did we not riseto the chase together? Pursued we not the dark-brown hinds? Colmar was not forgottill he fell, till death had blasted his youth I lie pale beneath the rock of Lona. O letCalthon rise! the morning comes with its beams; Dunthalmo will dishonor the fallen."He passed away in his blast The rising Calthon saw the steps of his departure. Herushed in the sound of his steel. Unhappy Colmal rose. She followed her hero throughnight, and dragged her spear behind. But when Calthon came to Lona's rock, he foundhis fallen brother. The rage of his bosom rose; he rushed among the foe. The groans ofdeath ascend. They close around the chief. He is bound in the midst, and brought togloomy Dunthalmo. 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; andthe youthful strength of Dargo. We missed the chief of Clutha, and our souls weresad. I dreaded the departure of my fame. The pride of my valor rose. "Sons ofMorven," I said, "it is not thus our fathers fought. They rested not on the field ofstrangers, when the foe was not fallen before them. Their strength was like the eaglesof heaven; their renown is in the song. But our people fall by degrees. Our famebegins to depart. What shall the king of Morven say, if Ossian conquers not at

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Teutha? Rise in your steel, ye warriors, follow the sound of Ossian's course. He willnot 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: thrice the spear fell from her hand. My wrath turnedagainst the stranger; for my soul trembled for Calthon. '"Son of the feeble hand!" Isaid, "do Teutha's warriors fight with tears? The battle is not won with grief; nordwells the sigh in the soul of war. Go to the deer of Carmun, to the lowing herds ofTeutha. But leave these arms, thou son of fear! A warrior may lift them in fight."

I tore the mail from her shoulders. Her snowy breast appeared. She bent herblushing face to the ground. I looked in silence to the chiefs. The spear fell from myhand; the sigh of my bosom rose! But when I heard the name of the maid, mycrowding tears rushed down. I blessed the lovely beam of youth, and bade the battlemove!

Why, son of the rock, should Ossian tell how warriors died? They are nowforgot in their land; their tombs are not found on the heath. Years came on with theirstorms. The green mounds are mouldered away. Scarce is the grave of Dunthalmoseen, 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 ofthe hall, tells now my deeds to his sons, and the fall of the dark Dunthalmo. The facesof youth bend sidelong towards his voice. Surprise and joy burn in their eyes! I foundCalthon bound to an oak; my sword cut the thongs from his hands. I gave him thewhite-bosomed Colmal. They dwelt in the halls of Teutha.


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THE WAR OF CAROS.

ARGUMENT.

Caros is probably the noted usurper Carausius, by birth a Menapran, who assumed thepurple in the year 284; and, seizing on Britain, defeated the emperor MaximinianHerculius in several naval engagements, which gives propriety to his being called inthis poem "the king of ships." He repaired Agricola's wall, in order to obstruct theincursions of the Caledonians, and when he was employed in that work, it appears hewas attacked by a party under the command of Oscar the son of' Ossian. This battle isthe foundation of the present poem, which is addressed to Malvina, the daughter ofToscar.

Bring, daughter of Toscar, bring the harp! the light of the song rises inOssian's soul! It is like the field, when darkness covers the hills around, and theshadow grows slowly on the plain of the sun. I behold my son, O Malvina! near themossy rock of Crona. But it is the mist of the desert, tinged with the beam of the west!Lovely is the mist that assumes the form of Oscar! turn from it, ye winds, when yeroar on the side of Ardven!

Who comes towards my son, with the murmur of a song? His staff is in hishand, his gray hair loose on the wind. Surly joy lightens his face. He often looks backto Caros. It is Ryno of songs, he that went to view the foe. "What does Caros, king ofships?" said the son of the now mournful Ossian: "spreads he the wings <1> of hispride, bard of the times of old?" "He spreads them, Oscar," replied the bard," but it isbehind his gathered heap.<2> He looks over his stones with fear. He beholds theeterrible, as the ghost of night, that rolls the waves to his ships!"

"Go, thou first of my bards!" says Oscar, "take the spear of Fingal. Fix a flameon its point. Shake it to the winds of heaven. Bid him in songs, to advance, and leavethe rolling of his wave. Tell to Caros that I long for battle; that my bow is weary ofthe chase of Cona. Tell him the mighty are not here; and that my arm is young."

He went with the murmur of songs. Oscar reared his voice on high. It reachedhis heroes on Ardven, like the noise of a cave, when the sea of Togorma rolls beforeit, and its trees meet the roaring winds. They gather round my son like the streams ofthe hill; when, after rain, they roll in the pride of their course. Ryno came to themighty Caros. He struck his flaming spear. Come to the battle of Oscar. O thou thatsittest on the rolling waves! Fingal is distant far; he hears the songs of bards inMorven: the wind of his hall is in his hair. His terrible spear is at his side; his shieldthat is like the 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. Graynight grows dim on Crona. The feast of shells is spread. A hundred oaks burn to the

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wind; faint light gleams over the heath. The ghosts of Ardven pass through the beam,and show their dim and distant forms. Comala <3> is half unseen on her meteor;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 thousad, Hidallan! hast thou not received thy fame? The songs of Ossian have been heard ,thy ghost has brightened in wind, when thou didst bend from thy cloud to hear thesong of Morven's bard!"—-" And do thine eyes," said Oscar, " behold the chief, likethe dim meteor of night? Say, Ryno, say, how fell Hidallan, the renowned in the daysof my fathers! His name remains on the rocks of Cona. I have often seen the streamsof his hills!"

Fingal, replied the bard, drove Hidallan from his wars. The king's soul was sadfor Comala, and his eyes could not behold the chief. Lonely, sad, along the heath heslowly moved, with silent steps. His arms hung disordered on his side. His hair fliesloose from his brow. The tear is in his downcast eyes; a sigh half silent in his breast!Three days he strayed unseen, alone, before he came to Lamor's halls: the mossy hallsof his fathers, at the stream of Balva. There Lamor sat alone beneath a tree; for he hadsent his people with Hidallan to war. The stream ran at his feet; his gray head restedon his staff. Sightless are his aged eyes. He hums the song of other times. The noise ofHidallan'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 fallenon the banks of Carun, son of the aged Lamor? Or, if I hear the sound of Hidallan'sfeet, where are the mighty in the war? where are my people, Hidallan! that were wontto 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 renownedin war, my father! but Hidallan is renowned no more. I must sit alone on the banks ofBalva, when the roar of the battle grows."

" But thy fathers never sat alone," replied the rising pride of Lamor. "They never satalone on the banks of Balva, when the roar of battle rose. Dost thou not behold thattomb? My eyes discern it not; there rests the noble Garmállon, who never fled fromwar! Come, thou renowned in battle, he says, come to thy father's tomb. How am Irenowned, Garmállon? my son has fled from war!"

"King of the streamy Balva!" said Hidallan with a sigh, "why dost thoutorment my soul? Lamor, I never fled. Fingal was sad for Comala; he denied his warsto Hidallan. Go to the gray streams of thy land, he said; 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? Whenthousands are renowned in battle, shall he bend over my gray streams? Spirit of thenoble Garmállon! carry Lamor to his place; his eyes are dark, his soul is sad, his sonhas lost his fame."

"Where," said the youth, " shall I search for fames to gladden the soul ofLamor? From whence shall return with renown, that the sound of my arms may bepleasant in his ear? If I go to the chase of hinds, my name will not be heard. Lamor


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will not feel my dogs with his hands, glad at my arrival from the hill. He will notinquire of his mountains, or of the dark-brown deer of his deserts!"

"I must fall," said Lamor, "like a leafless oak: it grew on a rock! it wasoverturned by the winds! My ghost will be seen on my hills, mournful for my youngHidallan. Will not ye, ye mists, as ye rise, hide him from my sight! My son, go toLamor's ball: there the arms of our fathers hang. Bring the sword of Garmállon: hetook it from a foe!"

He went and brought the sword with all its studded thongs. He gave it to hisfather. The gray-haired hero felt the point with his hand.

"My son, lead me to Garmállon's tomb: it rises beside that rustling tree. Thelong grass is withered; I hear the breezes whistling there. A little fountain murmursnear, and sends its waters to Balva. There let me rest; it is noon: the sun is on ourfields!"

He led him to Garmállon's tomb. Lamor pierced the side of his son. They sleeptogether: their ancient halls moulder away. Ghosts are seen there at noon: the valley issilent, and the people shun the place of Lamor.

"Mournful is thy tale," said Oscar, "son of the times of old! My soul sighs forHidallan; he fell in the days of his youth. He flies on the blast of the desert: hiswandering is in a foreign land. Sons of the echoing Morven! draw near to the foes ofFingal. Send the night away in songs; watch the strength of Caros. Oscar goes to thepeople of other times; to the shades of silent Ardven, where his fathers sit dim in theirclouds, 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 winding Balva!"

The heroes move with their songs. Oscar slowly ascends the hill. The meteorsof night set on the heath before him. A distant torrent faintly roars. Unfrequent blastsrush 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! " Come," said the hero, "O ye ghosts of my fathers! ye that fought against the kings of the world! Tell thedeeds of future times; and your converse in our caves, when you talk together, andbehold your sons in the fields of the brave!"

Trenmo came from his hill at the voice of his mighty son. A cloud, like thesteed of the stranger, supported his airy limbs. His robe is of the mist of Lano, thatbrings death to the people. His sword is a green meteor, half-extinguished. His face iswithout form, and dark. He sighed thrice over the hero; thrice the winds of nightroared around! Many were his words to Oscar; but they only came by halves to ourears; they were dark as the tales of other times, before the light of the song arose. Heslowly vanished, like a mist that melts on the sunny hill. it was then, O daughter ofToscar! my son began first to be sad. He foresaw the fall of his race. At times he wasthoughtful and dark, like the sun when he carries a cloud on his face, but again helooks forth from his darkness on the green hills of Cona.

Oscar passed the night among his fathers: gray morning met him on Carun'sbanks. A green vale surrounded a tomb which arose in the times of old. Little hills lift

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their heads at a distance, and stretch their old trees to the wind. The warriors of Carossat there, for they had passed the stream by night. They appeared like the trunks ofaged pines, to the pale light of the morning. Oscar stood at the tomb, and raised thricehis terrible voice. The rocking hills echoed around; the starting roes bounded away:and the trembling ghosts of the dead fled, shrieking on their clouds. So terrible wasthe voice of my son, when he called his friends!

A thousand spears arose around; the people of Caros rose. Why, daughter ofToscar, 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 the arm of a ghost, when he stretchesit from a cloud; the rest of his thin form is unseen; but the people die in the vale! Myson beheld the approach of the foe; he stood in the silent 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? Themark of their arm is in a thousand battles. Oscar too shall be renowned. Come, ye dimghosts of my fathers, and behold my deeds in war! I may fall; but I will be renownedlike the race of the echoing Morven." He stood, growing in his place, like a flood in anarrow 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. Thewarriors of Caros fled; Oscar remained like a rock left by the ebbing sea. Now darkand deep, with all his steeds, Caros rolled his might along: the little streams are lost inhis course: the earth is rocking round. Battle spreads from wing to wing; ten thousandswords gleam at once in the sky. But why should Ossian sing of battles? For nevermore shall my steel shine in war. I remember the days of my youth with grief, when Ifeel the weakness of my arm. Happy are they who fell in their youth, in the midst oftheir renown! They have not beheld the tombs of their friends, or failed to bend thebow of their strength. Happy art thou, O Oscar, in the midst of thy rushing blast! Thouoften 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 behold not the formof my son at Carun, nor the figure of Oscar on Crona. The rustling winds have carriedhim far away, and the heart of his father is sad. But lead me, O Malvina! to the soundof my woods, to the roar of my mountain streams. Let the chase be heard on Cona: letme think on the days of other years. And bring me the harp, O maid! that I may touchit when the light of my soul shall arise. Be thou near to learn the song; future timesshall hear of me! The sons of the feeble hereafter will lift the voice of Cona; andlooking up to the rocks, say, "Here Ossian dwelt." They shall admire the chiefs of old,the race that are no more, while we ride on our clouds, Malvina! on the wings of theroaring winds. Our voices shall be heard at times in the desert; we shall sing on thebreeze of the rock!

<1> The wings of his pride: The Roman eagle.

<2> His gathered heap: Agricola's wall, which Carausius repaired.

<3> This is the scene of Comala's death, which is the subject of the dramatic poem.


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CATHLIN OF CLUTHA.

"Trenmor came before mine eyes, the tall form of other years"

ARGUMENT.

An address to Malvina, the daughter of Toscar. The poet relates the arrival of Cathlinin Selma, to solicit aid against Duth-carmor of Cluba, who had killed Cathmol for thesake of his daughter Lanul. Fingal declining to make a choice among his heroes, whowere all claiming the command of the expedition, they retired "each to his hill ofghosts," to be determined by dreams. The spirit of Trenmor appears to Ossian andOscar. They sail from the bay of Carmona, and on the fourth day, appear off thevalley of Rath-col, in Inis-huna, where Duth-carmor had fixed his residence. Ossiandespatches a bard to Duth-carmor to demand battle. Night comes on. The distress ofCathlin of Clutha. Ossian devolves the command on Oscar, who, according to thecustom of the kings of Morven, before battle, retired to a neighboring hill. Upon thecoming on of day, the battle joins. Oscar carries the mail and helmet of Duth-carmorto Cathlin, who had retired from the field. Cathlin is discovered to be the daughter ofCathmol in disguise, who had been carried off by force by, and had made her escapefrom, Duth-carmor.

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COME, thou beam that art lonely, from watching in the night! The squallingwinds are around thee, from all their echoing hills. Red, over my hundred streams, arethe light-covered paths of the dead. They rejoice on the eddying winds, in the seasonof night. Dwells there no joy in song, white-hand of the harps of Lutha? Awake thevoice of the string; roll my soul to me. It is a stream that has failed. Malvina, pour thesong.

I hear thee from thy darkness in Selma, thou that watchest lonely by night!Why didst thou withhold the song from Ossian's falling soul? As the falling brook tothe ear of the hunter, descending from his storm-covered hill, in a sunbeam rolls theechoing stream, he hears and shakes his dewy locks: such is the voice of Lutha to thefriend of the spirits of heroes. My swelling bosom beats high. I look back on the daysthat are past. Come, thou beam that art lonely, from watching in the night!

In the echoing bay of Carmona we saw one day the bounding ship. On highhung a broken shield; it was marked with wandering blood. Forward came a youth inarms, and stretched his pointless spear. Long, over his tearful eyes, hung loose hisdisordered locks. Fingal gave the shell of kings. The words of the stranger arose. "Inhis hall lies Cathmol of Clutha, by the winding of his own dark streams. Duth-carmorsaw white-bosomed Lanul, and pierced her father's side. In the rushy desert were mysteps. He fled in the season of night. Give thine aid to Cathlin to revenge his father. Isought thee not as a beam in a land of clouds. Thou, like the sun, art known, king ofechoing Selma!"

Selma's king looked around. In his presence we rose in arms. But who shouldlift the shield? for all had claimed the war. The night came down; we strode in silence,each to his hill of ghosts, that spirits might descend in our dreams to mark us for thefield. We struck the shield of the dead: we raised the hum of songs. We thrice calledthe ghosts of our fathers. We laid us down in dreams. Trenmor came, before mineeyes, the tall form of other years! His blue hosts were behind him in half-distinguished rows. — Scarce seen is their strife in mist, or the stretching forward todeaths. I listened, but no sound was there. The forms were empty wind!

I started from the dream of ghosts. On a sudden blast flew my whistling hair.Low sounding. in the oak, is the departure of the dead. I took my shield from itsbough. Onward came the rattling of steel. It was Oscar of Lego. He had seen hisfathers. As rushes forth the blast on the bosom of whitening waves, so careless shallmy course be, through ocean, to the dwelling of foes. I have seen the dead, my father!My beating soul is high! My fame is bright before me, like the streak of light on acloud, when the broad sun comes forth, red traveller of the sky!"

" Grandson of Branno," I said, "not Oscar alone shall meet the foe. I rushforward, through ocean, to the woody dwelling of heroes. Let us contend, my son, likeeagles from one rock, when they lift their broad wings against the stream of winds."


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We raised our sails in Carmona. From three ships they marked my shield on the wave,as I looked on nightly Ton-thena,<1> red traveller between the clouds. Four dayscame the breeze abroad. Lumon came forward in mist. In winds were its hundredgroves. Sunbeams marked at times its brown side. White leapt the foamy streamsfrom all its echoing rocks.

A green field, in the bosom of hills, winds silent with its own blue stream.Here, "midst the waving of oaks, were the dwellings of kings of old." But silence, formany dark-brown years, had settled in grassy Rath-col; for the race of heroes hadfailed along the pleasant vale. Duth-carmor was here, with his people, dark rider ofthe wave! Ton-thena had hid her head in the sky. He bound his white-bosomed sails.His course is on the hills of Rath-col to the seats of roes. We came. I sent the bard,with songs, to call the foe to fight. Duth-carmor heard him with joy. The king's soulwas like a beam of fire; a beam of fire, marked with smoke, rushing, varied throughthe bosom of night. The deeds of Duth-carmor were dark, though his arm was strong.

Night came with the gathering of clouds. By the beam of the oak we sat down.At a distance stood Cathlin of Clutha. I saw the changeful soul of the stranger. Asshadows fly over the field of grass, so various is Cathlin's cheek. It was fair withinlocks, that rose on Rath-col's wind. I did not rush, amidst his soul, with my words. Ibade the song to rise.

"Oscar of Lego," I said, "be thine the secret hill to-night. <2> Strike the shieldlike Morven's kings. With day thou shalt lead in war. From my rock I shall see thee,Oscar, a dreadful form ascending in fight, like the appearance of ghosts amidst thestorms they raise. Why should mine eyes return to the dim times of old, ere yet thesong had bursted forth, like the sudden rising of winds? But the years that are past aremarked with mighty deeds. As the nightly rider of waves looks up to Ton-thena ofbeams, so let us turn our eyes to Trenmor the father of kings."

"Wide, in Caracha's echoing field, Carmal had poured his tribes. They were adark ridge of waves. The gray-haired bards were like moving foam on their face. Theykindle the strife around with their red-rolling eyes. Nor alone were the dwellers ofrocks; a son of Loda was there, a voice in his own dark land, to call the ghosts fromhigh. On his hill he had dwelt in Lochlin, in the midst of a leafless grove. Five stoneslifted near their heads. Loud roared his rushing stream. He often raised his voice to thewinds, when meteors marked their nightly wings, when the dark-robed moon wasrolled behind her hill. Nor unheard of ghosts was he! They came with the sound ofeagle-wings. They turned battle, in fields, before the kings of men.

" But Trenmor they turned not from battle. He drew forward that troubled war:in its dark skirt was Trathal, like a rising light. It was dark, and Loda's son pouredforth his signs on night. The feeble were not before thee, son of other lands! Then rosethe strife of kings about the hill of night; but it was soft as two summer gales, shakingtheir light wings on a lake. Trenmor yielded to his son, for the fame of the king hadbeen heard. Trathal came forth before his father, and the foes failed in echoingCaracha. The years that are past, my son, are marked with mighty deeds."

In clouds rose the eastern light. The foe came forth in arms. The strife is mixedon Rath-col, like the roar of streams. Behold the contending of kings! They meet

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beside the oak. In gleams of steel the dark forms are lost; such is the meeting ofmeteors in a vale by night: red light is scattered round, and men foresee the storm! —Duth-carmor is low in blood! The son of Ossian overcame! Not harmless, in battle,was he, Malvina, hand of harps!

Nor, in the field, were the steps of Cathlin. The strangers stood by secretstream, where the foam of Rath-col skirted the mossy stones. Above bends thebranchy birch, and strews its leaves on wind. The inverted spear of Cathlin touched attimes the stream. Oscar brought Duth-carmor's mail: his helmet with its eagle-wing.He placed them before the stranger, and his words were heard. " The foes of thy fatherhave fallen. They are laid in the field of ghosts. Renown returns to Morven like arising wind. Why art thou dark, chief of Clutha? Is there cause for grief?"

" Son of Ossian of harps, my soul is darkly sad. I behold the arms of Cathmol,which lie raised in war. Take the mail of Cathlin, place it high in Selma's hall, thatthou mayest remember the hapless in thy distant land." From white breasts descendedthe mail. It was the race of kings: the soft-handed daughter of Cathmol, at the streamsof Clutha! Duth-carmor saw her bright in the hall; he had come by night to Clutha.Cathmol met him in battle, but the hero fell. Three days dwelt the foe with the maid.On the fourth she fled in arms. She remembered the race of kings, and felt herbursting soul!

Why, maid of Toscar of Lutha, should I tell how Cathlin failed? Her tomb is atrushy Lumon, in a distant land. Near it were the steps of Sul-malla, in the days ofgrief. She raised the song for the daughter of strangers, and touched the mournfulharp.

Come from the watching of night, Malvina, lonely beam!

<1> Ton-thena, " fire of the wave," was the remarkable star mentioned in the seventhbook of Temora, which directed the course of Larthon to Ireland.

<2> This passage alludes to the well-known custom among the ancient kings ofScotland, to retire from their army on the night preceding a battle. The story whichOssian introduces in the next paragraph, concerns the fall of the Druids.


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SUL-MALLA OF LUMON.

ARGUMENT.

This poem, which, properly speaking, is a continuation of the last, opens withan address to Sul-malla, the daughter of the king of Inis-huna, whom Ossian met atthe chase, as he returned from the battle of Rath-col. Sul-malla invites Ossian andOscar to a feast, at the residence of her father, who was then absent on the wars. Uponhearing their names and family, she relates an expedition of Fingal into Inis-huna. Shecasually mentioning Cathmor, chief of Atha, (who then assisted her father against hisenemies,) Ossian introduces the episode of Culgorm and Suran-dronlo, twoScandinavian kings, in whose wars Ossian himself and Cathmor were engaged onopposite sides. The story is imperfect, a part of the original being lost. Ossian, warnedin a dream by the ghost of Trenmor, sets sail from Inis-huna.

WHO moves so stately on Lumon, at the roar of the foamy waters? Her hairfalls upon her heaving breast. White is her arm behind, as slow she bends the bow.Why dost thou wander in deserts, like a light through a cloudy field? The young roesare panting by their secret rocks. Return, thou daughter of kings! the cloudy night isnear! It was the young branch of green Inishuna, Sul-malla of blue eyes. She sent thebard from her rock to bid us to her feast. Amidst the song we sat down in Cluba'sechoing hall. White moved the hands of Sul-malla on the trembling strings. Half-heard amidst the sound, was the name of Atha's king: he that was absent in battle forher own green land. Nor absent from her soul was he: he came 'midst her thoughts bynight. Ton-thena looked in from the sky, and saw her tossing arms.

The sound of shells had ceased. Amidst long locks Sul-malla rose. She spokewith bended eyes, and asked of our course through seas; "for of the kings of men areye, tall riders of the wave." "Not unknown," I said, "at his streams is he, the father ofour race. Fingal has been heard of at Cluba, blue-eyed daughter of kings. Not only atCrona's stream is Ossian and Oscar known. Foes tremble at our voice and shrink inother lands."

"Not unmarked," said the maid, "by Sul-malla, is the shield of Morven's king.It hangs high in my father's hall, in memory of the past, when Fingal came to Cluba,in the days of other years. Loud roared the boar of Culdarnu, in the midst of his rocksand woods. Inis-huna sent her youths; but they failed, and virgins wept over tombs.Careless went Fingal to Culdarnu. On his spear rolled the strength of the woods. Hewas bright, they said, in his locks, the first of mortal men. Nor at the feast were heardhis words. His deeds passed from his soul of fire, like the rolling of vapors from theface of the wandering sun. Not careless looked the blue eyes of Cluba on his statelysteps. In white bosoms rose the king of Selma, in the midst of their thoughts by night.

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But the winds bore the stranger to the echoing vales of his roes. Nor lost to other landswas he, like a meteor, that sinks in a cloud. He came forth, at times in his brightness,to the distant dwelling of foes. His fame came, like the sound of winds, to Cluba'swoody vale.

"Darkness dwells in Cluba of harps! the race of kings is distant far: in battle ismy father Conmor; and Lormar, my brother, king of streams. Nor darkening alone arethey; a beam from other lands is nigh; the friend of strangers <1> in Atha, the troublerof the field. High from their misty hills looks forth the blue eyes of Erin, for he is faraway, young dweller of their souls! Nor harmless, white hands of Erin! is Cathmor inthe skirts of war; he rolls ten thousand before him in his distant field."

"Not unseen by Ossian," I said, "rushed Cathmor from his streams, when hepoured his strength on I-thorno, isle of many waves! In strife met two kings in I-thorno, Culgorm and Suran-dronlo: each from his echoing isle, stern hunters of theboar!

"They met a boar at a foamy stream; each pierced him with his spear. Theystrove for the fame of the deed, and gloomy battle rose. From isle to isle they sent aspear broken and stained with blood, to call the friends of their fathers in theirsounding arms. Cathmor came from Erin to Colgorm, red-eyed king; I aided Suran-dronlo in his land of boars.

"We rushed on either side of a stream, which roared through a blasted heath.High broken rocks were round with all their bending trees. Near were two circles ofLoda, with the stone of power, where spirits descended by night in dark-red streamsof fire. There, mixed with the murmur of waters, rose the voice of aged men; theycalled the forms of night to aid them in their war.

"Heedless I stood with my people, where fell the foamy stream from rocks.The moon moved red from the mountain. My song at times arose. Dark, on the otherside, young Cathmor heard my voice, for he lay beneath the oak in all his gleamingarms. Morning came: we rushed to the fight; from wing to wing is the rolling of strife.They fell like the thistle's head beneath autumnal winds.

"In armor came a stately form: I mixed my strokes with the chief. By turns ourshields are pierced: loud rung our steely mail. His helmet fell to the ground. Inbrightness shone the foe. His eyes, two pleasant flames, rolled between his wanderinglocks. I knew Cathmor of Atha, and threw my spear on earth. Dark we turned, andsilent passed to mix with other foes.

"Not so passed the striving kings. They mixed in echoing fray, like themeeting of ghosts in the dark wing of winds. Through either breast rushed the spears,nor yet lay the foes on earth! A rock received their fall; half-reclined they lay in death.Each held the lock of his foe: each grimly seemed to roll his eyes. The stream of therock leapt on their shields, and mixed below with blood.

"The battle ceased in I-thorno. The strangers met in peace: Cathmor from Athaof streams, and Ossian king of harps. We placed the dead in earth. Our steps were byRunar's bay. With the bounding boat afar advanced a ridgy wave. Dark was the rider


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of seas, but a beam of light was there like the ray of the sun in Stromlo's rollingsmoke. It was the daughter of Suran-dronlo, wild in brightened looks. Her eyes werewandering flames amidst disordered locks. Forward is her white arm with the spear;her high-heaving breast is seen, white as foamy waves that rise, by turns, amidstrocks. They are beautiful, but terrible, and mariners call the winds!

"Come, ye dwellers of Loda!" she said: "come, Carchar, pale in the midst ofclouds! Sluthmor that stridest in airy halls! Corchtur, terrible in winds! Receive fromhis daughter's spear the foes of Suran-dronlo. No shadow at his roaring streams, nomildly looking form, was he! When he took up his spear, the hawks shook theirsounding wings: for blood was poured a round the steps of dark-eyed Suran-dronlo.He lighted me no harmless beam to glitter on his streams. Like meteors I was bright,but I blasted the foes of Suran-dronlo."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Nor unconcerned heard Sul-malla the praise of Cathmor of shields. He waswithin her soul, like a fire in secret heath, which awakes at the voice of the blast, andsends its beam abroad. Amidst the song removed the daughter of kings, like the voiceof a summer breeze, when it lifts the heads of flowers, and curls the lakes and streams.The rustling Sound gently spreads o'er the vale, softly-pleasing as it saddens the soul.

By night came a dream to Ossian; formless stood the shadow of Trenmor. Heseemed to strike the dim shield on Selma's streamy rock. I rose in my rattling steel: Iknew that war was near; before the winds our sails were spread, when Lumon showedits streams to the morn.

Come from the watching night Malvina, lonely beam!

<1> The friend of strangers: Cathmor, the son of Barbar-duthol.

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THE WAR OF INIS-THONA

ARGUMENT.

Reflections on the poet's youth. An apostrophe to Selma. Oscar obtains leave to go toInis-thona, an island of Scandinavia. The mournful story of Argon and Ruro, the twosons of the king of Inis-thona. Oscar revenges their death, and returns in triumph toSelma. A soliloquy by the poet himself.

Our youth is like the dream of the hunter on the hill of heath. He sleeps in themild beams of the sun: he awakes amidst a storm; the red lightning flies around: treesshake their heads to the wind! He looks back with joy on the day of the sun, and thepleasant dreams of his rest! When shall Ossian's youth return? When his ear delight inthe sound of arms? When shall I, like Oscar, travel in the light of my steel? Comewith your streams, ye hills of Cona! listen to the voice of Ossian. The song rises, likethe sun, in my soul. I feel the joys of other times.

I behold thy towers, O Selma! the oaks of thy shaded wall: thy streams soundin my ear; thy heroes gather round. Fingal sits in the midst. He leans on the shield ofTrenmor; his spear stands against the wall; he listens to the songs of his bards. Thedeeds of his arm are heard; the actions of the king in his youth! Oscar had returnedfrom the chase, and heard the hero's praise. He took the shield of Branno <1> from thewall; his eyes were filed with tears. Red was the cheek of youth. His voice wastrembling 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 inyour youth; your names are renowned in song. Oscar is like the mist of Cona; I appearand I vanish away. The bard will not know my name. The hunter will not search in theheath for my tomb. Let me fight, O heroes, in the battles of Inis-thona. Distant is theland of my war! ye shall not hear of Oscar's fall: some bard may find me there; somebard may give my name to song. The daughter of the stranger shall see my tomb, andweep over the youth, that came from afar. The bard shall say, at the feast, Hear thesong 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, regardour fame; thou art of the race of renown: let not the children of strangers say, Feebleare the sons of Morven! Be thou, in battle, a roaring storm: mild as the evening sun inpeace! Tell, Oscar, to Inis-thona's king, that Fingal remembers his youth; when westrove in the combat together, in the days of Agandecca."


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They lifted up the sounding sail: the wind whistled through the thongs <2> of theirmasts. Waves lashed the oozy rocks: the strength of ocean roars. My son beheld, fromthe wave, the land of groves. He rushed into Runa's sounding bay, and sent his swordto Annir of spears. The gray-headed hero rose, when he saw the sword of Fingal. Hiseyes were full of tears; he remembered his battles in youth. Twice had they lifted thespear before the lovely Agandecca.: heroes stood far distant, as if two spirits werestriving in winds.

" But now," began the king, " I am old; the Sword lies useless in my hall. Thouwho art of Morven's race! Annir has seen the battle of spears; but now he is pale andwithered, like the oak of Lano. I have no son to meet thee with joy, to bring thee tothe halls of his fathers. Argon is pale in the tomb, and Ruro is no more. My daughteris in the hall of strangers: she longs to behold my tomb. Her spouse shakes tenthousand spears; he comes a cloud of death from Lano. Come, to share the feast ofAnnir, son of echoing Morven?

Three days they feasted together. On the fourth, Annir heard the name of Oscar. Theyrejoiced in the shell. <3> They pursued the boars of Runa. Beside the fount of mossystones the weary heroes rest. The tear steals in secret from Annir: he broke the risingsigh. "Here darkly rest," the hero said, "the children of my youth. This stone is thetomb of Ruro; that tree sounds over the grave of Argon. Do ye hear my voice, O mysons, within your narrow house? Or do ye speak in these rustling leaves, when thewind of the desert rises?"

"King of Inis-thona," said Oscar, "how fell the children of youth? The wildboar rushes over their tombs, but he does not disturb their repose. They pursue deerformed of clouds, and bend their airy bow. They still love the sport of their youth; andmount the wind with joy."

"Cormalo," replied the king, " is a chief of ten thousand spears. He dwells at thewaters of Lano <4> which sends forth the vapor of death. He came to Runa's echoinghalls, and sought the honor of the spear.<5> The youth was lovely as the first beam ofthe sun; few were they who could meet him in fight. My heroes yielded to Cormalo;my daughter was seized in his love. Argon and Ruro returned from the chase; the tearsof their pride descend: they roll their silent eyes on Runa's heroes, who had yielded tostranger. Three days they feasted with Cormalo; on the fourth young Argon fought.But who could light with Argon? Cormalo is overcome. His heart swelled with thegrief of pride; he resolved in secret to behold the death of my sons. They went to thehills of Runa; they pursued the dark-brown hinds. The arrow of Cormalo flew insecret; my children fell in blood. He came to the maid of his love; to Inis-thona's long-haired maid. They fled over the desert, Annir remained alone. Night came on, and dayappeared; nor Argon's voice nor Ruro's came. At length their much-loved dog wasseen; the fleet and bounding Runa. He came into the hall and howled; and seemed tolook towards the place of their fall. We followed him; we found them here: we laidthem by this mossy stream. This is the haunt of Annir, when the chase of the hinds ispast. I bend like the trunk of an aged oak; my tears for ever flow!"

" O Ronnan!" said the rising Oscar, "Osgar, king of spears! call my heroes tomy side, the sons of streamy Morven. To-day we go to Lano's water, that sends forth

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the vapor of death. Cormalo will not long rejoice: death is often at the point of ourswords!"

They came over the desert like stormy clouds, when the winds roll them alongthe heath; their edges are tinged with lightning; the echoing groves foresee the storm!The horn of Oscar's battle is heard; Lano shook over all its waves. The children of thelake convened around the sounding shield of Cormalo. Oscar fought as he was wontin war. Cormalo fell beneath his sword: the sons of dismal Lano fled to their secretvales! Oscar brought the daughter of Inis-thona to Annir's echoing halls. The face ofage 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! itwas like a cloud of light that rises in the east, when the traveller is sad in a landunknown: and dismal night with her ghosts, is sitting around in shades! We broughthim with songs to Selma's halls. Fingal spread the feast of shells. A thousand bardsraised the name of Oscar: Morven answered to the sound. The daughter of Toscar wasthere; her voice was like the harp, when the distant sound comes in the evening, onthe soft rustling breeze of the vale!

O lay me, ye that see the light, near some rock of my hills! let the thick hazelsbe around, let the rustling oak be near. Green be the place of my rest; let the sound ofthe distant torrent be heard. Daughter of Toscar, take the harp, and raise the lovelysong of Selma; that sleep may overtake my soul in the midst of joy; that the dreams ofmy youth may return, and the days of the mighty Fingal. Selma! I behold thy towers,thy trees, thy shaded wall! I see the heroes of Morven; I hear the song of bards: Oscarlifts the sword of Cormalo; a thousand youths admire its studded thongs. They lookwith wonder on my son: they admire the strength of his arm. They mark the joy of hisfather's eyes; they long for an equal fame, and ye shall have your fame, O sons ofstreamy Morven! My soul is often brightened with song; I remember the friends ofmy youth. But sleep descends in the sound of the harp! pleasant dreams begin to rise!Ye Sons of the chase, stand far distant nor disturb my rest The bard of other timesholds discourse with his fathers! the chiefs of the days of old! Sons of the chase, standfar distant! disturb not the dreams of Ossian!

<1> Branno: The father of Everallin, and grandfather to Oscar

<2> Leather thongs were used among the Celtic nations, instead of ropes

<3> To "rejoice in the shell," is a phrase for feasting sumptuously and drinking freely.

<4> Lano was a lake of Scandinavia, remarkable in the days of Ossian for emitting apestilential vapor in autumn.

<5> By " the honor of the spear," is meant the tournament practised among theancient northern nations.


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THE SONGS OF SELMA.

ARGUMENT.

Address to the evening star. Apostrophe to Fingal and his times. Minona sings beforethe king the song of the unfortunate Colma, and the bards exhibit other specimens oftheir poetical talents according to an annual custom established by the monarchs ofthe ancient Caledonians.

STAR of descending night! fair is thy light in the west! thou that liftest thyunshorn head from thy cloud: thy steps are stately on thy hill. What dost thou beholdin 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:the hum of their course is in the field. What dost thou behold, fair light? But thou dostsmile and depart. The waves come with joy around thee: they bathe thy lovely hair.Farewell, thou silent beam! Let the light of Ossian's soul arise!

And it does arise in its strength! I behold my departed friends. Their gatheringis on Lora, as in the days of other years. Fingal comes like a watery column of mist!his heroes are around: and see the bards of song, gray-haired Ullin! Stately Ryno!Alpin with the tuneful voice! the soft complaint of Minona! How are ye changed, myfriends, since the days of Selma's feast! when we contended, like gales of spring, asthey fly along the hill, and bend by turns the feebly whistling grass.

Minona came forth in her beauty: with downcast look and tearful eye. Her hairflew slowly on the blast, that rushed unfrequent from the hill. The souls of the heroeswere sad when she raised the tuneful voice. Often had they seen the grave of Salgar,the dark dwelling of white-bosomed Colma. Colma left alone on the hill, with all hervoice of song! Salgar promised to come: but the night descended around. Hear thevoice of Colma, when she sat alone on the hill.

Colma. It is night, I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms. The wind is heardon the mountain. The torrent pours down the rock. No hut receives me from the rain;forlorn on the hill of winds!

Rise, moon! from behind thy clouds. Stars of the night, arise! Lead me, somelight, to the place where my love rests from the chase alone! his bow near him,unstrung: his dogs panting around him. But here I must sit alone, by the rock of themossy stream. The stream and the wind roar aloud. I hear not the voice of my love!Why delays my Salgar, why the chief of the hill, his promise? here is the rock, andhere the tree! here is the roaring stream! Thou didst promise with night to be here. Ah!whither is my Salgar gone? With thee, I would fly from my father; with thee, from mybrother of pride. Our race have long been foes; we are not foes, O Salgar!

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Cease a little while, O wind! stream, be thou silent awhile! let my voice beheard around. Let my wanderer hear me! Salgar! it is Colma who calls. Here is thetree, and the rock. Salgar, my love! I am here. Why delayest thou thy coming? Lo! thecalm moon comes forth. The flood is bright in the vale. The rocks are gray on thesteep, I see him not on the brow. His dogs come not before him, with tidings of hisnear approach. Here I must sit alone!

Who lie on the heath beside me? Are they my love and my brother? Speak tome, O my friends! To Colma they give no reply. Speak to me; I am alone! My soul istormented with fears! Ah! they are dead! Their swords are red from the fight. O mybrother! my brother! why hast thou slain my Salgar? why, O Salgar! hast thou slainmy brother? Dear were ye both to me! what shalt I say in your praise? Thou wert fairon the hill among thousands! he was terrible in fight. Speak to me; hear my voice;hear me, song of my love! They are silent; silent for ever! Cold, cold, are their breastsof clay! Oh! from the rock on the hill, from the top of the windy steep, speak, yeghosts of the dead! speak, I will not be afraid! Whither are ye gone to rest? In whatcave of the hill shall I find the departed? No feeble voice is on the gale: no answerhalf-drowned in the storm!

I sit in my grief; I wait for morning in my tears! Rear the tomb, ye friends ofthe dead. Close it not till Colma come. My life flies away like a dream: why should Istay behind? Here shall I rest with my friends, by the stream of the sounding rock.When night comes on the hilt; when the loud winds arise; my ghost shall stand in theblast, and mourn the death of my friends. The hunter shall hear from his booth. heshall fear but love my voice! For sweet shall my voice be for my friends: pleasantwere her friends to Colma!

Such was thy song, Minona, softly-blushing daughter of Torman. Our tearsdescended for Colma, and our souls were sad! Ullin came with his harp! he gave thesong 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: their voice had ceased in Selma. Ullin hadreturned, one day, from the chase, before the heroes fell. He heard their strife on thehilt; 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 oftears, the sister of car-borne Morar. She retired from the song of Ullin, like the moonin the west, when she foresees the shower, and hides her fair head in a cloud. Itouched the harp with Ullin; the song of mourning rose!

Ryno. The wind and the rain are past; calm is the noon of day. The clouds aredivided in heaven. Over the green hills flies the inconstant sun. Red through the stonyvale comes down the stream of the hill. Sweet are thy murmurs, O stream! but moresweet is the voice I hear. It is the voice of Alpin, the son of song, mourning for thedead! Bent is his head of age; red his tearful eye. Alpin, thou son of song, why aloneon the silent hill? why complainest thou, as a blast in the wood; as a wave on thelonely shore?

Alpin. My tears, O Ryno! are for the dead; my voice for those that have passedaway. Tall thou art on the hill; fair among the sons of the vale. But thou shalt fall like


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Morar; the mourner shall sit on thy tomb. The hills shall know thee no more; thy bowshall in thy hall unstrung.

Thou wert swift, O Morar! as a roe on the desert; terrible as a meteor of fire.Thy wrath was as the storm. Thy sword in battle, as lightning in the field. Thy voicewas a stream after rain; like thunder on distant hills. Many fell by thy arm; they wereconsumed in the flames of thy wrath. But when thou didst return from war, howpeaceful was thy brow! Thy face was like the sun after rain; like the moon in thesilence 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 Icompass thy grave. O thou who wast so great before! Four stones, with their heads ofmoss, are the only memorial of thee. A tree with scarce a leaf, long grass, whichwhistles 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 oflove. 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 eyesare red with tears? who quakes at every step? It is thy father, O Morar! the father ofno son but thee. He heard of thy fame in war; he heard of foes dispersed. He heard ofMorar's renown; 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 ofdust. No more shall he hear thy voice; no more awake at thy call. When shall it bemorn in the grave, to bid the slumberer awake Farewell, thou bravest of men! thouconqueror in the field! but the field shall see thee no more; nor the dark wood belightened with the splendor of thy steel. Thou hast left no son. The song shall preservethy 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 thedeath of his son, who fell in the days of his youth. Carmor was near the hero, the chiefof the echoing Galmal. Why burst the sigh of Armin? he said. Is there a cause tomourn? The song comes, with its music, to melt and please the soul. It is like softmist, that, rising from a lake, pours on the silent vale; the green flowers are filled withdew, but the sun returns in his strength, and the mist is gone. Why art thou sad, OArmin, chief of sea-surrounded Gorma?

Sad I am! nor small is my cause of wo. Carmor, thou hast lost no son; thouhast lost no daughter of beauty. Colgar the valiant lives; and Annira, fairest maid. Theboughs of thy house ascend, O Carmor! but Armin is the last of his race. Dark is thybed, O Daura! deep thy sleep in the tomb! When shalt thou awake with thy songs?with all thy voice of music?

Arise, winds of autumn, arise; blow along the heath! streams of the mountains,roar! roar, tempests, in the groves of my oaks! walk through broken clouds, O moon!show thy pale face, at intervals! bring to my mind the night, when all my children fell;when Arindal the mighty fell! when Daura the lovely failed! Daura, my daughter!thou wert fair; fair as the moon on Fura , white as the driven snow; sweet as thebreathing gale. Arindal, thy bow was strong. Thy spear was swift on the field. Thylook was like mist on the wave: thy shield, a red cloud in a storm. Armar, renowned in

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war, came, and sought Daura's love. He was not long refused: fair was the hope oftheir friends!

Erath, son of Odgal, repined: his brother had been slain by Armar. He camedisguised like a son of the sea: fair was his skiff on the wave; white his locks of age;calm his serious brow. Fairest of women, he said, lovely daughter of Armin! a rocknot distant in the sea bears a tree on its side: red shines the fruit afar! There Armarwaits for Daura. I come to carry his love! She went; she called on Armar. Noughtanswered, but the son of the rock. <1> Armar, my love! my love! why tormentest thoume with fear! hear, son of Arnart, hear: it is Daura who calleth thee! Erath the traitorfled laughing to the land. She lifted up her voice; she called for her brother and for herfather. Arindal! Armin! none to relieve your Daura!

Her voice came over the sea. Arindal my son descended from the hill; rough inthe spoils of the chase. His arrows rattled by his side; his bow was in his hand; fivedark-gray dogs attended his steps. He saw fierce Erath on the shore: he seized andbound him to an oak. Thick wind the thongs of the hide around his limbs: he loads thewinds 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 sunk, it sunk in thyheart, O Arindal, my son! for Erath the traitor thou diest. The oar is stopped at once;he panted on the rock and expired. What is thy grief, O Daura, when round thy feet ispoured thy brother's blood! The boat is broke in twain. Armar plunges into the sea, torescue his Daura, or die. Sudden a blast from a hill came over the waves. He sunk, andhe rose no more.

Alone on the sea-beat rock, my daughter was heard to complain. Frequent andloud were her cries. What could her father do? All night I stood on the shore. I sawher by the faint beam of the moon. All night I heard her cries. Loud was the wind; therain beat hard on the hill. 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 war! fallen my pride amongwomen! When the storms aloft arise; when the north lifts the wave on high! I sit bythe sounding shore, and look on the fatal rock. Often by the setting moon, I see theghosts of my children. Half viewless, they walk in mournful conference together. Willnone of you speak in pity. They do not regard their father. I am sad, O Carmor, norsmall is my cause of wo.

Such were the words of the bards in the days of song: when the king heard themusic of harps, the tales of other times! The chiefs gathered from all their hills, andheard the lovely sound. They praised the voice of Cona; <2> the first among athousand bards! But age is now on my tongue; my soul has failed: I hear, at times, theghosts of bards, and learn their pleasant Song. But memory fails on my mind. I hearthe call of years; they say, as they pass along, Why does Ossian sing? Soon shall helie in the narrow house, and no bard shall raise his fame! Roll on, ye dark-brownyears; ye bring no joy on your course! Let the tomb open to Ossian, for his strengthhas failed. The sons of 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 whistlesthere; the distant mariner sees the waving trees!


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<1> By "the son of the rock," the poet means the echoing back of the human voicefrom a rock.

<2> Ossian is sometimes poetically called "the voice of Cona".

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FINGAL: AN ANCIENT EPIC POEM

FINGAL — BOOK I.

ARGUMENT.

Cuthullin (general of the Irish tribes, in the minority of Cormac, king of Ireland)sitting alone beneath a tree, at the gate of Tura, a castle of Ulster (the other chiefshaving gone on a hunting party to Cromla, a neighboring hill,) is informed of thelanding of Swaran, king of Lochlin, by Moran, the son of Fithil, one of his scouts. Heconvenes the chiefs; a council is held, and disputes run high about giving battle to theenemy. Connal, the petty king of Togorma, and an intimate friend of Cuthullin, wasfor retreating, till Fingal, king of those Caledonians who inhabited the north-westcoast of Scotland, whose aid had been previously solicited, should arrive; but Calmar,the son of Matha, lord of Lara, a country in Connaught, was for engaging the enemyimmediately. Cuthullin, of himself willing to fight, went into the opinion of Calmar.Marching towards the enemy, he missed three of his bravest heroes, Fergus,Duchômar, and Cáthba. Fergus arriving, tells Cuthullin of the death of the two otherchiefs: which introduces the affecting episode of Morna, the daughter of Cormac. Thearmy of Cuthullin is descried at a distance by Swaran, who sent the son of Arno toobserve the motions of the enemy, while he himself ranged his forces in order ofbattle. The son of Arno returning to Swaran, describes to him Cuthullin's chariot, andthe terrible appearance of that hero. The armies engage, but night coming on, leavesthe victory undecided. Cuthullin, according to the hospitality of the times, sends toSwaran a formal invitation to a feast, by his bard Carril, the son of Kinfena. Swaranrefuses to come. Carril relates to Cuthullin the story of Grudar and Brassolis. A party,by Connal's advice, is sent to observe the enemy; which closes the action of the firstday.

CUTHULLIN sat by Tura's wall; by the tree of the rustling sound. His spearleaned against the rock. His shield lay on the grass by his side. Amid his thoughts ofmighty Cairbar, a hero slain by the chief in war; the scout of ocean comes, Moran theson of Fithil!

"Arise," said the youth, "Cuthullin, arise. I see the ships of the north! Many,chief of men, are the foe. Many the heroes of the sea-borne Swaran!" — "Moran!"replied the blue-eyed chief "thou ever tremblest, son of Fithil! Thy fears haveincreased the foe. It is Fingal, king of deserts, with aid to green Erin of streams." — "Ibeheld their chief," says Moran, "tall as a glittering rock. His spear is a blasted pine.His shield the rising moon! He sat on the shore! like a cloud of mist on the silent hill!


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Many, chief of heroes! I said, many are our hands of war. Well art thou named, themighty man; but many mighty men are seen from Tura's windy walls.

"He spoke, like a wave on a rock, 'Who in this land appears like me? Heroesstand not in my presence: they fall to earth from my hand. Who can meet Swaran infight? Who but Fingal, king of Selma of storms? Once we wrestled on Malmor; ourheels overturned the woods. Rocks fell from their place; rivulets, changing theircourse, fled murmuring from our side. Three days we renewed the strife; heroes stoodat a distance and trembled. On the fourth, Fingal says, that the king of the ocean fell!but Swaran says he stood! Let dark Cuthullin yield to him, that is strong as the stormsof his land!'

"No!" replied the blue-eyed chief, "I never yield to mortal man! DarkCuthullin shall be great or dead! Go, son of Fithil, take my spear. Strike the soundingshield of Semo. It hangs at Tura's rustling gale. The sound of peace is not its voice!My heroes shall hear and obey." He went. He struck the bossy shield. The hills, therocks reply. The sound spreads along the wood: deer start by the lake of roes. Curachleaps from the sounding rock! and Connal of the bloody spear! Crugal's breast ofsnow beats high. The son of Favi leaves the dark-brown hind. It is the shield of war,said Ronnart; the spear of Cuthullin, said Lugar! Son of the sea, put on thy arms!Calmar, lift thy sounding steel! Puno! dreadful hero, arise! Cairbar, from thy red treeof Cromla! Bend thy knee, O Eth! descend from the streams of Lena Caolt, stretch thyside as thou movest along the whistling heath of Mora: thy side that is white as thefoam of the troubled sea, when the dark winds pour it on rocky Cuthon.

Now I behold the chiefs, in the pride of their former deeds! Their souls arekindled at the battles of old; at the actions of other times. Their eyes are flames of fire.They roll in search of the foes of the land. Their mighty hands are on their swords.Lightning pours from their sides of steel. They come like streams from the mountains;each rushes roaring from the hill. Bright are the chiefs of battle, in the armor of theirfathers. Gloomy and dark, their heroes follow like the gathering of the rainy cloudsbehind the red meteors of heaven. The sounds of crashing arms ascend. The gray dogshowl between. Unequal bursts the song of battle. Rocking Cromla echoes round. OnLena's dusky heath they stand, like mist that shades the hills of autumn; when brokenand dark it settles high, and lifts its head to heaven.

"Hail," said Cuthullin, "Sons of the narrow vales! hail, hunters of the deer!Another sport is drawing near: it is like the dark rolling of that wave on the coast! Orshall we fight, ye sons of war! or yield green Erin to Lochlin? O Connal! speak, thoufirst of men! thou breaker of the shields! thou hast often fought with Lochlin: wiltthou lift thy father's spear?"

"Cuthullin!" calm the chief replied, "the spear of Connal is keen. it delights toshine in battle, to mix with the blood of thousands. But though my hand is bent onfight, my heart is for the peace of Erin. <1> Behold, thou first in Cormac's war, thesable fleet of Swaran. His masts are many on our coasts, like reeds on the lake ofLego. His ships are forests clothed with mists, when the trees yield by turns to thesqually wind. Many are his chiefs in battle. Connal is for peace! Fingal would shunhis arm, the first of mortal men! Fingal who scatters the mighty, as stormy winds theechoing Cona; and night settles with all her clouds on the hill!"

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"Fly, thou man of peace!" said Colmar, "fly," said the son of Matha; "go,Connal, to thy silent hills, where the spear never brightens in war! Pursue the dark-brown deer of Cromla: stop with thine arrows the bounding roes of Lena. But blue-eyed son of Semo, Cuthullin, ruler of the field, scatter thou the Sons of Lochlin! <2>roar through the ranks of their pride. Let no vessel of the kingdom of snow bound onthe dark-rolling waves of Inistore. <3> Rise, ye dark winds of Erin, rise! roar,whirlwinds of Lara of hinds! Amid the tempest let me die, torn, in a cloud, by angryghosts of men; amid the tempest let Calmar die, if ever chase was sport to him, somuch as the battle of shields!

"Calmar!" Connal slow replied, "I never fled, young son of Matha! I was swiftwith my friends in fight; but small is the fame of Connal! The battle was won in mypresence! the valiant overcame! But, son of Semo, hear my voice, regard the ancientthrone of Cormac. Give wealth and half the land for peace, till Fingal shall arrive onour coast. Or, if war be thy choice, I lift the sword and spear. My joy shall be in midstof thousands; my soul shall alighten through the gloom of the fight!"

"To me," Cuthullin replies, "pleasant is the noise of arms! pleasant as thethunder of heaven, before the shower of spring! But gather all the shining tribes, that Imay view the sons of war! Let then pass along the heath, bright as the sunshine beforea storm; when the west wind collects the clouds, and Morven echoes over all heroaks! But where are my friends in battle? the supporters of my arm in danger? Whereart thou, white-bosomed Câthba? Where is that cloud in war, Duchômar? Hast thouleft me, O Fergus! in the day of the storm? Fergus, first in our joy at the feast! son ofRossa! arm of death!

comest thou like a roe from Malmor? like a hart from thy echoing hills? Hall, thou sonof Rossa! what shades the soul of war?"

"Four stones," <4> replied the chief, "rise on the grave of Câthba. These handshave laid in earth Duchômar, that cloud in war! Câthba, son of Torman! thou wert asunbeam in Erin. And thou, O valiant Duchômar! a mist of the marshy Lano; when itmoves on the plains of autumn, bearing the death of thousands along. Morna! fairestof maids! calm is thy sleep in the cave of the rock! Thou hast fallen in darkness, like astar, that shoots across the desert; when the traveller is alone, and mourns the transientbeam!"

"Say," said Semo's blue-eyed son, "say how fell the chiefs of Erin. Fell they bythe sons of Lochlin, striving in the battle of heroes? Or what confines the strong inarms to the dark and narrow house?"

"Câthba," replied the hero, " fell by the sword of Duchômar at the oak of thenoisy streams. Duchômar came to Tura's cave; he spoke to the lovely Morna. 'Morna,fairest among women, lovely daughter of strong-armed Cormac! Why in the circle ofstones: in the cave of the rock alone? The stream murmurs along. The old tree groansin the wind. The lake is troubled before thee: dark are the clouds of the sky! But thouart snow on the heath; thy hair is the mist of Cromla; when it curls on the hill, when itshines to the beam of the west! Thy breasts are two smooth rocks seen from Branno ofstreams. Thy arms, like two white pillars in the halls of the great Fingal.'


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"'From whence,' the fair-haired maid replied, 'from whence Duchômar, mostgloomy of men? Dark are thy brows and terrible! Red are thy rolling eyes! DoesSwaran appear on the sea? What of the foe, Duchômar?' 'From the hill I return, OMorna, from the hill of the dark-brown hinds. Three have I slain with my bended yew.Three with my long-bounding dogs of the chase. Lovely daughter of Cormac, I lovethee as my soul: I have slain one stately deer for thee. High was his branchy head-andfleet his feet of wind.' 'Duchômar!' calm the maid replied, 'I love thee not, thougloomy man! hard is thy heart of rock; dark is thy terrible brow. But Câthba, youngson of Torman, thou art the love of Morna. Thou art a sunbeam, in the day of thegloomy storm. Sawest thou the son of Torman, lovely on the hill of his hinds? Herethe daughter of Cormac waits the coming of Câthba!"

"'Long shall Morna wait,' Duchômar said, 'long shall Morna wait for Câthba!Behold this sword unsheathed! Here wanders the blood of Câthba. Long shall Mornawait. He fell by the stream of Branno. On Croma I will raise his tomb, daughter ofblue-shielded Cormac! Turn on Duchômar thine eyes; his arm is strong as a storm.' 'Isthe son of Torman fallen?' said the wildly-bursting voice of the maid; 'is he fallen onhis echoing hills, the youth with the breast of snow? the first in the chase of hinds! thefoe of the strangers of ocean! Thou art dark <5> to me, Duchômar; cruel is thine armto Morna! Give me that sword, my foe! I loved the wandering blood of Câthba!'

"He gave the sword to her tears. She pierced his manly breast! He fell, like thebank of a mountain stream, and stretching forth his hand, he spoke: 'Daughter of blue-shielded Cormac! Thou hast slain me in youth! the sword is cold in my breast! Morna;I feel it cold. Give me to Moina the maid. Duchômar was the dream of her night! Shewill raise my tomb; the hunter shall raise my fame. But draw the sword from mybreast, Morna, the steel is cold!' She came, in all her tears she came; she drew thesword from his breast. He pierced her white side! He spread her fair locks on theground! Her bursting blood sounds from her side: her white arm is stained with red.Rolling in death she lay. The cave re-echoed to her sighs."

"Peace," said Cuthullin, "to the souls of the heroes! their deeds were great infight. Let them ride around me on clouds. Let them show their features of war. Mysoul shall then be firm in danger; mine arm like the thunder of heaven! But be thou ona moonbeam, O Morna! near the window of my rest; when my thoughts are of peace;when the din of arms is past. Gather the strength of the tribes! Move to the wars ofErin! Attend the car of my battles! Rejoice in the noise of my course! Place threespears by my side: follow the bounding of my steeds! that my soul may be strong inmy friends, when battle darken around the beams of my steel!

As rushes a stream of foam from the dark shady deep of Cromla, when thethunder is traveling above, and dark-brown night sits on half the hill. Through thebreaches of the tempest look forth the dim faces of ghosts. So fierce, so vast, soterrible rushed on the sons of Erin. The chief, like a whale of ocean, whom all hisbillows pursue, poured valor forth, as a stream, rolling his might along the shore. Thesons of Lochlin heard the noise, as the sound of a winter storm. Swaran struck hisbossy shield: he called the son of Arno. "What murmur rolls along the hill, like thegathered flies of the eve? The sons of Erin descend, or rustling winds roar in thedistant wood! Such is the noise of Gormal, before the white tops of my waves arise. Oson of Arno! ascend the hill; view the dark face of the heath!"

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He went. He trembling swift returned. His eyes rolled wildly round. His heartbeat high against his side. His words were faltering, broken, slow. "Arise, son ofocean, arise, chief of the dark-brown shields! I see the dark, the mountain-stream ofbattle! the deep. moving strength of the sons of Erin! the car of war comes on, like theflame of death! the rapid car of Cuthullin, the noble son of Semo! It bends behind likea wave near a rock; like a sun-streaked mist of the heath. Its sides are embossed withstones, and sparkle like the sea round the boat of night. Of polished yew is its beam;its seat of the smoothest bone. The sides are replenished with spears; the bottom is thefoot-stool of heroes! Before the right side of the car is seen the snorting horse! thehigh-maned, broad-breasted, proud, wide-leaping strong steed of the hill. Loud andresounding is his hoof: the spreading of his mane above is like a stream of smoke on aridge of rocks. Bright are the sides of his steed! his name Sulin-Sifadda!

"Before the left side of the car is seen the snorting horse! The thin-maned,high-headed, strong-hoofed fleet-bounding son of the hill: His name is Dusronnal,among the stormy sons of the sword! A thousand thongs bind the car on high. Hardpolished bits shine in wreath of foam. Thin thongs, bright studded with gems, bend onthe stately necks of the steeds. The steeds, that like wreaths of mist fly over thestreamy vales! The wildness of deer is in their course, the strength of eaglesdescending on the prey. Their noise is like the blast of winter, on the sides of thesnow-headed Gormal.

"Within the car is seen the chief; the strong-armed son of the sword. Thehero's name is Cuthullin, son of Semo, king of shells. His red cheek is like mypolished yew. The look of his blue-rolling eye is wide, beneath the dark arch of hisbrow. His hair flies from his head like a flame, as bending forward he wields thespear. Fly, king of ocean, fly! He comes, like a storm along the streamy vale!

"When did I fly?" replied the king; " when fled Swaran from the battle ofspears? When did I shrink from danger, chief of the little soul? I met the storm ofGormal when the foam of my waves beat high. I met the storm of the clouds; shallSwaran fly from a hero? Were Fingal himself before me, my soul should not darkenwith fear. Arise to battle, my thousands! pour round me like the echoing main, gatherround the bright steel of your king; strong as the rocks of my land; that meet the stormwith joys and stretch their dark pines to the wind!"

Like autumn's dark storms pouring from two echoing hills, towards each otherapproached the heroes. Like two deep streams from high rocks meeting, mixingroaring on the plain; loud, rough, and dark in battle meet Lochlin and Ins-fail. Chiefmixes his strokes with chief, and man with man: steel, clanging, sounds on steel.Helmets are cleft on high. Blood bursts and smokes around. Strings murmur on thepolished yews. Darts rush along the sky. Spears fall like the circles of light, whichgild the face of night: as the noise of the troubled ocean, when roll the waves on high.As the last peal of thunder in heaven, such is the din of war! Though Cormac'shundred bards were there to give the fight to song; feeble was the voice of a hundredbards to send the deaths to future times! For many were the deaths of heroes; widepoured the blood of the brave!

Mourn, ye sons of song, mourn the death of the noble Sithállin. Let the sons ofFiona rise, on the lone plains of her lovely Ardan. They fell, like two hinds of the


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desert, by the hands of the mighty Swaran; when, in the midst of thousands, he roaredlike the shrill spirit of a storm. He sits dim on the clouds of the north, and enjoys thedeath of the mariner. Nor slept thy hand by thy side, chief of the isle of mist! <6>Many were the deaths of thine arm, Cuthullin, thou son of Semo! His sword was likethe beam of heaven when it pierces the sons of the vale: when the people are blastedand fall, and all the hills are burning around. Dusronnal snorted over the bodies ofheroes. Sifadda bathed his hoof in blood. The battle lay behind them, as grovesoverturned on the desert of Cromla; when the blast has passed the heath, laden withthe spirits of night!

Weep on the rocks of roaring winds, O maid of Inistore! Bend thy fair headover the waves, thou lovelier than the ghost of the hills, when it moves on the sun-beam, at noon, over the silence of Morven. He is fallen: thy youth is low! pale beneaththe sword of Cuthullin! No more shall valor raise thy love to match the blood ofkings. Trenar, graceful Trenar died, O maid of Inistore! His gray dogs are howling athome: they see his passing ghost. His bow is in the hall unstrung. No sound is in thehall of his hinds!

As roll a thousand waves to the rocks, so Swaran's host came on. As meets arock a thousand waves, so Erin met Swaran of spears. Death raises all his voicesaround, and mixes with the sounds of shields. Each hero is a pillar of darkness; thesword abeam of fire in his hand. The field echoes from wing to wing, as a hundredhammers, that rise, by turns, on the red son of the furnace. Who are these on Lena'sheath, these so gloomy and dark? Who are these like two clouds, and their swords likelightning. above them? The little hills are troubled around; the rocks tremble with alltheir moss. Who is it but ocean's son and the car-borne chief of Erin? Many are theanxious eyes of their friends, as they see them dim on the heath. But night concealsthe chiefs in clouds, and ends the dreadful fight!

It was on Cromla's shaggy side that Dorglas had placed the deer; the earlyfortune of the chase, before the heroes left the hill. A hundred youths collect theheath; ten warriors make the fire; three hundred choose the polished stones. The feastis smoking wide! Cuthullin, chief of Erin's war, resumed his mighty soul. He stoodupon his beamy spear, and spoke to the son of songs; to Carril of other times, thegray-headed son of Kinfena. "Is this feast spread for me alone, and the king ofLochlin on Erin's shore, far from the deer of his hills, and sounding halls of his feasts?Rise, Carril of other times, carry my words to Swaran. Tell him from the roaring ofwaters, that Cuthullin gives his feast. Here let him listen to the sound of my groves,amidst the clouds of night, for cold and bleak the blustering winds rush over the foamof his seas. Here let him praise the trembling harp, and hear the songs of heroes!"

Old Carril went with softest voice. He called the king of dark-brown shields!Rise, from the skins of thy chase; rise, Swaran, king of groves! Cuthullin gives the joyof shells. Partake the feast of Erin's blue-eyed chief! He answered like the sullensound of Cromla before a storm. Though all thy daughters, Inis-fail, should stretchtheir arms of snow, should raise the heavings of their breasts, softly roll their eyes oflove, yet fixed as Lochlin's thousand rocks here Swaran should remain, till morn, withthe young beams of the east, shall light me to the death of Cuthullin. Pleasant to myear is Lochlin's wind! It rushes over my seas! It speaks aloft in all my shrouds, andbrings my green forests to my mind: the green forests of Gormal, which often echoed

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to my winds when my spear was red in the chase of the boar. Let dark Cuthullin yieldto me the ancient throne of Cormac, or Erin's torrents shall show from their hills thered foam of the blood of his pride!

"Sad is the sound of Swaran's voice," said Carril other times! "Sad to himselfalone," said the blue-eyed son of Semo. "But, Carril, raise the voice on high; tell thedeeds of other times. Send thou the night away in song, and give the joy of grief. Formany heroes and maids of love have moved on Inis-fail, and lovely are the songs ofwo that are heard on Albion's rocks, when the noise of the chase is past, and thestreams of Cona <7> answer to the voice of Ossian.

"In other days," Carril replies, "came the sons of ocean to Erin; a thousandvessels bounded on waves to Ullin's lovely plains. The sons of Inis-fail arose to meetthe race of dark-brown shields. Cairbar, first of men, was there, and Grudar, statelyyouth! Long had they strove for the spotted bull that towed on Golbun's echoingheath. Each claimed him as his own. Death was often at the point of their steel. Sideby side the heroes fought: the strangers of ocean fled. Whose name was fairer on thehill than the name of Cairbar and Grudar? But, ah! why ever lowed the bull onGolbun's echoing heath? they saw him leaping like snow. The wrath of the chiefsreturned.

"On Lubar's <8> grassy banks they fought; Grudar fell in his blood. Fierce Cairbarcame to the vale, where Brassolis, fairest of his sisters, all alone, raised the song ofgrief. She sung of the actions of Grudar, the youth of her secret soul. She mournedhim in the field of blood, but still she hoped for his return. Her white bosom is seenfrom her robe, as the moon from the clouds of night, when its edge heaves white onthe view from the darkness which covers its orb). Her voice was softer than the harpto raise the song of grief. Her soul was fixed on Grudar. The secret look of her eyewas his. 'When shalt thou come in thine arms, thou mighty in the war?'

"'Take, Brassolis,' Cairbar came and said; 'take, Brassolis, this shield of blood.Fix it on high within my hall, the armor of my foe!' Her soft heart beat against herside. Distracted, pale, she flew. She found her youth in all his blood; she died onCromla's heath. Here rests their dust, Cuthullin! these lonely yews sprung from theirtombs, and shade them from the storm. Fair was Brassolis on the plain! Stately wasGrudar on the hill! The bard shall preserve their names, and send them down to futuretimes!"

"Pleasant is thy voice, O Carril," said the blue-eyed chief of Erin. Pleasant arethe words of other times. They are like the calm shower of spring, when the sun lookson the field, and the light cloud flies over the hills. O strike the harp in praise of mylove, the lonely sunbeam of Dunscaith! Strike the harp in the praise of Bragéla, shethat I left in the isle of mist, the spouse of Semo's son! Dost thou raise thy fair facefrom the rock to find the sails of Cuthullin? The sea is rolling distant far: its whitefoam deceives thee for my sails. Retire, for it is night, my love; the dark winds sigh inthy hair. Retire to the halls of my feasts, think of the times that are past. I will notreturn till the storm of war is ceased. O Connal! speak of war and arms, and send herfrom my mind. Lovely with her flowing hair is the white-bosomed daughter ofSorglan."


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Connal, slow to speak, replied, "Guard against the race of ocean. Send thytroop of night abroad, and watch the strength of Swaran. Cuthullin, I am for peace tillthe race of Selma come, till Fingal come, the first of men, and beam, like the sun onour fields!" The hero struck the shield of alarms, the warriors of the night moved on.The rest lay in the heath of the deer, and slept beneath the dusky wind. The ghosts<9> of the lately dead were near, and swam on the gloomy clouds; and far distant inthe dark silence of Lena, the feeble voices of death were faintly heard.

<1> Erin, a name of Ireland; for "ear," or "iar," west, and "in", an island.

<2> Lochlin: The Gaelic name of a Scandinavian general.

<3> Inistore: The Orkney islands.

<4> This passage alludes to the manner of burial among the ancient Scots. Theyopened a grave six or eight feet deep; the bottom was lined with fine clay; and on thisthey laid the body of the deceased, and, if a warrior, his sword, and the heads oftwelve arrows by his side. Above they laid another stratum of clay, in which theyplaced the horn of a deer, the symbol of hunting. The whole was covered with a finemould, and four stones placed on end to mark the extent of the grave. These are thefour stones alluded to here.

<5> Thou art dark to me: She alludes to his name the " dark man."

<6> The isle of mist: The isle of Sky; not improperly called the "isle of mist," as itshigh hills, which catch the clouds from the Western Ocean, occasion almost continualrains.

<7> The Cona here mentioned is the small river that runs through Glenco inArgyleshire.

<8> Lubar, a river in Ulster; "Labhar," loud, noisy.

<9> It was long the opinion of the ancient Scots, that a ghost was heard shrieking nearthe place where a death was to happen soon after.

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FINGAL — BOOK II.

The ships, he cried, the ships of the lonely isles.

ARGUMENT.

The ghost of Crugal, one of the Irish heroes who was killed in battle, appearing toConnal, foretells the defeat of Cuthullin in the next battle, and earnestly advises himto make peace with Swaran. Connal communicates the vision; but Cuthullin isinflexible; from a principle of honor he would not be the first to sue for peace, and heresolved to continue the war. Morning comes; Swaran proposes dishonorable terms toCuthullin, which are rejected. The battle begins, and is obstinately fought for sometime, until, upon the flight of Grumal, the whole Irish army gave way. Cuthullin andConnal cover their retreat. Carril leads them to a neighboring hill, whither they aresoon followed by Cuthullin himself; who descries the fleet of Fingal making towardstheir coast; but night coming on, he lost sight of it again. Cuthullin, dejected after his


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defeat, attributes his ill success to the death of Ferda, his friend, whom he had killedsome time before. Carril, to show that ill success did not always attend those whoinnocently killed their friends, introduces the episode of Connal and Galvina.

Connal lay by the sound of the mountain-stream, beneath the aged tree. Astone, with its moss, supported his head. Shrill, through the heath of Lena, he heardthe voice of night. At distance from the heroes he lay; the son of the sword feared nofoe! The hero beheld, in his rest, a dark-red stream of fire rushing down from the hill.Crugal sat upon the beam, a chief who fell in fight. He fell by the hand of Swaran,striving in the battle of heroes. His face is like the beam of the setting moon. His robesare of the clouds of the hill. His eyes are two decaying flames.

Dark is the wound of his breast! "Crugal," said the mighty Connal, "son ofDedgal famed on the hill of hinds! Why so pale and sad, thou breaker of shields?Thou hast never been pale for fear! What disturbs the departed Crugal?" Dim, and intears he stood, and stretched his pale hand over the hero. Faintly he raised his feeblevoice, like the gale of the reedy Lego.

"My spirit, Connal, is on my hills; my course on the sands of Erin. Thou shaltnever talk with Crugal, nor find his lone steps in the heath. I am light as the blast ofCromla. I move like the shadow of mist! Connal, son of Colgar, I see a cloud of death:it hovers dark over the plains of Lena. The Sons of green Erin must fall. Remove fromthe field of ghosts." Like the darkened moon he retired, in the midst of the whistlingblast. "Stay," said the mighty Connal " stay, my dark-red friend. Lay by that beam ofheaven, son of windy Cromla! What cave is thy lonely house? What green-headed hillthe place of thy repose? Shall we not hear thee in the storm? in the noise of themountain-stream? when the feeble Sons of the wind come forth, and, scarcely seen,pass over the desert?"

The soft-voiced Connal rose, in the midst of his sounding arms. He struck hisshield above Cuthullin. The son of battle waked. "Why," said the ruler of the car,"comes Connal through my night? My spear might turn against the sound, andCuthullin mourn the death of his friend. Speak, Connal; son of Colgar, speak; thycounsel is the sun of heaven!" "Son of Semo!" replied the chief, "the ghost of Crugalcame from his cave. The stars dim twinkled through his form His voice was like thesound of a distant stream He is a messenger of death! He speaks of the dark andnarrow house! Sue for peace, O chief of Erin!, or fly over the heath of Lena!"

"He spoke to Connal," replied the hero, "though stars dim twinkled through hisform. Son of Colgar, it was the wind that murmured across thy car. Or if it was theform of Crugal, why didst thou not force him to my sight? Hast thou inquired where ishis cave? the house of that son of wind? My sword might find that voice, and force hisknowledge from Crugal. But small is his knowledge, Connal; he was here to-day. Hecould not have gone beyond our hills! who could tell him there of our fall?" "Ghosts

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fly on clouds, and ride on winds," said Connal's voice of wisdom. "They rest togetherin their caves, and talk of mortal men."

"Then let them talk of mortal men; of every man but Erin's chief. Let me beforgot in their cave. I will not fly from Swaran! If fall I must, my tomb shall riseamidst the fame of future times. The hunter shall shed a tear on my stone: sorrow shalldwell around the high-bosomed Bragéla. I fear not death; to fly I fear! Fingal has seenme victorious! Thou dim phantom of the hill, show thyself to me! come on thy beamof heaven, show me my death in thine hand! yet I will not fly, thou feeble son of thewind! Go, son of Colgar, strike the shield. It hangs between the spears. Let mywarriors rise to the sound in the midst of the battles of Erin. Though Fingal delays hiscoming with the race of his stormy isles, we shall fight; O Colgar's son, and die in thebattle of heroes!"

The sound spreads wide. The heroes rise, like the breaking of a blue-rollingwave. They stood on the heath, like oaks with all their branches round them, whenthey echo to the stream of frost, and their withered leaves are rustling to the wind!High Cromla's head of clouds is gray. Morning trembles on the half-enlightenedocean. The blue mist swims slowly by, and hides the Sons of Inis-fail!

"Rise ye," said the king of the dark-brown shields, "ye that came fromLochlin's waves. The sons of Erin have fled from our arms; pursue them over theplains of Lena! Morla, go to Cormac's hall. Bid them yield to Swaran, before hispeople sink to the tomb, and silence spread over his isle." They rose, rustling like aflock of sea-fowl, when the waves expel them from the shore. Their sound was like athousand streams, that meet in Cona's vale, when after a stormy night, they turn theirdark eddies beneath the pale light of the morn.

As the dark shades of autumn fly over the hills of grass, so gloomy, dark,successive came the chiefs of Lochlin's echoing woods. Tall as the stag of Morven,moved stately before them the king. His shining shield is on his side, like a flame onthe heath at night, when the world is silent and dark, and the traveller sees someghosts sporting in the beam! Dimly gleam the hills around, and show indistinctly theiroaks! A blast from the troubled ocean removed the settled mist. The Sons of Erinappear, like a ridge of rocks on the coast; when mariners, on shores unknown, aretrembling at veering winds!

"Go, Morla, go," said the king of Lochlin, "offer peace to these. Offer theterms we give to kings, when nations bow down to our swords. When the valiant aredead in war; when virgins weep on the field!" Tall Morla came, the son of Swaran,and stately strode the youth along! He spoke to Erin's blue-eyed chief, among thelesser heroes. "Take Swaran's peace," the warrior spoke, "the peace he gives to kingswhen nations bow to his sword. Leave Erin's streamy plains to us, and give thy spouseand dog. Thy spouse, high-bosomed heaving fair! Thy dog that overtakes the wind!Give these to prove the weakness of thine arm, live then beneath our power!"

"Tell Swaran, tell that heart of pride, Cuthullin never yields! I give him thedark-rolling sea; I give his people graves in Erin. But never shall a stranger have thepleasing sunbeam of my love. No deer shall fly on Lochlin's hills, before swift-footedLuäth." "Vain ruler of the car," said Morla, " wilt thou then fight the king? the king


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whose ships of many groves could carry off thine isle! So little is thy green-hilled Erinto him who rules the stormy waves!" " In words I yield to many, Morla. My swordshall yield to none. Erin shall own the sway of Cormac while Connal and Cuthullinlive! O Connal, first of mighty men, thou hearest the words of Morla. Shall thythoughts then be of peace, thou breaker of the shields? Spirit of fallen Crugal, Whydidst thou threaten us with death? The narrow house shall receive me in the midst ofthe light of renown. Exalt, ye sons of Erin, exalt the spear and bend the bow; rush onthe foe in darkness, as the spirits of stormy nights!"

Then dismal, roaring fierce and deep, the gloom of battle poured along, as mistthat is rolled on a valley when storms invade the silent sunshine of heaven. Cuthullinmoves before me in arms, like an angry ghost before a cloud, when meteors enclosehim with fire; when the dark winds are in his hand. Carril, far on the heath, bids thehorn of battle sound. He raises the voice of song, and pours his soul into the minds ofthe brave.

"Where," said the mouth of the song, "where is the fallen Crugal? He liesforgot on earth; the hall of shells <1> is silent. Sad is the spouse of Crugal. She is astranger in the hall of her grief. But who is she that, like a sunbeam, flies before theranks of the foe? It is Degrena, lovely fair, the spouse of fallen Crugal. Her hair is onthe wind behind. Her eye is red; her voice is shrill. Pale, empty, is thy Crugal now!His form is in the cave of the hill. He comes to the ear of rest; he raises his feeblevoice, like the humming of the mountain-bee, like the collected flies of the eve! ButDegrena falls like a cloud of the morn; the sword of Lochlin is in her side. Cairbar,she is fallen, the rising thought of thy youth! She is fallen, O Cairbar! the thought ofthy youthful hours!"

Fierce Cairbar heard the mournful sound. He rushed along like ocean's whale.He saw the death of his daughter: he roared in the midst of thousands. His spear met ason of Lochlin! battle spreads from wing to wing! As a hundred winds in Lochlin'sgroves, as fire in the pines of a hundred hills, so loud, so ruinous, so vast, the ranks ofmen are hewn down. Cuthullin cut off heroes like thistles; Swaran wasted Erin.Curach fell by his hand, Cairbar of the bossy shield! Morglan lies in lasting rest! Ca-olt trembles as he dies! His white breast is stained with blood! his yellow hairstretched in the dust of his native land! He often had spread the feast where he fell. Heoften there had raised the voice of the harp, when his dogs leapt round for joy, and theyouths of the chase prepared the bow!

Still Swaran advanced, as a stream that bursts from the desert. The little hillsare rolled in its course, the rocks are half-sunk by its side. But Cuthullin stood beforehim, like a hill, that catches the clouds of heaven. The winds contend on its head ofpines, the hail rattles on its rocks. But, firm in its strength, it stands, and shades thesilent vale of Cona. So Cuthullin shaded the sons of Erin, and stood in the midst ofthousands. Blood rises like the fount of a rock from panting heroes around. But Erinfalls on either wing, like snow in the day of the sun.

O sons of Erin," said Grumal, "Lochlin conquers in the field. Why strive we asreeds against the wind? Fly to the hill of dark-brown hinds." He fled like the stag ofMorven; his spear is a trembling beam of light behind him. Few fled with Grumal,chief of the little soul: they fell in the battle of heroes on Lena's echoing heath. High

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on his car of many gems the chief of Erin stood. He slew a mighty son of Lochlin, andspoke in haste to Connal. "O Connal, first of mortal men, thou hast taught this arm ofdeath! Though Erin's Sons have fled, shall we not fight the foe? Carril, son of othertimes, carry my friends to that bushy hill. Here, Connal, let us stand like rocks, andsave our flying friends."

Connal mounts the car of gems. They stretch their shields, like the darkenedmoon, the daughter of the starry skies, when she moves a dun circle through heaven,and dreadful change is expected by men. Sith-fadda panted up the hill, and Stronnal,haughty steed. Like waves behind a whale, behind them rushed the foe. Now on therising side of Cromla stood Erin's few sad sons: like a grove through which the flamehad rushed, hurried on by the winds of the stormy night; distant, withered, dark, theystand, with not a leaf to shake in the vale.

Cuthullin stood beside an oak. He rolled his red eye in silence, and heard thewind in his bushy hair; the scout of ocean came, Moran the son of Fithil "The ships,"he cried, "the ships of the lonely isles. Fingal comes, the first of men, the breaker ofthe shields! The waves foam before his black prows! His masts with sails are likegroves in clouds!" — "Blow," said Cuthullin, "blow, ye winds that rush along my isleof mist. Come to the death of thousands, O king of resounding Selma! Thy sails, myfriend, are to me the clouds of the morning; thy ships the light of heaven; and thouthyself a pillar of fire that beams on the world by night. O Connal, first of men, howpleasing in grief are our friends! But the night is gathering around. Where now are theships of Fingal? Here let us pass the hours of darkness; here wish for the moon ofheaven."

The winds came down on the woods. The torrents rush from the rocks. Raingathers round the head of Cromla. The red stars tremble between the flying clouds.Sad, by the side of a stream, whose sound is echoed by a tree, sad by the side of astream the chief of Erin sits. Connal, son of Colgar, is there, and Carril of other times."Unhappy is the hand of Cuthullin," said the son of Semo, "unhappy is the hand ofCuthullin since he slew his friend! Ferda, son of Damman, I loved thee as myself!"

"How, Cuthullin, son of Semo, how fell the breaker of the shields? Well Iremember," said Connal, "the son of the noble Damman. Tall and fair, he was like therainbow of heaven. Ferda from Albion came, the chief of a hundred hills. In Muri's<2> hall he learned the sword, and won the friendship of Cuthullin. We moved to thechase together: one was our bed in the heath."

Deugala was the spouse of Cairbar, chief of the plains of Ullin. She wascovered with the light of beauty, but her heart was the house of pride. She loved thatsunbeam of youth, the son of the noble Damman. "Cairbar," said the white-armedDeugala, "give me half of the herd. No more I will remain in your halls. Divide theherd, dark Cairbar!" "Let Cuthullin," said Cairbar, "divide my herd on the hill.

His breast is the seat of justice. Depart, thou light of beauty!" I went anddivided the herd. One snow-white bull remained. I gave that bull to Cairbar. Thewrath of Deugala rose!


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"Son of Damman," began the fair, "Cuthullin hath pained my soul. I must hearof his death, or Lubar's stream shall roll over me. My pale ghost shall wander nearthee, and mourn the wound of my pride. Pour out the blood of Cuthullin, or pierce thisheaving breast." "Deugala," said the fair-haired youth, "how shall I slay the son ofSemo? He is the friend of my secret thoughts. Shall I then lift the sword?" She weptthree days before the chief; on the fourth he said he would fight. "I will fight myfriend, Deugala, but may I fall by his sword! Could I wander on the hill alone? CouldI behold the grave of Cuthullin?" We fought on the plain of Mori. Our swords avoid awound. They slide on the helmets of steel, or sound on the slippery shields. Deugalawas near with a smile, and said to the son of Damman: "Thine arm is feeble, sunbeamof youth! Thy years are not strong for steel. Yield to the son of Semo. He is a rock onMalmor."

The tear is in the eye of youth. He faltering said to me: "Cuthullin, raise thybossy shield. Defend thee from the hand of thy friend. My soul is laden with grief, forI must slay the chief of men." I sighed as the wind in the cleft of a rock. I lifted highthe edge of my steel. The sunbeam of battle fell: the first of Cuthullin's friends!Unhappy is the hand of Cuthullin since the hero fell!"

""Mournful is thy tale, son of the car," said Carril of other times. "It sends mysoul back to the ages of old, to the days of other years. Often have I heard of Comal,who slew the friend he loved; yet victory attended his steel: the battle was consumedin his presence!"

Comal was the son of Albion, the chief of a hundred hills! His deer drunk of athousand streams. A thousand rocks replied to the voice of his dogs. His face was themildness of youth; his hand the death of heroes. One was his love, and fair was she,the daughter of the mighty Conloch. She appeared like a sunbeam among women. Herhair was the wing of the raven. Her dogs were taught to the chase. Her bowstringsounded on the winds. Her soul was fixed on Comal. Often met their eyes of love.Their course in the chase was one. Happy were their words in secret. But Grumalloved the maid, the dark chief of the gloomy Ardven. He watched her lone steps in theheath, the foe of unhappy Comal.

One day, tired of the chase, when the mist had concealed their friends, Comaland the daughter of Conloch met in the cave of Ronan. It was the wonted haunt ofComal. Its sides were hung with his arms. A hundred shields of thongs were there; ahundred helms of sounding steel. "Rest here," he said, "my love, Galbina: thou lightof the cave of Ronan! A deer appears on Mora's brow. I go; but I will soon return." "Ifear," she said, "dark Grumal, my foe: he haunts the cave of Ronan! I will rest amongthe arms; but soon return, my love!"

He went to the deer of Mora. The daughter of Conloch would try his love. Sheclothed her fair sides with his armor: she strode from the cave of Ronan! he thought itwas his foe. His heart beat high. His color changed, and darkness dimmed his eyes.He drew the bow. The arrow flew. Galbina fell in blood! He run with wildness in hissteps: he called the daughter of Conloch. No answer in the lonely rock. Where artthou, O my love? He saw at length her heaving heart, beating around the arrow hethrew. "O Conloch's daughter! is it thou?" He sunk upon her breast! The huntersfound the hapless pair! He afterward walked the hill. But many and silent were his

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steps round the dark dwelling of his love. The fleet of the ocean came. He fought; thestrangers fled. He searched for death along the field. But who could slay the mightyComa!? He threw away his dark-brown shield. An arrow found his manly breast. Hesleeps with his loved Galbina at the noise of the sounding surge! Their green tombsare seen by the mariner, when he bounds on the waves of the north.

<1> The ancient Scots, well as the present Highlanders, drunk in shells; hence it is,that we so often meet in the old poetry with "chief of shells," and "the hall of shells."

<2> Muri: A place in Ulster.


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FINGAL — BOOK III

ARGUMENT.<1>

Cuthullin, pleased with the story of Carril, insists with that bard for more of his songs.He relates the actions of Fingal in Lochlin, and death of Agandecca, the beautifulsister of Swaran. He had scarce finished, when Calmar, the son of Matha, who hadadvised the first battle, came wounded from the field, and told them of Swaran'sdesign to surprise the remains of the Irish army. He himself proposes to withstandsingly the whole force of the enemy, in a narrow pass, till the Irish should make goodtheir retreat. Cuthullin, touched with the gallant proposal of Calmar, resolves toaccompany him and orders Carril to carry off the few that remained of the Irish.Morning comes, Calmar dies of his wounds; and the ships of the Caledoniansappearing, Swaran gives over the pursuit of the Irish, and returns to oppose Fingal'slanding. Cuthullin, ashamed, after his defeat, to appear before Fingal re tires to thecave of Tura. Fingal engages the enemy, puts them to flight: but the coming on ofnight makes the victory not decisive. The king, who had observed the gallant behaviorof his grandson Oscar, gives him advice concerning his conduct in peace and war. Herecommends to him to place the example of his fathers before his eyes, as the bestmodel for his conduct; which introduces the episode concerning Fainasóllis, thedaughter of the king of Craca, whom Fingal had taken under his protection in hisyouth. Fillan and Oscar are despatched to observe the motions of the enemy by night:Gaul, the son of Morni, desires the command of the army in the next battle, whichFingal promises to give him. Some general reflections of the poet close the third day.

"PLEASANT are the words of the song! "said Cuthullin, "lovely the tales ofother times! They are like the calm dew of the morning on the hill of roes! when thesun is faint on its side, and the lake is settled and blue on the vale. O Carril, raiseagain thy voice! let me hear the song of Selma: which was sung in my halls of joy,when Fingal, king of shields, was there, and glowed at the deeds of his fathers.

"Fingal! thou dweller of battle," said Carril, "early were thy deeds in arms.Lochlin was consumed in thy wrath, when thy youth strove in the beauty of maids.They smiled at the fair-blooming face of the hero; but death was in his hands. He wasstrong as the waters of Lora. His followers were the roar of a thousand streams. Theytook the king of Lochlin in war; they restored him to his ship. His big heart swelledwith pride; the death of the youth was dark in his soul. For none ever but Fingal, hadovercome the strength of the mighty Starno. He sat in the hall of his shells inLochlin's woody land. He called the gray-haired Snivan, that often sung round thecircle of Loda; when the stone of power heard his voice <2>, and battle turned in thefield of the valiant!

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"'Go, gray-haired Snivan,' Starno said: 'go to Ardven's sea-surrounded rocks.Tell to the king of Selma; he the fairest among his thousands; tell him I give to himmy daughter, the loveliest maid that ever heaved a breast of snow. Her arms are whiteas the foam of my waves. Her soul is generous and mild. Let him come with hisbravest heroes to the daughter of the secret hall!' Snivan came to Selma's hall: fair-haired Fingal attended his steps. His kindled soul flew to the maid, as he bounded onthe waves of the north. 'Welcome,' said the dark-brown Starno, 'welcome, king ofrocky Morven! welcome his heroes of might, sons of the distant isle! Three dayswithin thy halls shall we feast; three days pursue my boars; that your fame may reachthe maid who dwells in the secret hall.'

"Starno designed their death. He gave the feast of shells. Fingal, who doubtedthe foe, kept on his arms of steel. The sons of death were afraid: they fled from theeyes of the king. The voice of sprightly mirth arose. The trembling harps of joy werestrung. Bards sung the battles of heroes; they sung the heaving breast of love. Ullin,Fingal's bard, was there: the sweet voice of resounding Cona. He praised the daughterof Lochlin; and Morven's <3> high-descended chief. The daughter of Lochlinoverheard. She left the hall of her secret sigh! She came in all her beauty, like themoon from the cloud of the east. Loveliness was round her as light. Her steps were themusic of songs. She saw the youth and loved him. He was the stolen sigh of her soul.Her blue eyes rolled on him in secret: she blessed the chief of resounding Morven.

"The third day, with all its beams, shone bright on the wood of boars. Forthmoved the dark-browed Starno; and Fingal, king of shields. Half the day they spent inthe chase; the spear of Selma was red in blood. It was then the daughter of Starno,with blue eyes rolling in tears; it was then she came with her voice of love, and spoketo the king of Morven. 'Fingal, high-descended chief, trust not Starno's heart of pride.Within that wood he has placed his chiefs. Beware of the wood of death. Butremember, son of the isle, remember Agandecca; save me from the wrath of myfather, king of the windy Morven!'

"The youth with unconcern went on; his heroes by his side. The sons of deathfell by his hand; and Germal echoed around! Before the halls of Starno the sons of thechase convened. The king's dark brows were like clouds; his eyes like meteors ofnight. 'Bring hither,' he said, 'Agandecca to her lovely king of Morven! His hand isstained with the blood of my people; her words have not been in vain!' She came withthe red eye of tears. She came with loosely flowing locks. Her white breast heavedwith broken sighs, like the foam of the streamy Lubar. Starno pierced her side withsteel. She fell, like a wreath of snow, which slides from the rocks of Ronan, when thewoods are still, and echo deepens in the vale! Then Fingal eyed his valiant chiefs: hisvaliant chiefs took arms! The gloom of battle roared: Lochlin fled or died. Pale in hisbounding ship he closed the maid of the softest soul. Her tomb ascends on Ardven;the sea roars round her narrow dwelling."

"Blessed be her soul," said Cuthullin; "blessed be the mouth of the song!Strong was the youth of Fingal; strong is his arm of age. Lochlin shall fall againbefore the king of echoing Morven. Show thy face from a cloud, O moon! light hiswhite sails on the wave: and if any strong spirit of heaven sits on that low-hung cloud;turn his dark ships from the rock, thou rider of the storm!"


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Such were the words of Cuthullin at the sound of the mountain stream; whenCalmar ascended the hill, the wounded son of Matha. From the field he came in hisblood. He leaned on his bending spear. Feeble is the arm of battle! but strong the soulof the hero! "Welcome! O son of Matha," said Connal, "welcome art thou to thyfriends! Why bursts that broken sigh from the breast of him who never fearedbefore?" "And never, Connal, will he fear, chief of the pointed steel! My soulbrightens in danger; in the noise of arms I am of the race of battle. My fathers neverfeared.

"Cormar was the first of my race. He sported through the storms of waves. Hisblack skiff bounded on ocean; he travelled on the wings of the wind. A spirit onceembroiled the night. Seas swell and rocks resound. Winds drive along the clouds. Thelightning flies on wings of fire. He feared, and came to land, then blushed that hefeared at all. He rushed again among the waves, to find the son of the wind. Threeyouths guide the bounding bark: he stood with sword unsheathed. When the low-hungvapor passed, he took it by the curling head. He searched its dark womb with his steel.The son of the wind forsook the air. The moon and the stars returned! Such was theboldness of my race. Calmar is like his fathers. Danger flies from the lifted sword.They best succeed who dare!

"But now, ye sons of green Erin, retire from Lena's bloody heath. Collect thesad remnant of our friends, and join the sword of Fingal. I heard the sound ofLochlin's advancing arms: Calmar will remain and fight. My voice shall be such, myfriends, as if thousands were behind me. But, son of Semo, remember me. RememberCalmar's lifeless corse. When Fingal shall have wasted the field, place me by somestone of remembrance, that future times may hear my fame; that the mother of Calmarmay rejoice in my renown."

"No: son of Matha," said Cuthullin, "I will never leave thee here. My joy is inan unequal fight: my soul increases in danger. Connal, and Carril of other times, carryoff the sad sons of Erin. When the battle is over, search for us in this narrow way. Fornear this oak we shall fall, in the streams of the battle of thousands! O Fithal's son,with flying speed rush over the heath of Lena. Tell to Fingal that Erin is fallen. Bidthe king of Morven come. O let him come like the sun in a storm, to lighten, to restorethe isle!"

Morning is gray on Cromla. The sons of the sea ascend. Calmar stood forth tomeet them in the pride of his kindling soul. But pale was the face of the chief. Heleaned on his father's spear. That spear which he brought from Lara, when the soul ofhis mother was sad; the soul of the lonely Alcletha, waning in the sorrow of years. Butslowly now the hero falls, like a tree on the plain. Dark Cuthullin stands alone like arock in a sandy vale. The sea comes with its waves, and roars on its hardened sides.Its head is covered with foam; the hills are echoing round.

Now from the gray mist of the ocean the white-sailed ships of Fingal appear.High is the grove of their masts, as they nod, by turns, on the rolling wave. Swaransaw them from the hill. He returned from the sons of Erin. As ebbs the resoundingsea, through the hundred isles of Inistore; so loud, so vast, so immense, returned thesons of Lochlin against the king. But bending, weeping, sad, and slow, and dragginghis long spear behind, Cuthullin sunk in Cromla's wood, and mourned his fallen

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friends. He feared the face of Fingal, who was wont to greet him from the fields ofrenown!

"How many lie there of my heroes! the chiefs of Erin's race! they that werecheerful in the hall, when the sound of the shells arose! No more shall I find theirsteps in the heath! No more shall I hear their voice in the chase. Pale, silent, low onbloody beds, are they who were my friends! O spirits of the lately dead, meetCuthullin on his heath! Speak to him on the winds, when the rustling tree of Tura'scave resounds. There, far remote, I shall lie unknown. No bard shall hear of me. Nogray stone shall rise to my renown. Mourn me with the dead, O Bragéla! departed ismy fame." Such were the words of Cuthullin, when he sunk in the woods of Cromla!

Fingal, tall in his ship, stretched his bright lance before him. Terrible was thegleam of his steel: It was like the green meteor of death, setting in the heath ofMalmor, when the traveller is alone, and the broad moon is darkened in heaven.

"The battle is past," said the king. "I behold the blood of my friends. Sad is theheath of Lena! mournful the oaks of Cromla! The hunters have fallen in their strength:the son of Semo is no more! Ryno and Fillan, my sons, sound the horn of Fingal!Ascend that hill on the shore; call the children of the foe. Call them from the grave ofLamderg, the chief of other times. Be your voice like that of your father, when heenters the battles of his strength! I wait for the mighty stranger. I wait on Lena's shorefor Swaran. Let him come with all his race; strong in battle are the friends of thedead!"

Fair Ryno as lightning gleamed along: dark Fillan rushed like the shade ofautumn. On Lena's heath their voice is heard. The sons of ocean heard the horn ofFingal. As the roaring eddy of ocean returning from the kingdom of snows: so strong,so dark, so sudden, came down the sons of Lochlin. The king in their front appears, inthe dismal pride of his arms! Wrath burns on his dark-brown face; his eyes roll in thefire of his valor. Fingal beheld the son of Starno: he remembered Agandecca. ForSwaran with tears of youth had mourned his white-bosomed sister. He sent Ullin ofsongs to bid him to the feast of shells: for pleasant on Fingal's soul returned thememory of the first of his loves!

Ullin came with aged steps, and spoke to Starno's son. "O thou that dwellestafar, surrounded, like a rock, with thy waves! come to the feast of the king, and passthe day in rest. To-morrow let us fight, O Swaran, and break the echoing shields." —"To-day," said Starno's wrathful son, "we break the echoing shields: to-morrow myfeast shall be spread; but Fingal shall lie on earth." — "To-morrow let his feast bespread," said Fingal, with a smile. "To-day, O my sons! we shall break the echoingshields. Ossian, stand thou near my arm. Gaul, lift thy terrible sword. Fergus, bend thycrooked yew. Throw, Fillan, thy lance through heaven. Lift your shields, like thedarkened moon. Be your spears the meteors of death. Follow me in the path of myfame. Equal my deeds in battle."

As a hundred winds on Morven; as the streams of a hundred hills; as clouds flysuccessive over heaven; as the dark ocean assails the shore of the desert: so roaring,so vast, so terrible, the armies mixed on Lena's echoing heath. The groans of thepeople spread over the hills: it was like the thunder of night, when the cloud bursts on


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Cona; and a thousand ghosts shriek at once on the hollow wind. Fingal rushed on inhis strength, terrible as the spirit of Trenmor; when in a whirlwind he comes toMorven, to see the children of his pride. The oaks resound on their mountains, and therocks fall down before him. Dimly seen as lightens the night, he strides largely fromhill to hill. Bloody was the hand of my father, when he whirled the gleam of hissword. He remembers the battles of his youth. The field is wasted in its course!

Ryno went on like a pillar of fire. Dark is the brow of Gaul. Fergus rushedforward with feet of wind; Fillin like the mist of the hill. Ossian, like a rock, camedown. I exulted in the strength of the king. Many were the deaths of my arm! dismalthe gleam of my sword! My locks were not then so gray; nor trembled my hands withage. My eyes were not closed in darkness; my feet failed not in the race!

Who can relate the deaths of the people? who the deeds of mighty heroes?when Fingal, burning in his wrath, consumed the sons of Lochlin? Groans swelled ongroans from hill to hill, till night had covered all. Pale, staring like a herd of deer, thesons of Lochlin convene on Lena. We sat and heard the sprightly harp, at Lubar'sgentle stream. Fingal himself was next to the foe. He listened to the tales of his bards.His godlike race were in the song, the chiefs of other times. Attentive, leaning on hisshield, the king of Morven sat. The wind whistled through his locks; his thoughts areof the days of other years. Near him, on his bending spear, my young, my valiantOscar stood. He admired the king of Morven: his deeds were swelling in his soul.

"Son of my son," began the king, "O Oscar, pride of youth: I saw the shiningof the sword. I gloried in my race. Pursue the fame of our fathers; be thou what theyhave been, when Trenmor lived, the first of men, and Trathal, the father of heroes!They fought the battle in their youth. They are the song of bards. O Oscar! bend thestrong in arm; but spare the feeble hand. Be thou a stream of many tides against thefoes of thy people; but like the gale, that moves the grass. to those who ask thine aid.So Trenmor lived; such Trathal was; and such has Fingal been. My arm was thesupport of the injured; the weak rested behind the lightning of my steel.

"Oscar! I was young, like thee, when lovely Fainasóllis came: that sunbeam!that mild light of love! the daughter of Craca's <4> king. I then returned from Cona'sheath, and few were in my train. A white-sailed boat appeared far off; we saw it like amist that rode on ocean's wind. It soon approached. We saw the fair. Her white breastheaved with sighs. The wind was in her loose dark hair; her rosy cheek had tears.'Daughter of beauty,' calm I said, 'what sigh is in thy breast? Can I, young as I am,defend thee, daughter of the sea? My sword is not unmatched in war, but dauntless ismy heart."

"'To thee I fly,' with sighs she said, 'O prince of mighty men! To thee I fly,chief of the generous shells, supporter of the feeble hand! The king of Craca's echoingisle owned me the sunbeam of his race. Cromla's hills have heard the sighs of love forunhappy Fainasóllis! Sora's chief beheld me fair; he loved the daughter of Craca. Hissword is a beam of light upon the warrior's side. But dark is his brow; and tempestsare in his soul. I shun him on the roaring sea; but Sora's chief pursues.'

"'Rest thou,' I said, 'behind my shield! rest in peace, thou beam of light! Thegloomy chief of Sora will fly, if Fingal's arm is like his soul. In some lone cave I

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might conceal thee, daughter of the sea. But Fingal never flies. Where the dangerthreatens, I rejoice in the storm of spears.' I saw the tears upon her cheek. I pitiedCraca's fair. Now, like a dreadful wave afar, appeared the ship of stormy Borbar. Hismasts high-bended over the sea behind their sheets of snow. White roll the waters oneither side. The strength of ocean sounds. 'Come thou,' I said, 'from the roar of ocean,thou rider of the storm. Partake the feast within my hall. It is the house of strangers.'

"The maid stood trembling by my side. He drew the bow. She fell. 'Unerring isthy hand,' I said, 'but feeble was the foe.' We fought, nor weak the strife of death. Hesunk beneath my sword. We laid them in two tombs of stone; the hapless lovers ofyouth! Such have I been, in my youth, O Oscar! be thou like the age of Fingal. Neversearch thou for battle; nor shun it when it comes.

"Fillan and Oscar of the dark-brown hair! ye that are swift in the race fly overthe heath in my presence. View the sons of Lochlin. Far off I hear the noise of theirfeet, like distant sounds in woods. Go: that they may not fly from my sword, along thewaves of the north. For many chiefs of Erin's race lie here on the dark bed of death.The children of war are low; the sons of echoing Cromla."

The heroes flew like two dark clouds: two dark clouds that are the chariots ofghosts; when air's dark children come forth to frighten hapless men. It was then thatGaul, the son of Morni, stood like a rock in night. His spear is glittering to the stars;his voice like many streams.

"Son of battle," cried the chief, "O Fingal, king of shells! let the bards of manysongs soothe Erin's friends to rest. Fingal, sheath thou thy sword of death; and let thypeople fight. We wither away without our fame; our king is the only breaker ofshields! When morning rises on our hills, behold at a distance our deeds. Let Lochlinfeel the sword of Morni's son; that bards may sing of me. Such was the customheretofore of Fingal's noble race. Such was thine own, thou king of swords, in battlesof the spear."

O son of Morni," Fingal replied, "I glory in thy fame. Fight; but my spear shallbe near, to aid thee in the midst of danger. Raise, raise the voice, ye sons of song, andlull me into rest. Here will Fingal lie, amidst the wind of night. And if thou,Agandecca, art near, among the children of thy land; if thou sittest on a blast of wind,among the high-shrouded masts of Lochlin; come to my dreams, my fair one! Showthy bright face to my soul ."

Many a voice and many a harp, in tuneful sounds arose. Of Fingal noble deedsthey sung; of Fingal's noble race: and sometimes, on the lovely sound was heard thename of Ossian. I often fought, and often won in battles of the spear. But blind, andtearful, and forlorn, I walk with little men! O Fingal, with thy race of war I nowbehold thee not. The wild roes feed on the green tomb of the mighty king of Morven!Blest be thy soul, thou king of swords, thou most renowned on the hills of Cona!

<1> The second night, since the opening of the poem, continues; and Cuthullin,Connal, and Carril, still sit in the place described in the preceding book.


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<2> This passage most certainly alludes to the religion of Lochlin, and "the stone ofpower," here mentioned, is the image of one of the deities of Scandinavia.

<3> All the Northwest coast of Scotland probably went, of old under the name ofMorven, which signifies a ridge of very high hills

<4> What the Craca here mentioned was, it is not, at this distance of time, easy todetermine. The most probable opinion is, that it was one of the Shetland Isles.

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FINGAL — BOOK IV.

ARGUMENT.

The action of the poem being suspended by night, Ossian takes the opportunity torelate his own actions at the lake of Lego, and his courtship of Everallin, who was themother of Oscar, and had died some time before the expedition of Fingal into Ireland.Her ghost appears to him, and tells him that Oscar, who had been sent, the beginningof the night, to observe the enemy, was engaged with an advanced party, and almostoverpowered. Ossian relieves his son; and an alarm is given to Fingal of the approachof Swaran. The king rises, calls his army together, and, as he had promised thepreceding night, devolves the command on Gaul the son of Morni, while he himself,after charging his sons to behave gallantly and defend his people, retires to a hill, fromwhence he could have a view of the battle. The battle joins; the poet relates Oscar'sgreat actions. But when Oscar, in conjunction with his father, conquered in one wing,Gaul, who was attacked by Swaran in person, was on the point of retreating in theother. Fingal sends Ullin his bard to encourage them with a war song, butnotwithstanding Swaran prevails; and Gaul and his army are obliged to give way.Fingal descending from the hill, rallies them again; Swaran desists from the pursuit,possesses himself of a rising ground, restores the ranks, and waits the approach ofFingal. The king, having encouraged his men, gives the necessary orders, and renewsthe battle. Cuthullin, who, with his friend Connal, and Carril his bard, had retired tothe cave of Tura, hearing the noise, came to the brow of the hill, which overlooked thefield of battle, where he saw Fingal engaged with the enemy. He, being hindered byConnal from joining Fingal, who was himself upon the point of obtaining a completevictory, sends Carril to congratulate that hero on success.

Who comes with her songs from the hill, like the bow of the showery Lena? Itis the maid of the voice of love: the white-armed daughter of Toscar! Often hast thouheard my song; often given the tear of beauty. Hast thou come to the wars of thypeople? to hear the actions of Oscar? When shall I cease to mourn, by the streams ofresounding Cona? My years have passed away in battle. My age is darkened withgrief!

"Daughter of the hand of snow, I was not so mournful and blind; I was not sodark and forlorn, when Everallin loved me! Everallin with the dark-brown hair, thewhite-bosomed daughter of Branno. A thousand heroes sought the maid, she refusedher love to a thousand. The sons of the sword were despised: for graceful in her eyeswas Ossian. I went, in suit of the maid, to Lego's sable surge. Twelve of my peoplewere there, the sons of streamy Morven! We came to Branno, friend of strangers!Branno of the sounding mail! 'From whence,' he said, 'are the arms of steel? Not easyto win is the maid, who has denied the blue-eyed sons of Erin. But blest be thou, Oson of Fingal! Happy is the maid that waits thee! Though twelve daughters of beautywere mine, thine were the choice, thou son of fame!'


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"He opened the hall of the maid, the dark-haired Everallin. Joy kindled in ourmanly breasts. We blest the maid of Branno. Above us on the hill appeared the peopleof stately Cormac. Eight were the heroes of the chief. The heath flamed wide withtheir arms. There Colla; there Durra of wounds; there mighty Toscar, and Tago; thereFresta the victorious stood; Dairo of the happy deeds; Dala the battle's bulwark in thenarrow way! The sword flamed in the hand of Cormac. Graceful was the look of thehero! Eight were the heroes of Ossian. Ullin, stormy son of war. Mullo of thegenerous deeds. The noble, the graceful Scelacha. Oglan, and Cerdan the wrathful.Dumariccan's brows of death. And why should Ogar be the last; so wide-renowned onthe hills of Ardven?

"Ogar met Dala the strong face to face, on the field of heroes. The battle of thechiefs was like wind, on ocean's foamy waves. The dagger is remembered by Ogar;the weapon which he loved. Nine times he drowned it in Dala's side. The stormybattle turned. Three times I broke on Cormac's shield: three times he broke his spear.But, unhappy youth of love! I cut his head away. Five times I shook it by the lock.The friends of Cormac fled. Whoever would have told me, lovely maid, when then Istrove in battle, that blind, forsaken, and forlorn, I now should pass the night; firmought his mail to have been; unmatched his arm in war."

On Lena's gloomy heath the voice of music died away. The inconstant blastblew hard. The high oak shook its leaves around. Of Everallin were my thoughts,when in all the light of beauty she came; her blue eyes rolling in tears. She stood on acloud before my sight, and spoke with feeble voice! "Rise, Ossian, rise, and save myson; save Oscar, prince of men. Near the red oak of Luba's stream he fights withLochlin's sons." She sunk into her cloud again. I covered me with steel. My spearsupported my steps; my rattling armor rung. I hummed, as I was wont in danger, thesongs of heroes of old. Like distant thunder Lochlin heard. They fled; my sonpursued.

I called him like a distant stream. "Oscar, return over Lena. No further pursuethe foe," I said, "though Ossian is behind thee." He came! and pleasant to my ear wasOscar's sounding steel. "Why didst thou stop my hand," he said, "till death hadcovered all? For dark and dreadful by the stream they met thy son and Fillin. Theywatched the terrors of the night. Our swords have conquered some. But as the windsof night pour the ocean over the white sands of Mora, so dark advance the sons ofLochlin, over Lena's rustling heat! The ghosts of night shriek afar: I have seen themeteors of death. Let me awake the king of Morven, he that smiles in danger! He thatis like the sun of heaven, rising in a storm!"

Fingal had started from a dream, and leaned on Trenmor's shield! the dark-brown shield of his fathers, which they had lifted of old in war. The hero had seen, inhis rest, the mournful form of Agandecca. She came from the way of the ocean. Sheslowly, lonely, moved over Lena. Her face was pale, like the mist of Cromla. Darkwere the tears of her cheek. She often raised her dim hand from her robe, her robewhich was of the clouds of the desert: she raised her dim hand over Fingal, and turnedaway silent eyes! "Why weeps the daughter of Starno?" said Fingal with a sigh; "whyis thy face so pale, fair wanderer of the clouds?" She departed on the wind of Lena.She left him in the midst of the night. She mourned the sons of her people, that wereto fall by the hand of Fingal.

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The hero started from rest. Still he beheld her in his soul. The sound of Oscar'ssteps approached. The king saw the gray shield on his side: for the faint beam of themorning came over the waters of Ullin. "What do the foes in their fear?" said therising king of Morven: "or fly they through ocean's foam, or wait they the battle ofsteel? But why should Fingal ask? I hear their voice on the early wind! Fly overLena's heath: O Oscar, awake our friends!"

The king stood by the stone of Lubar. Thrice he reared his terrible voice. Thedeer started from the fountains of Cromla. The rocks shook, on all their hills. Like thenoise of a hundred mountain-streams, that burst, and roar, and foam! like the clouds,that gather to a tempest on the blue face of the sky! so met the sons of the desert,round the terrible voice of Fingal. Pleasant was the voice of the king of Morven to thewarriors of his land. Often had he led them to battle; often returned with the spoils ofthe foe.

"Come to battle," said the king, "ye children of echoing Selma! Come to thedeath of thousands! Comhal's son will see the fight. My sword shall wave on the hill,the defence of my people in war. But never may you need it, warriors; while the sonof Morni fights, the chief of mighty men! He shall lead my battle, that his fame mayrise in song! O ye ghosts of heroes dead! ye riders of the storm of Cromla! receive myfalling people with joy, and bear them to your hills. And may the blast of Lena carrythem over my seas, that they may come to my silent dreams, and delight my soul inrest. Fillan and Oscar of the dark-brown hair! fair Ryno, with the pointed steel!advance with valor to the fight. Behold the son of Morni! Let your swords be like hisin strife: behold the deeds of his hands. Protect the friends of your father. Rememberthe chiefs of old. My children, I will see you yet, though here you should fall in Erin.Soon shall our cold pale ghosts meet in a cloud, on Cona's eddying winds."

Now like a dark and stormy cloud, edged round with the red lightning ofheaven, flying westward from the morning's beam, the king of Selma removed.Terrible is the light of his armor; two spears are in his hand. His gray hair falls on thewind. He often looks back on the war. Three bards attend the son of fame, to bear hiswords to the chiefs high on Cromla's side he sat, waving the Lightning of his sword,and as he waved we moved.

Joy rises in Oscar's face. His cheek is red. His eye sheds tears. The sword is abeam of fire in his hand. He came, and smiling, spoke to Ossian. "O ruler of the fightof steel! my father, hear thy son! Retire with Morven's mighty chief. Give me thefame of Ossian. If here I fall, O chief, remember that breast of snow, the lonelysunbeam of my love, the white-handed daughter of Toscar! For, with red cheek fromthe rock, bending over the stream, her soft hair flies about her bosom, as she pours thesigh for Oscar. Tell her I am on my hills, a lightly-bounding son of the wind; tell her,that in a cloud I may meet the lovely maid of Toscar." "Raise, Oscar, rather raise mytomb. I will not yield the war to thee. The first and bloodiest in the strife, my armshall teach thee how to fight. But remember, my son, to place this sword, this bow, thehorn of my deer, within that dark and narrow house, whose mark is one gray stone!Oscar, I have no love to leave to the care of my son. Everallin is no more, the lovelydaughter of Branno!"


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Such were our words, when Gaul's loud voice came growing on the wind. Hewaved on high the sword of his father. We rushed to death and wounds. As waves,white bubbling over the deep, come swelling, roaring on; as rocks of ooze meetroaring waves; so foes attacked and fought. Man met with man, and steel with steel.Shields sound and warriors fall. As a hundred hammers on the red son of the furnace,so rose, so rung their swords!

Gaul rushed on, like a whirlwind in Ardven. The destruction of heroes is onhis sword. Swaran was like the fire of the desert in the echoing heath of Gormal! Howcan I give to the song the death of many spears? My sword rose high, and flamed inthe strife of blood. Oscar, terrible wert thou, my best, my greatest son! I rejoiced inmy secret soul, when his sword flamed over the slain. They fled amain through Lena'sheath. We pursued and slew. As stones that bound from rock to rock; as axes inechoing woods; as thunder rolls from hill to hill, in dismal broken peals; so blowsucceeded to blow, and death to death, from the hand of Oscar and mine.

But Swaran closed round Morni's son, as the strength of the tide of Inistore.The king half rose from his hill at the sight. He half-assumed the spear. "Go, Ullin,go, my aged bard," began the king of Morven. "Remind the mighty Gaul of war.Remind him of his fathers. Support the yielding fight with song; for song enlivenswar." Tall Ullin went, with step of age, and spoke to the king of swords. "Son of thechief of generous steeds! high-bounding king of spears! Strong arm in every periloustoil! Hard heart that never yields! Chief of the pointed arms of death! Cut down thefoe; let no white sail bound round dark Inistore. Be thine arm like thunder, thine eyeslike fire, thy heart of solid rock. Whirl round thy sword as a meteor at night: lift thyshield like the flame of death. Son of the chief of generous steeds, cut down the foe!Destroy!" The hero's heart beat high. But Swaran came with battle. He cleft the shieldof Gaul in twain. The sons of Selma fled.

Fingal at once arose in arms. Thrice he reared his dreadful voice. Cromlaanswered around. The sons of the desert stood still. They bent their blushing faces toearth, ashamed at the presence of the king. He came like a cloud of rain in the day ofthe sun, when slow it rolls on the hill, and fields expect the shower. Silence attends itsslow progress aloft; but the tempest is soon to rise. Swaran beheld the terrible king ofMorven. He stopped in the midst of his course. Dark he leaned on his spear, rollinghis red eyes around. Silent and tall he seemed as an oak on the banks of Lubar, whichhad its branches blasted of old by the lightning of heaven. It bends over the stream:the gray moss whistles in the wind: so stood the king. Then slowly he retired to therising heath of Lena. His thousands pour round the hero. Darkness gathers on the hill!

Fingal, like a beam of heaven, shone in the midst of his people. His heroesgather around him. He sends forth the voice of his power. "Raise my standards onhigh; spread them on Lena's wind, like the flames of a hundred hills! Let them soundon the wind of Erin, and remind us of the fight. Ye sons of the roaring streams, thatpour from a thousand hills be near the king of Morven! attend to the words of hispower! Gaul, strongest arm of death! O Oscar, of the future fights! Connal, son of theblue shields of Sora! Dermid, of the dark-brown hair! Ossian, king of many songs, benear your father's arm!" We reared the sunbeam <1> of battle; the standard of theking! Each hero exulted with joy, as, waving, it flew on the wind. It was studded with

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gold above, as the blue wide shell of the nightly sky. Each hero had his standard too,and each his gloomy men!

"Behold," said the king of generous shells, "how Lochlin divides on Lena!They stand like broken clouds on a hill, or a half-consumed grove of oaks, when wesee the sky through its branches, and the meteor passing behind! Let every chiefamong the friends of Fingal take a dark troop of those that frown so high: nor let a sonof the echoing groves bound on the waves of Inistore!"

"Mine," said Gaul, "be the seven chiefs that came from Lano's lake." "LetInistore's dark king," said Oscar, "come to the sword of Ossian's son." "To mine theking of Iniscon," said Connal, heart of steel!" Or Mudan's chief or I," said brown-haired Dermid, "shall sleep on clay-cold earth." My choice, though now so weak anddark, was Terman's battling king; I promised with my hand to win the hero's dark-brown shield, "Blest and victorious be my chiefs," said Fingal of the mildest look."Swaran, king of roaring waves, thou art the choice of Fingal!"

Now, like a hundred different winds that pour through many vales, divided,dark the sons of Selma advanced. Cromla echoed around! How can I relate the deaths,when we closed in the strife of arms? O, daughter of Toscar, bloody were our hands!The gloomy ranks of Lochlin fell like the banks of roaring Cona! Our arms werevictorious on Lena: each chief fulfilled his promise. Beside the murmur of Brannothou didst often sit, O maid! thy white bosom rose frequent, like the down of the swanwhen slow she swims on the lake, and sidelong winds blow on her ruffled wing. Thouhast seen the sun retire, red and slow behind his cloud: night gathering round on themountain, while the unfrequent blast roared in the narrow vales. At length the rainbeats hard: thunder rolls in peals. Lightning glances on the rocks! Spirits ride onbeams of fire! The strength of the mountain streams comes roaring down the hills.Such was the noise of battle, maid of the arms of snow! Why. daughter of Toscar,why that tear? The maids of Lochlin have cause to weep! The people of their countryfell. Bloody were the blue swords of the race of my heroes! But I am sad, forlorn, andblind: no more the corn ion of heroes! Give, lovely maid to me thy tears. I have seenthe tombs of all my friends!

It was then, by Fingal's hand, a hero fell, to his grief! Gray-haired he rolled inthe dust. He lifted his faint eyes to the king. "And is it by me thou hast fallen," saidthe son of Comhal, "thou friend of Agandecca? I have seen thy tears for the maid ofmy love in the halls of the bloody Starno! Thou hast been the foe of the foes of mylove, and hast thou fallen by my hand? Raise Ullin, raise the grave of Mathon, andgive his name to Agandecca's song. Dear to my soul hast thou been, thou darkly-dwelling maid of Ardven!"

Cuthullin, from the cave of Cromla, heard the noise of the troubled war. Hecalled to Connal, chief of swords: to Carril of other times. The gray-haired heroesheard his voice. They took their pointed spears. They came, and saw the tide of battle,like ocean's crowded waves, when the dark wind blows from the deep, and rolls thebillows through the sandy vale! Cuthullin kindled at the sight. Darkness gathered onhis brow. His hand is on the sword of his fathers: his red-rolling eyes on the foe. Hethrice attempted to rush to battle. He thrice was stopped by Connal. "Chief of the isle


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of mist," he said, "Fingal subdues the foe. Seek not a part of the fame of the king;himself is like the storm!"

"Then, Carril, go," replied the chief, "go greet the king of Morven. WhenLochlin falls away like a stream after rain; when the noise of the battle is past; then bethy voice sweet in his ear to praise the king of Selma! Give him the sword of Caithbat.Cuthullin is not worthy to lift the arms of his fathers! Come, o ye ghosts of the lonelyCromla! ye souls of chiefs that are no more! be near the steps of Cuthullin; talk to himin the cave of his grief. Never more shall I be renowned among the mighty in the land.I am a beam that has shone; a mist that has fled away when the blast of the morningcame, and brightened the shaggy side of the hill. Connal, talk of arms no more!departed is my fame. My sighs shall be on Cromla's wind, till my footsteps cease to beseen. And thou, white-bosomed Bragéla! mourn over the fall of my fame: vanquished,I will never return to thee, thou sunbeam of my soul!"

<1> Fingal's standard was distinguished by the name of "sunbeam", probably onaccount of its bright colour, and its being studded with gold. To begin a battle isexpressed, in old composition, by "lifting of the sunbeam."

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FINGAL — BOOK V.

ARGUMENT.

Cuthullin and Connal still remain on the hill. Fingal and Swaran meet: the combat isdescribed. Swaran is overcome, bound, and delivered over as a prisoner to the care ofOssian, and Gaul, the son of Morni; Fingal, his younger sons and Oscar still pursuethe enemy. The episode of Orla, a chief of Lochlin, who was mortally wounded in thebattle, is introduced. Fingal, touched with the death of Orla, orders the pursuit to bediscontinued; and calling his sons together, he is informed that Ryno, the youngest ofthem, was slain. He laments his death, hears the story of Lamderg and Gelchossa, andreturns towards the place where he had left Swaran. Carril, who had been sent byCuthullin to congratulate Fingal on his victory, comes in the mean time to Ossian. Theconversation of the two poets closes the action of the fourth day.

On Cromla's resounding side Connal spoke to the chief of the noble car. Whythat gloom, son of Semo? Our friends are the mighty in fight. Renowned art thou, Owarrior! many were the deaths of thy steel. Often has Bragéla met, with blue-rollingeyes of joy: often has she met her hero returning in the midst of the valiant, when hissword was red with slaughter, when his foes were silent in the fields of the tomb.Pleasant to her ears were thy bards, when thy deeds, arose in song.

But behold the king of Morven! He moves, below, like a pillar of fire. Hisstrength is like the stream of Lubar, or the wind of the echoing Cromla, when thebranchy forests of night are torn from all their rocks. Happy are thy people, O Fingal!thine arm shall finish their wars. Thou art the first in their dangers: the wisest in thedays of their peace. Thou speakest, and thy thousands obey: armies tremble at thesound of thy steel. Happy are thy people, O Fingal! king of resounding Selma. Who isthat so dark and terrible coming in the thunder of his course? who but Starno's son, tomeet the king of Morven? Behold the battle of the chiefs! it is the storm of the ocean,when two spirits meet far distant, and contend for the rolling of waves. The hunterhears the noise on his bill. He sees the high billows advancing to Ardven's shore.

Such were the words of Connal when the heroes met in fight. There was theclang of arms! there every blow, like the hundred hammers of the furnace! Terrible isthe battle of the kings; dreadful the look of their eyes. Their dark-brown shields arecleft in twain. Their steel flies, broken, from their helms. They fling their weaponsdown. Each rushes to his hero's grasp; their sinewy arms bend round each other: theyturn from side to side, and strain and stretch their large-spreading limbs below. Butwhen the pride of their strength arose they shook the hill with their heels. Rockstumble from their places on high; the green-headed bushes are overturned. At lengththe strength of Swaran fell; the king of the groves is bound. Thus have I seen on


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Cona; but Cona I behold no more! thus have I seen two dark hills removed from theirplace by the strength of their bursting stream. They turn from side to side in their fall;their tall oaks meet one another on high. Then they tumble together with all theirrocks and trees. The streams are turned by their side. The red ruin is seen afar.

"Sons of distant Morven, "said Fingal, "guard the king of Lochlin. He is strong as histhousand waves. His hand is taught to war. His race is of the times of old. Gaul, thoufirst of my heroes; Ossian, king of songs attend. He is the friend of Agandecca; raiseto joy his grief. But Oscar, Fillan, and Ryno, ye children of the race, pursue Lochlinover Lena, that no vessel may hereafter bound on the dark-rolling waves of Inistore."

They flew sudden across the heath. He slowly moved, like a cloud of thunder,when the sultry plain of summer is silent and dark. His sword is before him as asunbeam; terrible as the streaming meteor of night. He came towards a chief ofLochlin. He spoke to the son of the wave. — "Who is that so dark and sad, at the rockof the roaring stream? He cannot bound over its course. How stately is the chief! Hisbossy shield is on his side; his spear like the tree f the desert. Youth of the dark-redhair, art thou of the foes of Fingal?"

"I am a son of Lochlin," he cries; "strong is my arm in war. My spouse isweeping at home. Orla shall never return!" "Or fights or yields the hero?" said Fingalof the noble deeds; "foes do not conquer in my presence: my friends are renowned inthe hall. Son of the wave, follow me: partake the feast of my shells: pursue the deer ofmy desert: be thou the friend of Fingal." "No," said the hero: "I assist the feeble. Mystrength is with the weak in arms. My sword has been always unmatched, O warrior!let the king of Morven yield!" "I never yielded, Orla. Fingal never yielded to man.Draw thy sword, and choose thy foe. Many are my heroes!"

"Does then the king refuse the fight?" said Orla of the dark-brown shield."Fingal is a match for Orla; and he alone of all his race! But, king of Morven, if I shallfall, as one time the warrior must die; raise my tomb in the midst: let it be the greateston Lena. Send over the dark-blue wave, the sword of Orla to the spouse of his love,that she may show it to her son, with tears to kindle his soul to war." "Son of themournful tale," said Fingal, "why dost thou awaken my tears! One day the warriorsmust die, and the children see their useless arms in the hall. But, Orla, thy tomb shallrise. Thy white-bosomed spouse shall weep over thy sword."

They fought on the heath of Lena. Feeble was the arm of Orla. The sword ofFingal descended, and cleft his shield in twain. It fell and glittered on the ground, asthe moon on the ruffled stream. "King of Morven," said the hero, "lift thy sword andpierce my breast. Wounded and faint from battle, my friends have left me here. Themournful tale shall come to my love on the banks of the streamy Lota, when she isalone in the wood, and the rustling blast in the leaves!"

"No," said the king of Morven: "I will never wound thee, Orla. On the banksof Lota let her see thee, escaped from the hands of war. Let thy gray-haired father,who, perhaps, is blind with age, let him hear the sound of thy voice, and brightenwithin his hall. With joy let the hero rise, and search for the son with his hands!" "Butnever will he find him, Fingal," said the youth of the streamy Lota: "on Lena's heath I

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must die: foreign bards shall talk of me. My broad belt covers my wound of death. Igive it to the wind!"

The dark blood poured from his side; he fell pale on the heath of Lena. Fingalbent over him as he died, and. called his younger chiefs. "Oscar and Fillan, my sons,raise high the memory of Orla. Here let the dark-haired hero rest, far from the spouseof his love. Here let him rest in his narrow house, far from the sound of Lota. Thefeeble will find his bow at home, but will not be able to bend it. His faithful dogshowl on his hills; his boars which he used to pursue, rejoice. Fallen is the arm ofbattle! the mighty among the valiant is low! Exalt the voice, and blow the horn, yesons of the king of Morven! Let us go back to Swaran, to send the night away in song.Fillan, Oscar, and Ryno, fly over the heath of Lena. Where, Ryno, art thou, young sonof fame? thou art not wont to be the last to answer thy father's voice!"

"Ryno," said Ullin, first of bards, "is with the awful forms of his fathers. WithTrathal, king of shields; with Trenmor of mighty deeds. The youth is low, the youth ispale, he lies on Lena's heath!" "Fell the swiftest of the race," said the king, "the first tobend the bow? Thou scarce hast been known to me! Why did young Ryno fall? Butsleep thou softly on Lena; Fingal shall soon behold thee. Soon shall my voice beheard no more, and my footsteps cease to be seen. The bards will tell of Fingal'sname. The stones will talk of me. But, Ryno, thou art low, indeed: thou hast notreceived thy fame. Ullin, strike the harp for Ryno; tell what the chief would havebeen. Farewell, thou first in every field. No more shall I direct thy dart. Thou that hastbeen so fair! I behold thee not. Farewell." The tear is on the cheek of the king, forterrible was his son in war. His son that was like a beam of fire by night on a hill,when the forests sink down in its course, and the traveller trembles at the sound. Butthe winds drive it beyond the steep. It sinks from sight, and darkness prevails.

"Whose fame is in that dark-green tomb?" began the king of generous shells:"four stones with their heads of moss stand there. They mark the narrow house ofdeath. Near it let Ryno rest. A neighbor to the brave let him lie. Some chief of fame ishere, to fly with my son on clouds. O Ullin! raise the songs of old. Awake theirmemory in their tomb. If in the field they never fled, my son shall rest by their side.He shall rest, far distant from Morven, on Lena's resounding plains."

"Here," said the bard of song, "here rest the first of heroes. Silent is Lamdergin this place, dumb is Ullin, king of swords. And who, soft smiling from her cloud,shows me her face of love? Why, daughter, why so pale art thou, first of the maids ofCromla? Dost thou sleep with the foes in battle, white-bosomed daughter of Tuathal?Thou hast been the love of thousands, but Lamderg was thy love. He came to Tura'smossy towers, and striking his dark buckler, spoke: 'Where is Gelchossa, my love, thedaughter of the noble Tuathal? I left her in the hall of Tura, when I fought with thegreat Ulfada. Return soon, O Lamderg! she said, for here I sit in grief. Her whitebreast rose with sighs. Her cheek was wet with tears. But I see her not coming to meetme to soothe my soul after war. Silent is the hull of my joy. I near not the voice of thebard. Bran does not shake his chains at the gate, glad at the coming of Lamderg.Where is Gelchossa, my love, the mild daughter of generous Tuathal?'

"'Lamderg,' says Ferchios, son of Aidon, 'Gelchossa moves stately on Cromla.She and the maids of the bow pursue the flying deer!' 'Ferchios!' replied the chief of


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Cromla, 'no noise meets the ear of Lamderg! No sound is in the woods of Lena. Nodeer fly in my sight. No panting dog pursues. I see not Gelchossa, my love, fair as thefull moon setting on the hills.. Go, Ferchios, go to Allad, the gray-haired son of therock. His dwelling is in the circle of stones He may know of the bright Gelchossa!'

"The son of Aidon went. He spoke to the ear of age. 'Allad, dweller of rocks,thou that tremblest alone, what saw thine eyes of age?' 'I saw,' answered Allad the old,'Ullin the son of Cairbar. He came, in darkness, from Cromla. He hummed a surlysong, like a blast in a leafless wood. He entered the hall of Tura. "Lamderg," he said,"most dreadful of men, fight or yield to Ullin." "Lamderg," replied Gelchossa, "theson of battle is not here. He fights Ulfada, mighty chief. He is not here, thou first ofmen! But Lamderg never yields. He will fight the son of Cairbar!" "Lovely thou," saidterrible Ullin, "daughter of the generous Tuathal. I carry thee to Cairbar's halls. Thevaliant shall have Gelchossa. Three days I remain on Cromla, to wait that son ofbattle, Lamderg. On the fourth Gelchossa is mine, if the mighty Lamderg flies."'

"'Allad,' said the chief of Cromla, 'peace to thy dreams in the cave! Ferchios,sound the horn of Lamderg, that Ullin may hear in his halls.' Lamderg, like a roaringstorm ascended the hill from Tura. He hummed a surly song as he went, like the noiseof a falling stream. He darkly stood upon the hill, like a cloud varying its form to thewind. He rolled a stone, the sign of war. Ullin heard in Cairbar's hall. The hero heard,with joy, his foe. He took his father's spear. A smile brightens his dark-brown cheek,as he places his sword by his side. The dagger glittered in his hand, he whistled as hewent.

"Gelchossa saw the silent chief, as a wreath of mist ascending the hill. Shestruck her white and heaving breast; and silent, tearful, feared for Lamderg. 'Cairbar,hoary chief of shells,' said the maid of the tender hand, 'I must bend the bow onCromla. I see the dark-brown hinds.' She hasted up the hill. In vain the gloomy heroesfought. Why should I tell to Selma's king how wrathful heroes fight? Fierce Ullin fell.Young Lamderg came, all pale, to the daughter of generous Tuathal! 'What blood, mylove;' she trembling said, 'what blood runs down my warrior's side?' ' It is Ullin'sblood,' the chief replied, 'thou fairer than the snow! Gelchossa, let me rest here a littlewhile.' The mighty Lamderg died! 'And sleepest thou so soon on earth, O chief ofshady Tura?' Three days she mourned beside her love. The hunters found her cold.They raised this tomb above the three. Thy son, O king of Morven, may rest here withheroes!"

"And here my son shall rest," said Fingal. "The voice of their fame is in mineears. Fillan and Fergus, bring hither Orla, the pale youth of the stream of Lota! notunequalled shall Ryno lie in earth, when Orla is by his side. Weep, ye daughters ofMorven! ye maids of the streamy Lota, weep! Like a tree they grew on the hills. Theyhave fallen like the oak of the desert, when it lies across a stream, and withers in thewind. Oscar, chief of every youth, thou seest how they have fallen. Be thou like themon earth renowned. Like them the song of bards. Terrible were their forms in battle;but calm was Ryno in the days of peace. He was like the bow of the shower seen fardistant on the stream, when the sun is setting on Mora, when silence dwells on the hillof deer. Rest, youngest of my sons! rest, O Ryno! on Lena. We too shall be no more.Warriors one day must fall!"

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Such was thy grief, thou king of swords, when Ryno lay on earth. What mustthe grief of Ossian be, for thou thyself art gone! I hear not thy distant voice on Cona.My eyes perceive thee not. Often forlorn and dark I sit at thy tomb, and feel it withmy hands. When I think I hear thy voice, it is but the passing blast. Fingal has longsince fallen asleep, the ruler of the war!

Then Gaul and Ossian sat with Swaran, on the soft green banks of Lubar. Itouched the harp to please the king; but gloomy was his brow. He rolled his red eyestowards Lena. The hero mourned his host. I raised mine eyes to Cromla's brow. I sawthe son of generous Semo. Sad and slow he retired from his hilt, towards the lonelycave of Tura. He saw Fingal victorious, and mixed his joy with grief. The sun is brighton his armor. Connal slowly strode behind. They sunk behind the hill, like two pillarsof the fire of night, when winds pursue them over the mountain, and the flaming deathresounds! Beside a stream of roaring foam his cave is in a rock. One tree bends aboveit. The rushing winds echo against its sides. Here rests the chief of Erin, the son ofgenerous Semo. His thoughts are on the battles he lost. The tear is on his cheek. Hemourned the departure of his fame, that fled like the mist of Cona. O Bragéla! thou arttoo far remote to cheer the soul of the hero. But let him see thy bright form in hismind, that his thoughts may return to the lonely sunbeam of his love!

Who comes with the locks of age? It is the son of songs. "Hail, Carril of othertimes! Thy voice is like the harp in the halls of Tura. Thy words are pleasant as theshower which falls on the sunny field. Carril of the times of old, why comest thoufrom the son of the generous Semo?"

"Ossian, king of swords," replied the bard, "thou best canst raise the song.Long hast thou been known to Carril, thou ruler of war! Often have I touched the harpto lovely Everallin. Thou too hast often joined my voice in Branno's hall of generousshells. And often, amidst our voices, was heard the mildest Everallin. One day shesung of Cormac's fall, the youth who died for her love. I saw the tears on her cheek,and on thine, thou chief of men. Her soul was touched for the unhappy, though sheloved him not. How fair among a thousand maids was the daughter of generousBranno!"

Bring not, Carril," I replied, "bring not her memory to my mind. My soul mustmelt at the remembrance. My eyes must have their tears. Pale in the earth is she, thesoftly-blushing fair of my love! But sit thou on the heath, O bard! and let us hear thyvoice. It is pleasant as the gale of spring, that sighs on the hunter's ear, when heawakens from dreams of joy, and has heard the music of the spirits of the hill!"


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FINGAL — BOOK VI.

ARGUMENT.

Night comes on. Fingal gives a feast to his army, at which Swaran is present. The kingcommands Ullin his bard to give "the song of peace;" a custom always observed at theend of a war. Ullin relates the actions of Trenmor, great-grandfather to Fingal, inScandinavia, and his marriage with Inibaca, the daughter of a king of Lochlin, whowas ancestor to Swaran; which consideration, together with his being brother toAgandecca, with whom Fingal was in love in his youth, induced the king to releasehim, and permit him to return with the remains of his army into Lochlin, upon hispromise of never returning to Ireland in a hostile manner. The night is spent in settlingSwaran's departure, in songs of bards, and in a conversation in which the story ofGrumal is introduced by Fingal. Morning comes. Swaran departs. Fingal goes on ahunting party, and finding Cuthullin in the cave of Tura, comforts him, and sets sailthe next day for Scotland, which concludes the poem.

THE clouds of night came rolling down. Darkness rests on the steeps ofCromla. The stars of the north arise over the rolling of Erin's waves; they show theirheads of fire through the flying mist of heaven. A distant wind roars in the wood.Silent and dark is the plain of death! Still on the dusky Lena arose in my ears thevoice of Carril. He sung of the friends of our youth; the days of former years; whenwe met on the banks of Lego; when we sent round the joy of the shell. Cromlaanswered to his voice. The ghosts of those he sung came in their rustling winds. Theywere seen to bend with joy, towards the sound of their praise!

Be thy soul blest, O Carril! in the midst of thy eddying winds. O that thouwouldst come to my hall, when I am alone by night! And thou dost come, my friend. Ihear often thy light hand on my harp, when it hangs on the distant wall, and the feeblesound touches my ear. Why dost thou not speak to me in my grief: and tell when Ishall behold my friends? But thou passest away in thy murmuring blast; the windwhistles through the gray hair of Ossian!

Now, on the side of Mora, the heroes gathered to the feast. A thousand agedoaks are burning to the wind. The strength of the shell goes round. The souls ofwarriors brighten with joy. But the king of Lochlin is silent. Sorrow reddens in theeyes of his pride. He often turned towards Lena. He remembered that he fell. Fingalleaned on the shield of his fathers. His gray locks slowly waved on the wind, andglittered to the beam of night. He saw the grief of Swaran, and spoke to the first ofbards.

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"Raise, Ullin, raise the song of peace. O soothe my soul from war! Let mineear forget, in the sound, the dismal noise of arms. Let a hundred harps be near togladden the king of Lochlin. He must depart from us with joy. None ever went sadfrom Fingal. Oscar! the lightning of my sword is against the strong in fight. Peacefulit lies by my side when warriors yield in war."

"Trenmor," said the mouth of songs, "lived in the days of other years. Hebounded over the waves of the north; companion of the storm! The high reeks of theland of Lochlin, its groves of murmuring sounds, appeared to the hero through mist;he bound his white. bosomed sails. Trenmor pursued the boar that roared through thewoods of Gormal. Many had fled from its presence; but it rolled in death on the spearof Trenmor. Three chiefs, who beheld the deed, told of the mighty stranger. They toldthat he stood, like a pillar of fire, in the bright arms of his valor. The king of Lochlinprepared the feast. He called the blooming Trenmor. Three days he feasted atGormal's windy towers, and received his choice in the combat. The land of Lochlinhad no hero that yielded not to Trenmor. The shell of joy went round with songs inpraise of the king of Morven. He that came over the waves, the first of mighty men.

"Now when the fourth gray morn arose, the hero launched his ship. He walkedalong the silent shore, and called for the rushing wind; for loud and distant he heardthe blast murmuring behind the groves. Covered over with arms of steel, a son of thewoody Gormal appeared. Red was his cheek, and fair his hair. His skin was like thesnow of Morven. Mild rolled his blue and smiling eye, when he spoke to the king ofswords.

"'Stay, Trenmor, stay, thou first of men; thou hast not conquered Lonval's son.My sword has often met the brave. The wise shun the strength of my bow.' 'Thou fair-haired youth,' Trenmor replied, 'I will not fight with Lonval's son. Thine arm is feeble,sunbeam of youth! Retire to Gormal's dark-brown hinds.' 'But I will retire,' replied theyouth, 'with the sword of Trenmor; and exult in the sound of my fame. The virginsshall gather with smiles around him who conquered mighty Trenmor. They shall sighwith the sighs of love, and admire the length of thy spear: when I shall carry it amongthousands; when I lift the glittering point to the sun.'

"'Thou shalt never carry my spear,' said the angry king of Morven. 'Thymother shall find thee pale on the shore; and looking over the dark-blue deep, see thesails of him that slew her son!' 'I will not lift the spear,' replied the youth, 'my arm isnot strong with years. But with the feathered dart I have learned to pierce a distantfoe. Throw down that heavy mail of steel. Trenmor is covered from death. I first willlay my mail on earth. Throw now thy dart, thou king of Morven!' He saw the heavingof her breast. It was the sister of the king. She had seen him in the hall: and loved hisface of youth. The spear dropt from the hand of Trenmor: he bent his red cheek to theground. She was to him a beam of light that meets the sons of the cave; when theyrevisit the fields of the sun, and bend their aching eyes!

"'Chief of the windy Morven,' began the maid of the arms of snow, 'let me restin thy bounding ship, far from the love of Corlo. For he, like the thunder of the desert,is terrible to Inibaca. He loves me in the gloom of pride. He shakes ten thousandspears!' — ' Rest thou in peace,' said the mighty Trenmor, 'rest behind the shield ofmy fathers. I will not fly from the chief, though he shakes ten thousand spears.' Three


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days he waited on the shore. He sent his horn abroad. He called Corlo to battle, fromall his echoing hills. But Corlo came not to battle. The king of Lochlin descends fromhis hall. He feasted on the roaring shore. He gave the maid to Trenmor!"

"King of Lochlin," said Fingal, "thy blood flows in the veins of thy foe. Ourfathers met in battle, because they loved the strife of spears. But often did they feast inthe hall, and send round the joy of the shell. Let thy thee brighten with gladness, andthine ear delight in the harp. Dreadful as the storm of thine ocean, thou hast pouredthy valor forth; thy voice has been like the voice of thousands when they engage inwar. Raise, to-morrow, raise thy white sails to the wind, thou brother of Agandecca!Bright as the beam of noon, she comes on my mournful soul. I have seen thy tears forthe fair one. I spared thee in the halls of Starno; when my sword was red withslaughter: when my eye was full of tears for the maid. Or dost thou choose the fight?The combat which thy fathers gave to Trenmor is thine! that thou mayest departrenowned, like the sun setting in the west!"

"King of the race of Morven!" said the chief of resounding Lochlin, "neverwill Swaran fight with thee, first of a thousand heroes! I have seen thee in the halls ofStarno; few were thy years beyond my own. When shall I, I said to my soul, lift thespear like the noble Fingal? We have fought heretofore, O warrior, on the side of theshaggy Malmor; after my waves had carried me to thy halls, and the feast of athousand shells was spread. Let the bards send his name who overcame to futureyears, for noble was the strife of Malmor! But many of the ships of Lochlin have losttheir youths on Lena. Take these, thou king of Morven, and be the friend of Swaran!When thy sons shall come to Gormal, the feast of shells shall be spread, and thecombat offered on the vale."

"Nor ship," replied the king, "shall Fingal take, nor land of many hills. The desert isenough to me, with all its deer and woods. Rise on thy waves again, thou noble friendof Agandecca! Spread thy white sails to the beam of the morning; return to theechoing hills of Gormal." — "Blest be thy soul, thou king of shells," said Swaran ofthe dark-brown shield." In peace thou art the gale of spring; in war the mountainstorm. Take now my hand in friendship, king of echoing Selma! Let thy bards mournthose who fell. Let Erin give the sons of Lochlin to earth. Raise high the mossy stonesof their fame: that the children of the north hereafter may behold the place where theirfathers fought. The hunter may say, when he leans on a mossy tomb, Here Fingal andSwaran fought, the heroes of other years. Thus hereafter shall he say, and our fameshall last for ever."

"Swaran," said the king of hills, "to-day our fame is greatest. We shall passaway like a dream. No sound will remain in our fields of war. Our tombs will be lostin the heath. The hunter shall not know the place of our rest. Our names may be heardin song. What avails it, when our strength hath ceased? O Ossian, Carril, and Ullin!you know of heroes that are no more. Give us the song of other years. Let the nightpass away on the sound, and morning return with joy."

We gave the song to the kings. A hundred harps mixed their sound with ourvoice. The face of Swaran brightened, like the full moon of heaven; when the cloudsvanish away, and leave her calm and broad in the midst of the sky.

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"Where, Carril," said the great Fingal, "Carril of other times! where is the sonof Semo, the king of the isle of mist? Has he retired like the meteor of death, to thedreary cave of Tura?" — "Cuthullin," said Carril of other times, "lies in the drearycave of Tura. His hand is on the sword of his strength. His thoughts on the battles helost. Mournful is the king of spears: till now unconquered in war. He sends his sword,to rest on the side of Fingal: for, like the storm of the desert, thou hast scattered all hisfoes. Take, O Fingal! the sword of the hero. His fame is departed like mist, when itflies, before the rustling wind, along the brightening vale."

"No," replied the king, "Fingal shall never take his sword. His arm is mightyin war: his fame shall never fail. Many have been overcome in battle; whose renownarose from their fall. O Swaran, king of resounding woods, give all thy grief away.The vanquished, if brave, are renowned. They are like the sun in a cloud, when hehides his face in the south, but looks again on the hills of grass."

"Grumal was a chief of Cona. He sought the battle on every coast. His soulrejoiced in blood; his ear in the din of arms. He poured his warriors on Craca; Craca'sking met him from his grove; for then, within the circle of Brumo, he spoke to thestone of power. Fierce was the battle of the heroes, for the maid of the breast of snow.The fame of the daughter of Craca had reached Grumal at the streams of Cona; hevowed to have the white-bosomed maid, or die on echoing Craca. Three days theystrove together, and Grumal on the fourth was bound. Far from his friends they placedhim in the horrid circle of Brumo; where often, they said, the ghosts of the deadhowled round the stone of their fear. But he afterward shone, like a pillar of the lightof heaven. They fell by his mighty hand. Grumal had all his fame!

"Raise, ye bards of other times," continued the great Fingal, "raise high thepraise of heroes: that my soul may settle on their fame; that the mind of Swaran maycease to be sad." They lay in the heath of Mora. The dark winds rustled over thechiefs. A hundred voices, at once, arose; a hundred harps were strung. They sung ofother times; the mighty chiefs of former years! When now shall I hear the bard? Whenrejoice at the fame of my fathers? The harp is not strung on Morven. The voice ofmusic ascends not on Cona. Dead, with the mighty, is the bard. Fame is in the desertno more."

Morning trembles with the beam of the east; it glimmers on Cromla's side.Over Lena is heard the horn of Swaran. The sons of the ocean gather around. Silentand sad they rise on the wave. The blast of Erin is behind their sails. White, as themist of Morven, they float along the sea. "Call," said Fingal, "call my dogs, the long-bounding sons of the chase. Call white-breasted Bran, and the surly strength of Luath!Fillan, and Ryno; — but he is not here! My son rests on the bed of death. Fillan andFergus! blow the horn, that the joy of the chase may arise; that the deer of Cromlamay hear, and start at the lake of roes."

The shrill sound spreads along the wood. The sons of heathy Cromla arise. Athousand dogs fly off at once, gray-bounding through the heath. A deer fell by everydog; three by the white-breasted Bran. He brought them, in their flight, to Fingal, thatthe joy of the king might be great! One deer fell at the tomb of Ryno. The grief ofFingal returned. He saw how peaceful lay the stone of him, who was the first at thechase! "No more shalt thou rise, O my son! to partake of the feast of Cromla. Soon


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will thy tomb be hid, and the grass grow rank on thy grave. The sons of the feebleshall pass along. They shall not know where the mighty lie.

"Ossian and Fillan, sons of my strength! Gaul, chief of the blue steel of war!Let us ascend the hill to the cave of Tura. Let us find the chief of the battles of Erin.Are these the walls of Tura? gray and lonely they rise on the heath. The chief of shellsis sad, and the halls are silent and lonely. Come, let us find Cuthullin, and give him allour joy. But is that Cuthullin, O Fillan, or a pillar of smoke on the heath? The wind ofCromla is on my eyes. I distinguish not my friend."

"Fingal!" replied the youth, "it is the son of Semo! Gloomy and sad is thehero! his hand is on his sword. Hail to the son of battle, breaker of the shields!" "Hailto thee," replied Cuthullin, "hail to all the sons of Morven! Delightful is thy presence,O Fingal! it is the sun on Cromla: when the hunter mourns his absence for a season,and sees him between the clouds. Thy sons are like stars that attend thy course. Theygive light in the night! It is not thus thou hast seen me, O Fingal! returning from thewars of thy land: when the kings of the world had fled, and joy returned to the hills ofhinds!"

"Many are thy words, Cuthullin," said Connan of small renown. "Thy wordsare many, son of Semo, but where are thy deeds in arms? Why did we come, overocean, to aid thy feeble sword? Thou fliest to thy cave of grief, and Connan fights thybattles. Resign to me these arms of light. Yield them, thou chief of Erin." — "Nohero," replied the chief," ever sought the arms of Cuthullin! and had a thousandheroes sought them, it were in vain, thou gloomy youth! I fled not to the cave of grief,till Erin failed at her streams."

"Youth of the feeble arm," said Fingal, "Connan, cease thy words! Cuthullin isrenowned in battle: terrible over the world. Often have I heard thy fame, thou stormychief of Inis-fail. Spread now thy white sails for the isle of mist. See Bragéla leaningon her rock. Her tender eye is in tears, the winds lift her long hair from her heavingbreast. She listens to the breeze of night, to hear the voice of thy rowers; to hear thesong of the sea; the sound of thy distant harps."

"Long shall she listen in vain. Cuthullin shall never return. How can I beholdBragéla, to raise the sigh of her breast? Fingal, I was always victorious, in battles ofother spears." — "And hereafter thou shalt be victorious," said Fingal of generousshells. "The fame of Cuthullin shall grow, like the branchy tree of Cromla. Manybattles await thee, O chief! Many shall be the wounds of thy hand! Bring hither,Oscar, the deer! Prepare the feast of shells; Let our souls rejoice after danger, and ourfriends delight in our presence."

We sat. We feasted. We sung. The soul of Cuthullin rose. The strength of hisarm returned. Gladness brightened along his face. Ullin gave the song; Carril raisedthe voice. I joined the bards, and sung of battles of the spear. Battles! where I oftenfought. Now I fight no more! The fame of my former deeds is ceased. I sit forlorn atthe tombs of my friends!

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Thus the night passed away in song. We brought back the morning with joy.Fingal arose on the heath, and shook his glittering spear. He moved first to wards theplains of Lena. We followed in all our arms.

"Spread the sail," said the king, "seize the winds as they pour from Lena." We rose onthe wave with songs. We rushed, with joy, through the foam of the deep.


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LATHMON.

ARGUMENT.

Lathmon, a British prince, taking advantage of Fingal's absence on an expedition toIreland, made a descent on Morven, and advanced within sight of Selma, the royalresidence. Fingal arrived in the mean time, and Lathmon retreated to a hill, where hisarmy was surprised by night, and himself taken prisoner by Ossian and Gaul the sonof Morni. The poem opens with the first appearance of Fingal on the coast of Morven,and ends, it may be supposed, about noon the next day.

SELMA, thy halls are silent. There is no sound in the woods of Morven. Thewave tumbles along on the coast. The silent beam of the sun is on the field. Thedaughters of Morven come forth, like the bow of the shower; they look towards greenErin for the white sails of the king. He had promised to return, but the winds of thenorth arose!

Who pours from the eastern hill, like a stream of darkness? It is the host ofLathmon. He has heard of the absence of Fingal. He trusts in the winds of the north.His soul brightens with joy. Why dost thou come, O Lathmon? The mighty are not inSelma. 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? Whydost thou vanish, Lathmon, like the mist of the lake? But the squally storm is behindthee; Fingal pursues thy steps!

The king of Morven had started from sleep, as we rolled on the dark-bluewave. He stretched his hand to his spear, his heroes rose around. We knew that he hadseen his fathers, for they often descended to his dreams, when the sword of the foerose over the land and the battle darkened before us. "Whither hast thou fled, Owind?" said the king of Morven. "Dost thou rustle in the chambers of the south?pursuest thou the shower in other lands? Why dost thou not come to my sails? to theblue face of my seas? The foe is in the land of Morven, and the king is absent far. Butlet each bind on his mail, and each assume his shield. Stretch every spear over thewave; let every sword be unsheathed. Lathmon is before us with his host; he that fledfrom Fingal on the plains of Lona. But he returns like a collected stream, and his roaris between our hills."

Such were the words of Fingal. We rushed into Carmon's bay. Ossianascended the hill! he thrice struck his bossy shield. The rock of Morven replied: thebounding roes came forth. The foe was troubled in my presence: he collected hisdarkened host. I stood like a cloud on the hill, rejoicing in the arms of my youth.

Morni sat beneath a tree on the roaring waters of Strumon: his locks of age aregray: he leans forward on his staff; young Gaul is near the hero, hearing the battles of

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his father. Often did he rise in the fire of his soul, at the mighty deeds of Morni. Theaged heard the sound of Ossian's shield; he knew the sign of war. He started at oncefrom his place. His gray hair parted on his back. lie remembered the deeds of otheryears.

"My son," he said, to fair-haired Gaul, "I hear the sound of war. The king ofMorven is returned; his signals are spread on the wind. Go to the halls of Strumon;bring his arms to Morni. Bring the shield of my father's latter years, for my armbegins to fail. Take thou thy armor, O Gaul! and rush to the first of thy battles. Letthine arm reach to the renown of thy fathers. Be thy course in the field like the eagle'swing. Why shouldst thou fear death, my son? the valiant fall with fame; their shieldsturn the dark stream of danger away; renown dwells on their aged hairs. Dost thou notsee, O Gaul! low the steps of my age are honored? Morni moves forth. and the youngmen meet him, with silent joy, on his course. But I never fled from danger, my son!my sword lightened through the darkness of war. The stranger melted before me; themighty were blasted in my presence."

Gaul brought the arms to Morni: the aged warrior is covered with steel. Hetook the spear in his hand, which was stained with the blood of the valiant. He cametowards Fingal; his son attended his steps. The son of Comhal arose before him withjoy, when he came in his locks of age.

"Chief of the roaring Strumon!" said the rising soul of Fingal; "do I beholdthee in arms, after thy strength has failed? Often has Morni shone in fight, like thebeam of the ascending sun; when he disperses the storms of the hill, and brings peaceto the glittering fields. But why didst thou not rest in thine age? Thy renown is in thesong. The people behold thee, and bless the departure of mighty Morni. Why didstthou not rest in thine age? The foe will vanish before Fingal!"

"Son of Comhal," replied the chief, "the strength of Morni's arm has failed. I attemptto draw the sword of my youth, but it remains in its place. I throw the spear, but itfalls short of the mark. I feel the weight of my shield. We decay like the grass of thehill; our strength returns no more. I have a son, O Fingal! his soul has delighted inMorni's deeds; but his sword has not been lifted against a foe, neither has his famebegun. I come with him to the war; to direct his arm in fight. His renown will be alight to my soul in the dark hour of my departure. O that the name of Morni wereforgot 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 fight. But heshall lift it before Fingal; my arm shall defend his youth. But rest thou in the halls ofSelma, and hear of our renown. Bid the harp to be strung, and the voice of the bard toarise, that those who fall may rejoice in their fame, and the soul of Morni brightenwith joy. Ossian, thou hast fought in battles: the blood of strangers is on thy spear: thycourse be with Gaul in the strife; but depart not from the side of Fingal, lest the foeshould find you alone, and your fame fail in my presence."

[Ossian speaks ] "I saw Gaul in his arms; my soul was mixed with his. Thefire of the battle was in his eyes! he looked to the foe with joy. We spoke the words offriendship in secret; the lightning of our swords poured together; for we drew thembehind the wood, and tried the strength of our arms on the empty air!"


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Night came down on Morven. Fingal sat at the beam of the oak. Morni sat byhis side with all his gray-waving locks. Their words were of other times, of the mightydeeds of their fathers. Three bards, at times, touched the harp: Ullin was near with hissong. He sung of the mighty Comhal; but darkness gathered on Morni's brow. Herolled his red eye on Ullin: at once ceased the song of the bard. Fingal observed theaged hero, and he mildly spoke: "Chief of Strumon, why that darkness? Let the daysof other years be forgot. Our fathers contended in war; but we meet together at thefeast. Our swords are turned on the foe of our land: he melts before us on the field.Let the days of our fathers be forgot, hero of mossy Strumon!"

King of Morven," replied the chief, "I remember thy father with joy. He wasterrible in battle, the rage of the chief was deadly. My eyes were full of tears when theking of heroes fell. The valiant fall, O Fingal! the feeble remain on the hills! Howmany heroes have passed away in the days of Morni! Yet I did not shun the battle;neither did I fly from the strife of the valiant. Now let the friends of Fingal rest, forthe night is around, that they may rise with strength to battle against car-borneLathmon. I hear the sound of his host, like thunder moving on the hills. Ossian! andfair-haired Gaul! ye are young and swift in the race. Observe the foes of Fingal fromthat woody hill. But approach them not: your fathers are near to shield you. Let notyour fame fall at once. The valor of youth may fail!"

We heard the words of the chief with joy. We moved in the clang of our arms.Our steps are on the woody hill. Heaven burns with all its stars. The meteors of deathfly over the field. The distant noise of the foe reached our ears. It was than Gaulspoke, in his valor: his hand half unsheathed his sword.

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

"Son of Morni," I replied, "my soul delights in war. I delight to shine in battlealone, to give my name to the bards. But what if the foe should prevail? can I beholdthe 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 fameof the vanquished rise? They pass like a shade away. But the fame of Ossian shallrise! His deeds shall be like his father's. Let us rush in our arms; son of Morni, let usrush to fight. Gaul, if thou shouldst return, go to Selma's lofty hall. Tell to Everallinthat 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, "shall I return after Ossian is low?What would my father say? what Fingal, the king of men? The feeble would turn theireyes and say, 'Behold 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 themighty deeds of heroes; their mighty deeds when alone! for the soul increases indanger!"

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"Son of Morni," I replied, and strode before him on the heath, "our fathersshall praise our valor when they mourn our fall. A beam of gladness shall rise on theirsouls, when their eyes are full of tears. They will, say, 'Our sons have not fallenunknown: they spread death around them.' But why should we think of the narrowhouse? The sword defends the brave. But death pursues the flight of the feeble; theirrenown is never heard."

We rushed forward through night; we came to the roar of a stream, which bentits blue course round the foe, through trees that echoed to its sound. We came to thebank of the stream, and saw the sleeping host. Their fires were decayed on the plain:the lonely steps of their scouts were distant far. I stretched my spear before me, tosupport my steps over the stream. But Gaul took my hand, and spoke the words of thebrave. "Shall the son of Fingal rush on the sleeping foe? Shall he come like a blast bynight, when it overturns the young trees in secret? Fingal did no receive his fame, nordwells renown on the gray hairs of Morni, for actions like these. Strike, Ossian, strikethe shield, and let their thousands rise! Let them meet Gaul in his first battle, that hemay try the strength of his arm."

My soul rejoiced over the warrior; my bursting tears came down. "And the foeshall meet thee, Gaul," I said: "the fame of Morni's son shall arise. But rush not toofar, my hero: let the gleam of thy steel be near to Ossian. Let our hands join inslaughter. Gaul! dost thou not behold that rock? Its gray side dimly gleams to thestars. Should the foe prevail, let our back be towards the rock. Then shall they fear toapproach our spears; for death is in our hands!"

I struck thrice my echoing shield. The startling foe arose. We rushed on in thesound of our arms. Their crowded steps fly over the heath. They thought that themighty Fingal was come. The strength of their arms withered away. The sound oftheir flight was like that of flame, when it rushes through the blasted groves. It wasthen the spear of Gaul flew in its strength; it was then his sword arose. Cramo fell;and mighty Leth! Dunthormo struggled in his blood. The steel rushed throughCrotho'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 behindhim: he 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 armsof Gaul.

Such were thy deeds, son of Morni, in the first of thy battles. Nor slept thesword by thy side, thou last of Fingal's race! Ossian rushed forward in his strength;the people fell before him; as the grass by the stall of the boy, when he whistles alongthe field, and the gray beard of the thistle falls. But careless the youth moves on; hissteps are towards the desert. Gray morning rose around us; the winding streams arebright along the heath. The foe gathered on a bill; and the rage of Lathmon rose. Hebent the red eye of his wrath: he is silent in his rising grief. He often struck his bossyshield: and his steps are unequal on the heath. I saw the distant darkness of the hero,and I spoke to Morni's son.

"Car-borne chief of Strumon, dost thou behold the foe? 'They gather on thehill in their wrath. Let our steps be toward the king. <1> He shall rise in his strength,and the host of Lathmon vanish. Our fame is around us, warrior; the eyes of the aged


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<2> will rejoice. But let us fly, son of Morni, Lathmon descends the hill." "Then letour steps be slow," replied the fair-haired Gaul;" lest the foe say with a smile, 'Beholdthe warriors of night! They are, like ghosts, terrible in darkness; they melt awaybefore the beam of the east.' Ossian, take the shield of Gormar, who fell beneath thyspear. The aged heroes will rejoice, beholding the deeds of their sons."

Such were our words on the plain, when Sulmath came to car-borne Lathmon:Sulmath chief of Datha, at the dark-rolling stream of Duvranna." Why dost thou notrush, son of Nuäth, with a thousand of thy heroes? Why dost thou not descend withthy host before the warriors fly? Their blue arms are beaming to the rising light, andtheir steps are before us on the heath!"

"Son of the feeble hand," said Lathmon," shall my host descend? They are but two,son of Dutha! shall a thousand lift the steel? Nuäth would mourn in his hall, for thedeparture of his fame. His eyes would turn from Lathmon, when the tread of his feetapproached. Go thou to the heroes, chief of Dutha! I behold the stately steps ofOssian. His fame is worthy of my steel! let us contend in fight."

The noble Sulmath came. I rejoiced in the words of the king. I raised the shieldon my arm: Gaul placed in my hand the sword of Morni. We returned to themurmuring stream; Lathmon came down in his strength. His dark host rolled, likeclouds, behind 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 liethere of my people by thy hand, thou king of men! Lift now thy spear againstLathmon; lay the son of Nuäth low! Lay him low among his warriors, or thou thyselfmust fall! It shall never be told in my halls, that my people fell in my presence: thatthey fell in the presence of Lathmon when his sword rested by his side: the blue eyesof Couth would roll in tears; her steps be lonely in the vales of Dunlathmon!"

"Neither shall it be told," I replied, "that the son of Fingal fled. Were his stepscovered 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 themidst of battle."

Lathmon came on with his spear. He pierced the shield of Ossian. I felt thecold steel by my side. I drew the sword of Morni. I cut the spear in twain. The brightpoint fell glittering on earth. The son of Nuäth burnt in his wrath. He lifted high hissounding shield. His dark eyes rolled above it, as bending forward, it shone like a gateof brass. But Ossian's spear pierced the brightness of its bosses, and sunk in a tree thatrose behind. The shield hung on the quivering lance! But Lathmon still advanced!Gaul foresaw the fall of the chief. He stretched his buckler before my sword, when itdescended, in a stream of light, over the king of Dunlathmon!

Lathmon beheld the son of Morni. The tear started from his eye. He threw thesword of his fathers on the earth, and, spoke the words of the brave.

"Why should Lathmon fight against the first of men? Your souls are beamsfrom heaven; your swords the flames of death! Who can equal the renown of theheroes, whose deeds are so great in youth? O that ye were in the halls of Nuäth, in the

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green dwelling of Lathmon! Then would my father say that his son did not yield to theweak. But who comes, a mighty stream, along the echoing heath? The little hills aretroubled before him. A thousand ghosts are on the beams of his steel; the ghosts ofthose who are to fall by the king of resounding Morven. Happy art thou, O Fingal! thyson shall fight thy wars. They go forth before thee: they return with the steps of theirrenown!"

Fingal came in his mildness, rejoicing in secret over the deeds of his son.Morni's face brightened with gladness. His aged eyes look faintly through tears of joy.We came to the halls of Selma. We sat around the feasts of shells. The maids of songcame in to our presence, and the mildly-blushing Everallin! Her hair spreads on herneck of snow, her eye rolls in secret on Ossian. She touched the harp of music! weblessed the daughter of Branno!

Fingal rose in his place, and spoke to Lathmon, king of spears. The sword ofTrenmor shook by his side, as high he raised 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; ourswords gleam not over the weak. When did we rouse thee, O Lathmon, with the soundof war? Fingal does not delight in battle, though his arm is strong! My renown growson the fall of the haughty. The light of my steel pours on the proud in arms. The battlecomes! and the tombs of the valiant rise; the tombs of my people rise, O my fathers! Iat last must remain alone! But I will remain renowned: the departure of my soul shallbe a stream of light. Lathmon! retire to thy place! Turn thy battles to other lands! Therace of Morven are renowned; their foes are the sons of the unhappy."


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DAR-THULA

ARGUMENT.

It may not be improper here to give the story which is the foundation of this poem, asit is handed down by tradition. Usnoth, lord of Etha, which is probably that part ofArgyleshire which is near Loch Eta, an arm of the sea in Lorn, had three sons, Nathos,Althos, and Ardan, by Slissáma, the daughter of Semo, and sister to the celebratedCuthullin. The three brothers, when very young, were sent over to Ireland by theirfather, to learn the use of arms under their uncle Cuthullin, who made a great figure inthat kingdom. They were just landed in Ulster, when the news of Cuthullin's deatharrived. Nathos, though very young, took the command of Cuthullin's army, madehead against Cairbar the usurper, and defeated him in several battles. Cairbar at last,having found means to murder Cormac, the lawful king, the army of Nathos shiftedsides, and he himself was obliged to return into Ulster, in order to pass over intoScotland.

Dar-thula, the daughter of Colla, with whom Cairbar was in love, resided atthat time in Seláma, a castle in Ulster. She saw, fell in love, and fled with Nathos; buta storm rising at sea, they were unfortunately driven back on that part of the coast ofUlster, where Cairbar was encamped with his army. The three brothers, after havingdefended themselves for some time with great bravery, were overpowered and slain,and the unfortunate Dar-thula killed herself upon the body of her beloved Nathos.

The poem opens, on the night preceding the death of the sons of Usnoth, and bringsin, by way of episode, what passed before. it relates the death of Dar-thula differentlyfrom the common tradition. This account, is the most probable, as suicide seems tohave been unknown in those early times, for no traces of it are found in the old poetry.

DAUGHTER of heaven, fair art thou! the silence of thy face is pleasant! Thoucomest forth in loveliness. The stars attend thy blue course in the east. The cloudsrejoice in thy presence, O moon! They brighten their dark-brown sides. Who is likethee in heaven, light of the silent night? The stars are shamed in thy presence. Theyturn away their sparkling eyes. Whither dost thou retire from thy course when thedarkness of thy countenance grows? Hast thou thy hall, like Ossian? Dwellest thou inthe shadow of grief? Have thy sisters fallen from heaven? Are they who rejoiced withthee, at night, no more? Yes, they have fallen, fair light! and thou dost often retire tomourn. But thou thyself shalt fail one night and leave thy blue path in heaven. Thestars will then lift their 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 thecloud, O wind! that the daughters of night may look forth; that the shaggy mountainsmay brighten, and the ocean roll its white waves in light!

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Nathos is on the deep, and Althos, that beam of youth! Ardan is near hisbrothers. They move in the gloom of their course. The sons of Usnoth move indarkness, from the wrath of Cairbar of Erin. Who is that, dim by their side? The nighthas covered her beauty! Her hair sighs on ocean's wind. Her robe streams in duskywreaths. She is like the fair spirit of heaven in the midst of the shadowy mist. Who isit but Dar-thula, the first of Erin's maids? She has fled from the love of Cairbar, withblue-shielded Nathos. But the winds deceive thee, O Dar-thula! They deny the woodyEtha to thy sails. These are not the mountains of Nathos; nor is that the roar of hisclimbing waves. The halls of Cairbar are near: the towers of the foe lift their heads!Erin stretches its green head into the sea. Tura's bay receives the ship. Where have yebeen, ye southern Winds, when the sons of my love were deceived? But ye have beensporting on the plains, pursuing the thistle's beard. O that ye had been rustling in thesails of Nathos, till the hills of Etha arose! till they arose in their clouds, and saw theirreturning chief! Long hast thou been absent, Nathos! 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. Thysoul was generous and mild, like tho hour of the setting sun. Thy words were the galeof the reeds; the gliding stream of Lora! But when the rage of battle rose, thou wast asea in a storm. The clang of thy arms was terrible: the host vanished at the sound ofthy course. It was then Dar-thula beheld thee, from the top of her mossy tower; fromthe tower of Seláma, where her fathers dwelt.

"Lovely art thou, O stranger!" she said, for her trembling soul arose. "Fair artthou in thy battles, friend of the fallen Cormac! Why dost thou rush on in thy valor,youth of the ruddy look? Few are thy hands in fight against the dark-brown Cairbar! Othat I might be freed from his love, that I might rejoice in the presence of Nathos!Blest are the rocks of Etha! they will behold his steps at the chase; they will see hiswhite bosom, when the winds lift his flowing hair!" Such were thy words, Dar-thula,in Seláma's mossy towers. But now the night is around thee. The winds have deceivedthy sails- — the winds have deceived thy sails, Dar-thula! Their blustering sound ishigh. Cease a little while, O north wind! Let me hear the voice of the lovely. Thyvoice is lovely, Dar-thula, between the rustling blasts!

"Are these the rocks of Nathos?" she said, "this the roaring of his mountainstreams? Comes that beam of light from Usnoth's nightly hall? The mist spreadsaround; the beam is feeble and distant far. But the light of Dar-thula's soul dwells inthe chief of Etha! Son of the generous Usnoth, why that broken sigh? Are we in theland of strangers, chief of echoing Etha?"

"These are not the rocks of Nathos," he replied, "nor this the roar of hisstream. No light comes from Etha's hall, for they are distant far. We are in the land ofstrangers, in the land of cruel Cairbar. The winds have deceived us, Dar-thula. Erinlifts here her 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 towardsthat mossy tower, to see who dwells about the beam. Rest, Dar-thula, on the shore!rest in peace, thou lovely light! the sword of Nathos is around thee, like the lightningof heaven!"


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He went. She sat alone: she heard the roiling of the wave. The big tear is in hereye. She looks for returning Nathos. Her soul trembles at the bast. She turns her eartowards the tread of his feet. The tread of his feet is not heard. "Where art thou, son ofmy love! The roar of the blast is around me. Dark is the cloudy night. But Nathos doesnot return. What detains thee, chief of Etha? Have the foes met the hero in the strife ofthe night?"

He returned; but his face was dark. He had seen his departed friend! it was thewall of Tura. The ghost of Cuthullin stalked there alone; the sighing of his breast wasfrequent. The decayed flame of his eyes was terrible! His spear was a column of mist.The stars looked dim through his form. His voice was like hollow wind in a cave: hiseye a light seen afar. He told the tale of grief. The soul of Nathos was sad, like the sunin the day of mist, when his face watery and dim.

"Why art thou sad, O Nathos!" said the lovely daughter of Colla. "Thou art apillow of light to Dar-thula. The joy of her eyes is in Etha's chief. Where is my friend,but Nathos? My father, my brother is fallen! Silence dwells on Seláma. Sadnessspreads on the blue streams of my land. My friends have fallen with Cormac. Themighty were slain in the battles of Erin. Hear, son of Usnoth! hear, O Nathos! my taleof grief.

"Evening darkened on the plain. The blue streams failed before mine eyes. Theunfrequent blast came rustling in the tops of Seláma's groves. My seat was beneath atree, on the walls of my fathers. Truthil past before my soul; the brother of my love:he that was absent in battle against the haughty Cairbar! Bending on his spear, thegray-haired Colla came. His downcast face is dark, and sorrow dwells in his soul. Hissword is on the side of the hero; the helmet of his fathers on his head. The battlegrows in his breast. He strives to hide the tear.

"'Dar-thula, my daughter,' he said, 'thou art the last of Colla's race! Truthil isfallen in battle. The chief of Seláma is no more! Cairbar comes, with his thousands,towards Seláma's walls. Colla will meet his pride, and revenge his son. But whereshall I find thy safety, Dar-thula with the dark-brown hair! thou art lovely as thesunbeam of heaven, and thy friends are low!' 'Is the son of battle fallen?' I said, with abursting sigh. 'Ceased the generous soul of Truthil to lighten through the field? Mysafety, Colla, is in that bow. I have learned to pierce the deer. Is not Cairbar like thehart of the desert, father of fallen Truthil?'

"The face of age brightened with joy. The crowded tears of his eyes poureddown. The lips of Colla trembled. His gray beard whistled in the blast. 'Thou art thesister of Truthil,' he said; 'thou burnest in the fire of his soul. Take, Dar-thula, takethat spear, that brazen shield, that burnished helm; they are the spoils of a warrior, ason of early youth! When the light rises on Seláma, we go to meet the car-borneCairbar. But keep thou near the arm of Colla, beneath the shadow of my shield. Thyfather, Dar-thula, could once defend thee; but age is trembling On his hand. Thestrength of his arm has failed. His soul is darkened with grief.'

"We passed the night in sorrow. The light of morning rose. I shone in the armsof battle. The gray haired hero moved before. The sons of Seláma convened aroundthe sounding shield of Colla. But few were they in the plain, and their locks were

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gray. The youths had fallen with Truthil, in the battle of car-borne Cormac. 'Friends ofmy youth,' said Colla, 'it was not thus you have seen me in arms. It was not thus Istrode to battle when the great Confaden fell. But ye are laden with grief. Thedarkness of age comes like the mist of the desert. My shield is worn with years! mysword is fixed in its place! <1> I said to my soul, Thy evening shall be calm; thydeparture like a fading light. But the storm has returned. I bend like an aged oak. Myboughs are fallen on Seláma. I tremble in my place. Where art thou, with thy fallenheroes, O my beloved Truthil! Thou answerest not from thy rushing blast. The soul ofthy father is sad. But I will be sad no more! Cairbar or Colla must fall! I feel thereturning strength of my arm. My heart leaps at the sound of war.'

"The hero drew his sword. The gleaming blades of his people rose. Theymoved along the plain. Their gray hair streamed in the wind. Cairbar sat at the feast,in the silent plain of Lena. He saw the coming of the heroes. He called his chiefs towar. Why should I tell to Nathos how the strife of battle grew? I have seen thee in themidst of thousands, like the beam of heaven's fire: it is beautiful, but terrible; thepeople fall in its dreadful course. The spear of Colla flew. He remembered the battlesof his youth. An arrow came with its sound. It pierced the hero's side. He fell on hisechoing shield. My soul started with fear. I stretched my buckler over him: but myheaving breast was seen! Cairbar came with his spear. He beheld Seláma's maid. Joyrose on his dark-brown Taco. He stayed his lifted steel. He raised the tomb of Colla.He brought me weeping to Seláma. He spoke the words of love, but my soul was sad.I saw the shields of my fathers; the sword of car-borne Truthil. I saw the arms of thedead; the tear was on my cheek! Then thou didst come, O Nathos! and gloomyCairbar fled. He fled like the ghost of the desert before the morning's beam. His hostwas not near; and feeble was his arm against thy steel! Why art thou sad, O Nathos?"said the lovely daughter of Colla.

"I have met," replied the hero, "the battle in my youth. My arm could not liftthe spear when danger first arose. My soul brightened in the presence of war, as thegreen narrow vale, when the sun pours his streamy beams, before he hides his head ina storm. The lonely traveller feels a mournful joy. He sees the darkness that slowlycomes. 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 advances, and threatens the lovelylight! We are in the land of foes. The winds have deceived us, Dar-thula! The strengthof our friends is not near, nor the mountains of Etha. Where shall I find thy peace,daughter of mighty Colla! The brothers of Nathos are brave, and his own sword hasshone in fight. But what are the sons of Usnoth to the host of dark-brown Cairbar! Othat the winds had brought thy sails, Oscar king of men! Thou didst promise to cometo the battles of fallen Cormac! Then would my hand be strong as the flaming arm ofdeath. Cairbar 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. "Nevershall Dar-thula behold the halls of gloomy Cairbar. Give me those arms of brass, thatglitter to the passing meteor. I see them dimly in the dark-bosomed ship. Dar-thulawill enter the battles of steel. Ghost of the noble Colla! do I behold thee on that cloud!Who is that dim beside thee? Is it the car-borne Truthil? Shall I behold the halls ofhim that slew Seláma's chief? No: I will not behold them, spirits of my love!"


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Joy rose in the face of Nathos when he heard the white-bosomed maid."Daughter of Seláma! thou shinest along my soul. Come, with thy thousands, Cairbar!the strength of Nathos is returned! Thou O aged Usnoth! shalt not hear that thy sonhas fled. I remembered thy words on Etha, when my sails began to rise: when I spreadthem towards Erin, towards the mossy walls of Tura! 'Thou goest,' he said, 'O Nathos,to the king of shields! Thou goest to Cuthullin, chief of men, who never fled fromdanger. Let not thine arm be feeble: neither be thy thoughts of flight; lest the son ofSemo should say that Etha's race are weak. His words may come to Usnoth, andsadden his soul in the hall.' The tear was on my father's cheek. He gave this shiningsword!

"I came to Tura's bay; but the halls of Tara were silent. I looked around, andthere was none to tell of the son of generous Semo. I went to the hall of shells, wherethe 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 longbeen absent from Tura's dusky walls. Come ye from the rolling sea? or from Temora'smournful halls?'

"'We come from the sea,' I said, 'from Usnoth's rising towers. We are the sonsof Slissáma, the daughter of car-borne Semo. Where is Tura's chief, son of the silenthall? But why should Nathos ask? for I behold thy tears. How did the mighty fall, sonof the lonely Tura?' 'He fell not,' Lamhor replied, 'like the silent star of night, when itflies through darkness and is no more. But he was like a meteor that shoots into adistant land. Death attends its dreary course. Itself is the sign of wars. Mournful arethe banks of Lego; and the roar of streamy Lara! There the hero fell, son of the nobleUsnoth!' 'The hero fell in the midst of slaughter,' I said with a bursting sigh. 'His handwas strong in war. Death dimly sat behind his sword.'

"We came to Lego's sounding banks. We found his rising tomb. His friends inbattle are there: his bards of many songs. Three days we mourned over the hero: onthe fourth I struck the shield of Caithbat. The heroes gathered around with joy, andshook their beamy spears. Corlath was near with his host, the friend of car-borneCairbar. We came like a stream by night. His heroes fell before us. When the peopleof the valley rose, they saw their blood with morning's light. But we rolled away, likewreaths of mist, to Cormac's echoing hall. Our swords rose to defend the king. ButTemora's halls were empty. Cormac had fallen in his youth. The king of Erin was nomore!

"Sadness seized the sons of Erin. They slowly gloomily retired: like cloudsthat long having threatened rain, vanish behind the hills. The sons of Usnoth moved,in their grief, towards Tura's sounding bay. We passed by Seláma. Cairbar retired likeLena's mist, when driven before the winds. It was then I beheld thee, O Dar-thula! likethe light of Etha's sun. 'Lovely is that beam!' I said. The crowded sigh of my bosomrose. Thou camest in thy beauty, Dar-thula, to Etha's mournful chief. But the windshave deceived us, daughter of Colla, and the foe is near!"

"Yes, the foe is near," said the rushing strength of Althos." I heard theirclanging arms on the coast. I saw the dark wreaths of Erin's standard. Distinct is thevoice of Cairbar; loud as Cromla's falling stream. He had seen the dark ship on thesea, before the dusky night came down. His people watch on Lena's plain. They lift

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ten thousand swords." "And let them lift ten thousand swords," said Nathos with asmile." The sons of car-borne Usnoth will never tremble in danger! Why dost thouroll with all thy foam, thou roaring sea of Erin? Why do ye rustle on your dark wings,ye whistling storms of the sky? Do ye think, ye storms, that ye keep Nathos on thecoast? No: his soul 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 covered his limbs in all their shining steel. Thestride of the chief is lovely. The joy of' his eyes was terrible. He looks towards thecoming of Cairbar. The wind is rustling in his hair. Dar-thula is silent at his side. Herlook is fixed on the chief. She strives to hide the rising sigh. Two tears swell in herradiant eyes!

"Althos!" said the child of Etha, "I see a cave in that rock. Place Dar-thula there. Letthy arm, my brother, be strong. Ardan! we meet the foe; call to battle gloomy Cairbar.O that he came in his sounding steel, to meet the son of Usnoth! Dar-thula, if thoushalt escape, look not on the fallen Nathos! Lift thy sails, O Althos! towards theechoing groves of my land.

"Tell the chief that his son fell with fame; that my sword did not shun thefight. Tell him I fell in the midst of thousands. Let the joy of his grief be great.Daughter of Colla! call the maids to Etha's echoing hall! Let their songs arise forNathos, when shadowy autumn returns. O that the voice of Cona, that Ossian might beheard in my praise! then would my spirit rejoice in the midst of the rushing winds.""And my voice shall praise thee, Nathos, chief of the woody Etha! The voice ofOssian shall rise in thy praise, son of the generous Usnoth! Why was I not on Lenawhen the battle rose? Then would the sword of Ossian defend thee, or himself falllow!"

We sat that night in Selma, round the strength of the shell. The wind wasabroad in the oaks. The spirit of the mountain <2> roared. The blast came rustlingthrough the hall, and gently touched my harp. The sound was mournful and low, likethe song of the tomb. Fingal heard it the first. The crowded sighs of his bosom rose."Some of my heroes are low," said the gray-haired king of Morven. "I hear the soundof death on the harp. Ossian, touch the trembling string. Bid the sorrow rise, that theirspirits 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 ofmy fathers! bend. Lay by the red terror of your course. Receive the fallen chief;whether he comes from a distant land, or rises from the rolling sea. Let his robe ofmist be near; his spear that is formed of a cloud. Place an half-extinguished meteor byhis side, in the form of the hero's sword. And, oh! let his countenance be lovely, thathis friends may delight in his presence. Bend from your clouds," I said, "ghosts of myfathers! bend!"

Such was my song in Selma, to the lightly-trembling harp. But Nathos was onErin's shore, surrounded by the night. He heard the voice of the foe, amidst the roar oftumbling 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, theyspread along the coast. Cairbar stood in the midst. He grimly smiled when he saw the


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foe. Nathos rushed forward in his strength: nor could Dar-thula stay behind. She camewith the hero, lifting her shining spear. "And who are these, in their armor, in thepride of youth? Who but the sons of Usnoth, Althos and dark-haired Ardan?"

"Come," said Nathos, "come, chief of high Temora! Let our battle be on thecoast, for the white bosomed maid. His people are not with Nathos: they are behindthese rolling seas. Why dost thou bring thy thousands against the chief of Etha? Thoudidst fly from him in battle, when his friends were around his spear." "Youth of theheart of pride, shall Erin's king fight with thee? Thy fathers were not among therenowned, nor of the kings of men. Are the arms of foes in their halls? or the shieldsof other times? Cairbar is renowned in Temora, nor does he fight with feeble men

The tear started from car-borne Nathos. He turned his eyes to his brothers.Their spears flew at once. Three heroes lay on earth. Then the light of their swordsgleamed on high. The ranks of Erin yield, as a ridge of dark clouds before a blast ofwind! Then Cairbar ordered his people, and they drew a thousand bows. A thousandarrows flew. The sons of Usnoth fell in blood. They fell like three young oaks, whichstood alone on the hill: the traveller saw the lovely trees, and wondered how theygrew so lonely: the blast of the desert 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. Buther look is wildly sad. Pale was her cheek. Her trembling lips broke short an half-formed word. Her dark hair flew on wind. The gloomy Cairbar came. "Where is thylover now? the car-borne chief of Etha? Hast thou beheld the halls of Usnoth? or thedark-brown hills of Fingal? My battle would have roared on Morven, had not thewinds met Dar-thula. Fingal himself would have been low, and sorrow dwelling inSelma!" Her shield fell from Dar-thula's arm. Her breast of snow appeared. Itappeared; but it was stained with blood. An arrow was fixed in her side. She fell onthe fallen Nathos, like a wreath of snow! Her hair spreads wide on his face. Theirblood is mixing round!

"Daughter of Colla! thou art low!" said Cairbar's hundred bards. "Silence is atthe blue streams of Seláma. Truthil's race have failed. When wilt thou rise in thybeauty, first of Erin's maids? Thy sleep is long in the tomb. The morning distant far.The sun shall not come to thy bed and say, Awake, Dar-thula! awake, thou first ofwomen! 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 herloveliness."

Such was the song of the bards, when they raised the tomb. I sung over thegrave, when the king of Morven came: when he came to green Erin to fight with car-borne Cairbar!

<1> It was the custom of ancient times, that every warrior, at a certain age, or whenhe became unfit for the field, fixed his arms in the great ball, where the tribes feastedupon joyful occasions. He was afterward never to appear in battle; and this stage oflife was called "the time of fixing the arms."

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<2> By the spirit of the mountain, is meant that deep and melancholy sound whichprecedes a storm, well known to those who live in a high country.


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THE DEATH OF CUTHULLIN.

Night is around the hero. The thousands spread on the heath

ARGUMENT.

Cuthullin, after the arms of Fingal had expelled Swaran from Ireland, continued tomanage the affairs of that kingdom as the guardian of Cormac the young king. In thethird year of Cuthullin's administration, Torlath, the son of Cantela, rebelled inConnaught: and advanced to Temora to dethrone Cormac. Cuthullin marched againsthim, came up with him at the lake of Lego, and totally defeated his forces. Torlath fellin battle by Cuthullin's hand; but as he too eagerly pressed on the enemy, he wasmortally wounded. The affairs of Cormac, though for some time supported by Nathos,as mentioned in the preceding poem, fell into confusion at the death of Cuthullin.Cormac himself was slain by the rebel Cairbar; and the re-establishment of the royalfamily of Ireland, by Fingal, furnishes the subject of the epic poem of Temora.

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Is the wind on the shield of Fingal? Or is the voice of past times in my hall?Sing on, sweet voice! for thou art pleasant. Thou carriest away my night with joy.Sing on, O Bragéla, daughter of car-borne Sorglan!

"It is the white wave of the rock, and not Cuthullin's sails. Often do the mistsdeceive me for the ship of my love! when they rise round some ghost, and spread theirgray 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, <1>since thou hast been in the roar of battles, and Bragéla distant far! Hills of the isle ofmist! when will ye answer to his hounds? But ye are dark in your clouds. Sad Bragélacalls in vain! Night comes rolling down. The face of ocean falls. The heath-cock'shead is beneath his wing. The hind sleeps with the hart of the desert. They shall risewith morning's light, and feed by 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 ofErin's wars?"

Pleasant is thy voice in Ossian's ear, daughter of car-borne Sorglan! But retireto the hall of shells, to the beam of the burning oak. Attend to the murmur of the sea:it rolls at Dunscäi's walls: let sleep descend on thy blue eyes. Let the hero arise in thydreams!

Cuthullin sits at Lego's lake, at the dark rolling of waters. Night is around thehero. His thousands spread on the heath. A hundred oaks burn in the midst. The feastof shells is smoking wide. Carril strikes the harp beneath a tree. His gray locks glitterin the beam. The rustling blast of night is near, and lifts his aged hair. His song is ofthe blue Togorma, and of its chief, Cuthullin's friend! "Why art thou absent, Connal,in the days of the gloomy storm? The chiefs of the south have convened against thecar-borne Cormac. The winds detain thy sails. Thy blue waters roll around thee. ButCormac is not alone. The son of Semo fights his wars! Semo's son his battles fights!the terror of the stranger! He that is like the vapor of death, slowly borne by sultrywinds. 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 downhis pointless spear. He spoke the words of Torlath; Torlath chief of heroes, fromLego's sable surge! He that led his thousands to battle, against car-borne Cormac.Cormac, who was distant far, in Temora's echoing halls: he learned to bend the bowof his fathers; and to lift the spear. Nor long didst thou lift the spear, mildly-shiningbeam of youth! death stands dim behind thee, like the darkened half of the moonbehind its growing light. Cuthullin rose before the bard, that came from generousTorlath. He offered him the shell of joy. He honored the son of songs. "Sweet voice ofLego!" he said, "what are the words of Torlath? Comes he to our feast or battle, thecar-borne son of Cantela?"


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"He comes to thy battle," replied the bard, "to the sounding strife of spears.When morning is gray on Lego, Torlath will fight on the plain. Wilt thou meet him, inthine arms, king of the isle of mist? Terrible is the spear of Torlath! it is a meteor ofnight. He lifts it, and the people fall! death sits in the lightning of his sword!" — "Do Ifear," replied Cuthullin, "the spear of car-borne Torlath? He is brave as a thousandheroes: but my soul delights in war! The sword rests not by the side of Cuthullin, bardof the times of old! Morning shall meet me on the plain, and gleam on the blue armsof Semo's son. But sit thou on the heath, O bard, and let us hear thy voice. Partake ofthe joyful shell: and hear the songs of Temora!"

"This is no time," replied the bard, "to hear the song of joy: when the mightyare to meet in battle, like the strength of the waves of Lego. Why art thou so dark,Slimora! with all thy silent woods? No star trembles on thy top. No moonbeam on thyside. But the meteors of death are there: the gray watery forms of ghosts. Why artthou dark, Slimora! why thy silent woods?" He retired, in the sound of his song. Carriljoined his voice. The music was like the memory of joys that are past, pleasant andmournful to the soul. The ghosts of departed bards heard on Slimora's side. Softsounds spread along the wood. The silent valleys of night rejoice. So when he sits inthe silence of the day, in the valley of his breeze, the humming of the mountain beecomes to Ossian's ear: the gale drowns it in its course: but the pleasant sound returnsagain! Slant looks the sun on the field! gradual grows the shade of the hill!

"Raise," said Cuthullin to his hundred bards, "the song of the noble Fingal:that song which he hears at night, when the dreams of his rest descend; when thebards strike the distant harp, and the faint light gleams on Selma's walls. Or let thegrief of Lara rise: the sighs of the mother of Calmar, when he was sought, in vain, onhis hills; when she beheld his bow in the hall. Carril, place the shield of Caithbat onthat branch. Let the spear of Cuthullin 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 hundredbards were distant far: Carril alone is near the chief. The words of the song were his:the sound of his harp was mournful.

"Alcletha with the aged locks! mother of car-borne Calmar! why dost thoulook towards the desert, to behold the return of thy son? These are not his heroes, darkon the heath: nor is that the voice of Calmar. It is but the distant grove, Alcletha! butthe roar of the mountain-wind — [Alcletha speaks] 'Who bounds over Lara's stream,sister of the noble Calmar? Does not Alcletha behold his spear? But her eyes are dim!Is it not the son of Matha, daughter of my love?'

"'It is but an aged oak, Alcletha!' replied the lovely weeping Alona. 'It is but anoak, Alcletha, bent over Lara's stream. But who comes along the plain? sorrow is inhis speed. He lifts high the spear of Calmar. Alcletha, it is covered with blood!' —

"[Alcletha speaks] 'But it is covered with the blood of foes, sister of car-borneCalmar! His spear never returned unstained with blood: nor his bow from the strife ofthe mighty. The battle is consumed in his presence: he is a flame of death, Alona! —Youth of the mournful speed! where is the son of Alcletha! Does he return with hisfame, in the midst of his echoing shields? Thou art dark and silent! Calmar is then no

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more! Tell me not, warrior, how he fell. I must not hear of his wound!' Why dost thoulook towards the desert, mother of low-laid Calmar?"

Such was the song of Carril, when Cuthullin lay on his shield. The bardsrested on their harps. Sleep fell softly around. The son of Semo was awake alone. Hissoul fixed on 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 dimly along the beam.Dark is the wound in his side. His hair is disordered and loose. Joy sits pale on hisface. He seems to invite Cuthullin to his cave.

"Son of the cloudy night!" said the rising chief of Erin; "why dost thou bendthy dark eyes on me, ghost of the noble Calmar? wouldst thou frighten me, O Matha'sson! from the battles of Cormac? Thy hand was not feeble in war: neither was thyvoice 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 night. Small is their knowledge,weak their hands; their dwelling is in the wind. But my soul grows in danger, andrejoices in the noise of steel. Retire thou to thy cave. Thou art not Calmar's ghost. Hedelighted in battle. His arm was like the thunder of heaven! He retired in his blast withjoy, for he had heard the voice of his praise."

The faint beam of the morning rose. The sound of Caithbat's buckler spread.Green Erin's warriors convened, like the roar of many streams. The horn of war isheard over Lego. The mighty Torlath came! "Why dost thou come with thy thousands,Cuthullin," said the chief of Lego." I know the strength of thy arm. Thy soul is anunextinguished fire. Why fight we not on the plain, and let our hosts behold ourdeeds? Let them behold us like roaring waves, that tumble round a rock; the marinershasten away, and look on their strife with fear."

"Thou risest like the sun, on my soul, replied the son of Semo. Thine arm ismighty, O Torlath! and worthy of my wrath. Retire, ye men of Ullin, to Slimora'sshady side. Behold the chief of Erin, in the day of his fame. Carril, tell to mightyConnal, if Cuthullin must fall, tell him I accused the winds, which roar on Togorma'swaves. Never was he absent in battle, when the strife of my fame arose. Let his swordbe before Cormac, like the beam of heaven. Let his counsel sound in Temora, in theday of danger!"

He rushed, in the sound of his arms, like the terrible spirit of Loda, when hecomes, in the roar of a thousand storms, and scatters battles from his eyes. He sits on acloud over Lochlin's seas. His mighty hand is on his sword. Winds lift his flaminglocks! The waning moon half lights his dreadful face. His features blended indarkness arise to view. So terrible was Cuthullin in the day of his fame. Torlath fell byhis hand. Lego's heroes mourned. They gather around the chief, like the clouds of thedesert. A thousand swords rose at once; a thousand arrows flew; but he stood like arock in the midst of a roaring sea. They fell around. He strode in blood. Dark Slimoraechoed wide. The sons of Ullin came on. The battle spread over Lego. The chief ofErin overcame. He returned over the field with his fame. But pale he returned! Thejoy of his face was dark. He rolled his eyes in silence. The sword hung, unsheathed, inhis hand. His spear bent at every step!


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"Carril," said the chief in secret, "the strength of Cuthullin fails. My days arewith the years that are past. No morning of mine shall arise. They shall seek me atTemora, but I shall not be found. Cormac will weep in his hall, and say, Where isErin's chief? But my name is renowned! my fame in the song of bards. The youth willsay, in secret, O let me die as Cuthullin died! Renown clothed him like a robe. Thelight of his fame is great. — Draw the arrow from my side. Lay Cuthullin beneath thatoak. Place the shield of Caithbat near, that they may behold me amidst the arms of myfathers!"

"And is the son of Semo fallen?" said Carril with a sigh." Mournful are Tura'swalls. Sorrow dwells at Dunscäi. Thy spouse is left alone in her youth. The son of thylove is alone! He shall come to Bragéla and ask her why she weeps! He shalt lift hiseyes to the wall, and see his father's sword. Whose sword is that? he will say. The soulof his mother is sad. Who is that, like the hart of the desert, in the murmur of hiscourse? 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 aroundthee? Was the wind of the south in thy sails? The mighty have fallen in battle, andthou wast not there. Let none tell it in Selma, nor in Morven's woody land. Fingal willbe sad, and the sons of the desert mourn!"

By the dark-rolling waves of Lego they raised the hero's tomb. Luath, at adistance, lies. The song of bards rose over the dead.

<2> Blest be thy soul, son of Semo! Thou wert mighty in battle. Thy strengthwas like the strength of a stream; thy speed like the eagle's wing. Thy path in battlewas terrible: the steps of death were behind thy sword. Blest be thy soul, son of Semo,car-borne chief of Dunscäi! Thou hast not fallen by the sword of the mighty, neitherwas thy blood on the spear of the brave. The arrow came, like the sting of death in ablast: nor did the feeble hand, which drew the bow, perceive it. Peace to thy soul, inthy cave, chief of the isle of mist!

"The mighty are dispersed at Temora; there is none in Cormac's hall. The kingmourns in his youth. He does not behold thy return. The sound of thy shield is ceased:his foes are gathering round. Soft be thy rest in thy cave, chief of Erin's wars! Bragélawill not hope for thy return, or see thy sails in ocean's foam. Her steps are not on theshore: nor her ear open to the voice of thy rowers. She sits in the hall of shells. Shesees 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 Tura!"

<1> Togorma, i. e. "the island of blue waves," one of the Hebrides.

<2> This is the song of the bards over Cuthullin's tomb.

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THE BATTLE OF LORA.

ARGUMENT

Fingal, at his return from Ireland, after he had expelled Swaran from that kingdom,made a feast to all his heroes: he forgot to invite Ma-Ronnan and Aldo, two chiefs,who had not been along with him in his expedition. They resented his neglect; andwent over to Erragon, king of Sora, a country of Scandinavia, the declared enemy ofFingal. The valor of Aldo soon gained him a great reputation in Sora; and Lorma, thebeautiful wife of Erragon, fell in love with him. He found means to escape with her,and to come to Fingal, who resided then in Selma, on the western coast. Erragoninvaded Scotland, and was slain in battle by Gaul the son of Morni, after he hadrejected terms of peace offered him by Fingal. In this war Aldo fell, in a singlecombat, by the hands of his rival Erragon, and the unfortunate Lorma afterward diedof grief.

SON of the distant land, who dwellest in the secret cell; do I hear the sound ofthy grove? or is it thy voice of songs? The torrent was loud in my ear; but I heard atuneful voice. Dost thou praise the chiefs of thy land: or the spirits of the wind? But,lonely dweller of rocks! look thou on that heathy plain. Thou seest green tombs, withtheir rank, whistling grass, with their stones of mossy heads. Thou seest them, son ofthe rock, but Ossian's eyes have failed!

A mountain-stream comes roaring down, and sends its waters round a greenhill. 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 isthy dwelling, Erragon; this thy narrow house; the sound of thy shells has been longforgot in Sora. Thy shield is become dark in thy hall. Erragon, king of ships, chief ofdistant Sora! how hast thou fallen on our mountains? How is the mighty low? Son ofthe secret cell! dost thou delight in songs? Hear the battle of Lora. The sound of itssteel is long since past. So thunder on the darkened hill roars and is no more. The sunreturns with his silent beams. The glittering rocks, and the green heads of themountains, smile.

The bay of Cona received our ships from Erin's rolling waves. Our whitesheets hung loose to the masts. The boisterous winds roared behind the groves ofMorven. The horn of the king is sounded; the deer start from their rocks. Our arrowsflew in the woods. The feast of the hill is spread. Our joy was great on our rocks, forthe fall of the terrible Swaran. Two heroes were forgot at our feast. The rage of theirbosoms 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


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dark clouds in the midst of our joy; like pillars of mist on the settled sea: they glitterto 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 thefeast: but our arms have been red in blood. Let us leave the hills of Fingal, and servethe king of Sora. His countenance is fierce. War darkens around his spear. Let us berenowned, O Aldo, in the battles of other lands!"

They took their swords, their shields of thongs. They rushed to Lumar'sresounding bay. They came to Sora's haughty king, the chief of bounding steeds.Erragon had returned from the chase. His spear was red in blood. He bent his darkface to the ground; and whistled as he went. He took the strangers to his feast: theyfought and conquered in his wars.

Aldo returned with his fame towards Sora's lofty walls. From her tower lookedthe spouse of Erragon, the humid, rolling eyes of Lorma. Her yellow hair flies on thewind of ocean. Her white breast heaves, like snow on heath; when the gentle windsarise, and slowly move it in the light. She saw young Aldo, like the beam of Sora'ssetting sun. Her soft heart sighed. Tears filled her eyes. Her white arm supported herhead. Three days she sat within the hall, and covered her grief with joy. On the fourthshe fled with the hero, along the troubled sea. They came to Cona's mossy towers, toFingal king of spears.

"Aldo of the heart of pride!" said Fingal, rising in wrath; "shall I defend theefrom the rage of Sora's injured king? Who will now receive my people into theirhalls? Who will give the feast of strangers, since Aldo of the little soul has dishonoredmy name in Sora? Go to thy hills, thou feeble hand! Go: hide thee in thy caves.Mournful is the battle we must fight with Sora's gloomy king. Spirit of the nobleTrenmor! when will Fingal cease to fight? I was born in the midst of battles, <1> andmy steps must move in blood to the tomb. But my hand did not injure the weak, mysteel did not touch the feeble in arms. I behold thy tempests, O Morven! which willoverturn my halls! when my children are dead in battle, and none remains to dwell inSelma. Then will the feeble come, but they will not know my tomb. My renown isonly in song. My deeds shall be as a dream to future times!"

His people gathered around Erragon, as the storms round the ghosts of night;when he calls them from the top of Morven, and prepares to pour them on the land ofthe stranger. He came to the shore of Cona. He sent his bard to the king to demand thecombat of thousands: or the land of many hills! Fingal sat in his hall with the friendsof his youth around him. The young heroes were at the chase, far distant in the desert.The gray-haired chiefs talked of other times; of the actions of their youth; when theaged Nartmor came, the chief of streamy Lora.

"This is no time," said Nartmor, "to hear the songs of other years: Erragonfrowns on the coast, and lifts ten thousand swords. Gloomy is the king among hischiefs! he is like the darkened moon amidst the meteors of night; when they sail alongher skirts, and give the light that has failed o'er her orb." "Come," said Fingal, "fromthy hall, come, daughter of my love: come from thy hall, Bosmina, maid of streamyMorven! Nartmor, take the steeds of the strangers. Attend the daughter of Fingal! Let

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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. Ageis on our trembling hands!"

She came to the host of Erragon, like a beam of light to a cloud. In her righthand was seen, a sparkling shell. In her left an arrow of gold. The first, the joyfulmark of peace! The latter, the sign of war. Erragon brightened in her presence, as arock before the sudden beams of the sun; when they issue from a broken clouddivided by the roaring wind!

"Son of the distant Sora," began the mildly-blushing maid," come to the feastof Morven's king, to Selma's shaded walls. Take the peace of heroes, O warrior! Letthe dark sword rest by thy side. Choosest thou the wealth of kings? Then hear thewords of generous Aldo. He gives to Erragon a hundred steeds, the children of therein; a hundred maids from distant lands; a hundred hawks with fluttering wing, thatfly across the sky. A hundred girdles <2> shall also be thine, to bind high-bosomedmaids. The friends of the births of heroes. The cure of the sons of toil. Ten shells,studded with gems, shall shine in Sora's towers: the bright water trembles on theirstars, and seems to be sparkling wine. They gladdened once the kings of the world,<3> in the midst of their echoing halls. These, O hero! shall be thine; or thy whitebosomed spouse. Lorma shall roll her bright eyes in thy halls; though Fingal loves thegenerous Aldo: Fingal, who never injured a hero, though his arm is strong!"

"Soft voice of Cona!" replied the king, "tell him, he spreads his feast in vain.Let Fingal pour his spoils around me. Let him bend beneath my power. Let him giveme the swords of his fathers: the shields of other times; that my children may beholdthem in my halls, and say, 'These are the arms of Fingal!'" "Never shall they beholdthem in thy halls," said the rising pride of the maid. "They are in the hands of heroes,who never yield in war. King of echoing 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 downcast eyes. He rosefrom his place, in his strength. He shook his aged locks. He took the sounding mail ofTrenmor. The dark-brown shield of his fathers. Darkness filled Selma's hall, when hestretched his hand to the spear: the ghosts of thousands were near, and foresaw thedeath of the people. Terrible joy rose in the face of the aged heroes. They rushed tomeet the foe. Their thoughts are on the deeds of other years: and on the fame that risesfrom death!

Now at Trathal's ancient tomb the dogs of the chase appeared. Fingal knewthat his young heroes followed. He stopped in the midst of his course. Oscar appearedthe first; then Morni's son, and Némi's race. Fercuth showed his gloomy form. Dermidspread his dark hair on wind. Ossian came the last. I hummed the song of other times.My spear supported my steps over the little streams. My thoughts were of mightymen. Fingal struck his bossy shield, and gave the dismal sign of war. A thousandswords at once, unsheathed, gleam on the waving heath. Three gray-haired sons of thesong raise the tuneful, mournful voice. Deep and dark, with sounding steps, we rush, agloomy ridge, along; like the shower of the storm when it pours on a narrow vale.


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The king of Morven sat on his hill. The sunbeam of battle flew on the wind.The friends of his youth are near, with all their waving locks of age. Joy rose in thehero's eyes when he beheld his sons in war; when he saw us amidst the lightning ofswords, mindful of the deeds of our fathers. Erragon came on, in his strength, like theroar of a winter stream. The battle falls around his steps: death dimly stalks along byhis side.

"Who comes," said Fingal, "like the bounding roe!; like the hart of echoingCona? His shield glitters on his side. The clang of his armor is mournful. He meetswith Erragon in the strife. Behold the battle of the chiefs! It is like the contending ofghosts in a gloomy storm. But fallest thou, son of the hill, and is thy white bosomstained with blood? Weep, unhappy Lorma! Aldo is no more!" The king took thespear of his strength. He was sad for the fall at Aldo. He bent his deathful eyes on thefoe: but Gaul met the king of Sora. Who can relate the light of the chiefs? The mightystranger fell! "Sons of Cona!' Fingal cried aloud, "stop the hand of death. Mighty washe that is low. Much is he mourned in Sora! The stranger will come towards his hall,and wonder why it is so silent. The king is fallen, O stranger! The joy of his house isceased. Listen to the sound of his woods! Perhaps his ghost is murmuring there! Buthe is far distant, on Morven, beneath the sword of a foreign foe." Such were the wordsof Fingal, when the bard raised the song of peace. We stopped our uplifted swords.We spared the feeble foe. We laid Erragon in a tomb. I raised the voice of grief. Theclouds of night came rolling down. The ghost of Erragon appeared to some. His facewas cloudy and dark; a half-formed sigh in his breast. "Blest be thy soul, O king ofSora! thine arm was terrible in war!"

Lorma sat in Aldo's hall. She sat at the light of a flaming oak. The night camedown, but he did not return. The soul of Lorma is sad! "What detains thee, hunter ofCona? Thou didst promise to return. Has the deer been distant far? Do the dark windssigh, round! thee, on the heath? I am in the land of strangers; who is my friend, butAldo? Come from thy sounding hills, O my best beloved!"

Her eyes are turned towards the gate. She listens to the rustling blast. Shethinks it is Aldo's tread. Joy rises in her face! But sorrow returns again, like a thincloud on the moon. "Wilt thou 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 beholdhis dogs, returning from the chase? When shall I hear his voice, loud and distant onthe wind? Come from thy sounding hills, hunter of woody Cona!" His thin ghostappeared, on a rock, like a watery beam of feeble light: when the moon rushes suddenfrom between two clouds, and the midnight shower is on the field. She followed theempty form over the heath. She knew that her hero fell. I heard her approaching crieson the wind, like the mournful voice of the breeze, when it sighs on the grass of thecave

She came. She found her hero! Her voice was heard no more. Silent she rolledher eyes. She was pale and wildly sad! Few were her days on Cona. She sunk into thetomb. Fingal commanded his bards; they sung over the death of Lorma. The daughtersof Morven mourned her, for one day in the year, when the dark winds of autumnreturned!

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Son of the distant land! Thou dwellest in the field of fame! O let the songarise, at times, in praise of those who fell! Let their thin ghosts rejoice around thee;and the soul of Lorma come on a feeble beam; when thou liest down to rest, and themoon looks into thy cave. Then shalt thou see her lovely; but the tear is still on hercheek!

<1> Comhal, the Father of Fingal, was slain in battle, against the tribe of Morni, thevery day that Fingal was born; so that he may with propriety, be said to have been"born in the midst of battles."

<2> Sanctified girdles, till very lately were kept in many families in the north ofScotland; they were bound about women in labor, and were supposed to alleviate theirpains, and to accelerate the birth. They were impressed with several mystical figures,and the ceremony of binding them about the woman's waist, was accompanied withwords and gestures, which showed the custom to have come originally from theDruids.

<3> The kings of the world: the Roman emperors.


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TEMORA – BOOK I.

AN EPIC POEM.

ARGUMENT.

Cairbar, the son of Borbar-duthul, lord of Atha, in Connaught, the most Potent chiefof the race of the Fir-bolg, having murdered, at Temora, the royal palace, Cormac, theson of Artho, the young king of Ireland, usurped the throne. Cormac was lineallydescended from Conar, the son of Trenmor, the great-grandfather of Fingal, king ofthose Caledonians who inhabited the western coast of Scotland. Fingal resented thebehavior of Cairbar, and resolved to pass over into Ireland with an army, to re-establish the royal family on the Irish throne. Early intelligence of his designs comingto Cairbar, he assembled some of his tribes in Ulster, and at the same time ordered hisbrother Cathmor to follow him speedily with an army from Temora. Such was thesituation of affairs when the Caledonian invaders appeared on the coast of Ulster.

The poem opens in the morning. Cairbar is represented as retired from the rest of thearmy, when one of his scouts brought him news of the landing of Fingal. Heassembles a council of his chiefs. Foldath, the chief of Moma, haughtily despises theenemy; and is reprimanded warmly by Malthos. Cairbar, after hearing their debate,orders a feast to be prepared, to which, by his bard Olla, he invites Oscar, the son ofOssian; resolving to pick a quarrel with that hero, and so have some pretext for killinghim. Oscar came to the feast; the quarrel happened; the followers of both fought, andCairbar and Oscar fell by mutual wounds. The noise of the battle reached Fingal'sarmy. The king came on to the relief of Oscar, and the Irish fell back to the army ofCathmor, who was advanced to the banks of the river Lubar, on the heath of Moi-lena.Fingal, after mourning over his grandson, ordered Ullin, the chief of his bards, tocarry his body to Morven, to be there interred. Night coming on, Althan, the son ofConachar, relates to the king the particulars of the murder of Cormac. Fillan, the sonof Fingal, is sent to observe the motions of Cathmor, by night, which concludes theaction of the first day. The scene of this book is a plain, near the hill of Mora, whichrose on the borders of the heath of Moi-lena in Ulster.

THE blue waves of Erin roll in light. The mountains are covered with day.Trees shake their dusky heads in the breeze. Gray torrents pour their noisy streams.Two green hills, with aged oaks, surround a narrow plain. The blue course of a streamis there. On its banks stood Cairbar of Atha. His spear supports the king: the red eyeof his fear is sad. Cormac rises in his soul, with all his ghastly wounds. The gray formof the youth appears in darkness. Blood pours from his airy side. Cairbar thrice threwhis spear on earth. Thrice he stroked his beard. His steps are short. He often stops. Hetosses his sinewy arms. He is like a cloud in the desert, varying its form to every blast.

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The valleys are sad around, and fear, by turns, the shower! The king at length resumedhis soul. He took his pointed spear. He turned his eye to Moi-lena. The scouts of blueocean came. They came with steps of fear, and often looked behind. Cairbar knew thatthe mighty were near. He called his gloomy chiefs.

The sounding steps of his warriors came. They drew at once their swords.There Morlath stood with darkened face. Hidalla's long hair sighs in the wind. Red-haired Cormar bends on his spear, and rolls his sidelong-looking eyes. Wild is thelook 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 windof heaven. His shield is marked with the strokes of battle. His red eye despises danger.These, and a thousand other chiefs, surrounded the king of Erin, when the scout ofocean came, Mor-annal, from streamy Moi-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 evening? Standthey, like a silent wood, and Fingal on the coast? Fingal, who is terrible in battle, theking of streamy Morven!" "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 inpeace?" "In peace be comes not, king of Erin; I have seen his forward spear. <1> It isa meteor of death. The blood of thousands is on its 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 thebloody moon, ascending through a storm. Then came Ossian, king of songs. ThenMorni's son, the first of men. Connal leaps forward on his spear. Dermid spreads hisdark-brown locks. Fillan bends his bow, the young hunter of streamy Moruth. Butwho is that before them, like the terrible course of a stream? It is the son of Ossian,bright between his locks! His long hair falls on his back. His dark brows are halfenclosed in steel. His sword hangs loose on his side. His spear glitters as he moves. Ifled from his terrible eyes, king of high Temora!"

"Then fly, thou feeble man," said Foldath's gloomy wrath. "Fly to the graystreams of thy land, son of the little soul! Have not I seen that Oscar? I beheld thechief in war. He is of the mighty in danger: but there are others who lift the spear.Erin has many sons as brave, king of Temora of groves. Let Foldath meet him in hisstrength. Let me stop this mighty stream. My spear is covered with blood. My shieldis like the wall of Tura!"

"Shall Foldath alone meet the foe?" replied the dark-browed Malthos? "Arethey not on our coast, like the waters of many streams? Are not these the chiefs whovanquished Swaran, when the sons of green Erin fled? Shall Foldath meet theirbravest hero? Foldath of the heart of pride! Take the strength of the people! and letMalthos come. My sword is red with slaughter, but who has heard my words?"

"Sons of green Erin," said Hidalla, "let not Fingal hear your words. The foemight rejoice, and his arm be strong in the land. Ye are brave, O warriors! Ye aretempests in war. Ye are like storms, which meet the rocks without fear, and overturnthe woods! But let us move in our strength, slow as a gathered cloud! Then shall themighty tremble; the spear shall fall from the hand of the valiant. We see the cloud ofdeath, they will say, while shadows fly over their face. Fingal will mourn in his age.


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He shall behold his flying fame. The steps of his chiefs will cease in Morven. Themoss of years shall grow in Selma!"

Cairbar heard their words in silence, like the cloud of a shower: it stands darkon Cromla, till the lightning bursts its side. The valley gleams with heaven's flame;the spirits of the storm rejoice. So stood the silent king of Temora; at length his wordsbroke forth. "Spread the feast on Moi-lena. Let my hundred bards attend. Thou red-haired Olla, take the harp of the king. Go to Oscar, chief of swords. Bid Oscar to ourjoy. To-day we feast and hear the song; to-morrow break the spears! Tell him that Ihave raised the tomb of Cathol; that bards gave his friend to the winds. Tell him thatCairbar has heard of his fame, at the stream of resounding Carun. Cathmor, mybrother, is not here. 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 that sun! But Cairbar mustfight with Oscar, chiefs of woody Temora, His words for Cathol were many! thewrath of Cairbar burns! He shall fall on Moi-lena. My fame shall rise in blood!"

Their faces brightened round with joy. They spread over Moi-lena. The feastof shells is prepared. The songs of bards arise. The chiefs of Selma heard their joy.We thought that mighty Cathmor came. Cathmor, the friend of strangers! the brotherof red-haired Cairbar. Their souls were not the same. The light of heaven was in thebosom of Cathmor. His towers rose on the banks of Atha: seven paths led to his halls.Seven chiefs stood on the paths, and called the stranger to the feast! But Cathmordwelt in the wood, to shun the voice of praise!

Olla came with his songs. Oscar went to Cairbar's feast. Three hundredwarriors strode along Moi-lena of the streams. The gray dogs bounded on the heath:their howling reached afar. Fingal saw the departing hero. The soul of the king wassad. He dreaded Cairbar's gloomy thoughts, amidst the feast of shells. My son raisedhigh the spear of Cormac. A hundred bards met him with songs. Cairbar concealed,with smiles, the death that was dark in his soul. The feast is spread. The shellsresound. Joy brightens 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!

Cairbar rises in his arms. Darkness gathers on his brow. The hundred harpscease at once. The clang of shields <2> is heard. Far distant on the heath Olla raised asong of wo. My son knew the sign of death; and rising seized his spear. "Oscar," saidthe dark-red Cairbar, "I behold the spear of Erin. The spear of Temora glitters in thyhand, son of woody Morven! It was the pride of a hundred kings. The death of heroesof 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 Cormac's halls of joy, whenSwaran fled from Fingal. Gladness rose in the face of youth. He gave the spear ofTemora. Nor did he give it to the feeble: neither to the weak in soul. The darkness ofthy face is no storm to me: nor are thine eyes the flame of death. Do I fear thyclanging shield? Tremble I at Olla's song? No Cairbar, frighten the feeble; Oscar is arock!"

"Wilt thou not yield the spear?" replied the rising pride of Cairbar." Are thywords so mighty, because Fingal is near? Fingal with aged locks, from Morven's

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hundred groves! 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 littlemen, near Atha's haughty chief, Atha's chief would yield green Erin to avoid his rage!Speak not of the mighty, O Cairbar! Turn thy sword on me. Our strength is equal: butFingal is renowned! the first of mortal men!"

Their people saw the darkening chiefs. Their crowding steps are heard. Theireyes roll in fire. A thousand swords are half unsheathed. Red-haired Olla raised thesong of battle. The trembling joy of Oscar's soul arose: the wonted joy of his soulwhen Fingal's horn was heard. Dark as the swelling wave of ocean before the risingwinds, 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 deathsof his arm before my hero fell!

Behold they fall before my son, like groves in the desert; when an angry ghostrushes through night, and takes their green heads in his hand! Morlath falls. Maronnandies. Conachar trembles in his blood. Cairbar shrinks before Oscar's sword! He creepsin darkness behind a stone. He lifts the spear in secret, he pierces my Oscar's side! Hefalls forward on his shield, his knee sustains the chief. But still his spear is in hishand! See, gloomy Cairbar falls! The steel pierced his forehead, and divided his redhair behind. He lay like a shattered rock, which Cromla shakes from its shaggy side,when the green-valleyed Erin shakes its mountains from sea to sea!

But never more shall Oscar rise! He leans on his bossy shield. His spear is inhis terrible hand. Erin's sons stand distant and dark. Their shouts arise, like crowdedstreams. Moi-lena echoes wide. Fingal heard the sound. He took the spear of Selma.His steps are before us on the heath. He spoke the words of wo. "I hear the noise ofwar. Young Oscar is alone. Rise, sons of Morven: join the hero's sword!"

Ossian rushed along the heath. Fillan bounded over Moi-lena. Fingal strode inhis strength. The light of his shield is terrible. The sons of Erin saw it far distant. Theytrembled in their souls. They knew that the wrath of the king arose: and they foresawtheir death. We first arrived. We fought. Erin's chiefs withstood our rage. But whenthe king came, in the sound of his course, what heart of steel could stand? Erin fledover Moi-lena. Death pursued their flight. We saw Oscar on his shield. We saw hisblood around. Silence darkened on every face. Each turned his back and wept. Theking strove to hide his tears. His gray beard whistled in the wind. He bends his headabove the chief. His words are mixed with sighs.

"Art thou fallen, O Oscar! in the midst of thy course? the heart of the agedbeats over thee! He sees thy coming wars! The wars which ought to come he sees!They are cut off from thy fame! When shall joy dwell at Selma? When shall griefdepart from Morven? My sons fall by degrees: Fingal is the last of his race. My famebegins to pass away. Mine age will be without friends. I shall sit a gray cloud in myhall. I shall not hear the return of a son, in his sounding arms. Weep, ye heroes ofMorven! never more shall Oscar rise!"

And they did weep, O Fingal! Dear was the hero to their souls. He went out tobattle, and the foes vanished. He returned in peace, amidst their joy. No father


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mourned his son slain in youth: no brother his brother of love. They fell without tears,for the chief of the people is low! Bran is howling at his feet: gloomy Luath is sad; forhe had often led them to the chase; to the bounding roe of the desert!

When Oscar saw his friends around, his heaving breast arose. "The groans," hesaid, "of aged chiefs; the howling of my dogs; the sudden bursts of the song of grief,have melted Oscar's soul. My soul, that never melted before. It was like the steel ofmy sword. Ossian, carry me to my hills! Raise the stones of my renown. Place thehorn of a deer: place my sword by my side; The torrent hereafter may raise the earth:the hunter may find the steel, and say, 'This has been Oscar's sword, the pride of otheryears!'" "Fallest thou, son of my fame? shall I never see thee, Oscar? When othershear of their sons, shall I not hear of thee? The moss is on thy four gray stones. Themournful wind is there. The battle shall be fought without thee. Thou shalt not pursuethe dark-brown hinds. When the warrior returns from battles, and tells of other lands;'I have seen a tomb,' he will say, 'by the roaring stream, the dark dwelling of a chief.He fell by car-borne Oscar, the first of mortal men.' I, perhaps, shall hear his voice. Abeam of joy will rise in my soul."

Night would have descended in sorrow, and morning returned in the shadowof grief. Our chiefs would have stood, like cold-dropping rocks on Moi-lena, and haveforgot the war; did not the king disperse his grief, and raise his mighty voice. Thechiefs, as new-wakened from dreams, lift up their heads around.

"How long on Moi-lena shall we weep? How long pour in Erin our tears? Themighty will not return. Oscar shall not rise in his strength. The valiant must fall intheir day, and be no more known on their hills. Where are our fathers, O warriors! thechiefs of the times of old? They have set, like stars that have shone. We only hear thesound of their praise. But they were renowned in their years: the terror of other times.Thus shall we pass away, in the day of our fall. Then let us be renowned when wemay; and leave our fame behind us, like the last beams of the sun, when he hides hisred head in the west. The traveller mourns his absence, thinking of the flame of hisbeams. Ullin, my aged bard! take thou the ship of the king. Carry Oscar to Selma ofharps. Let the daughters of Morven weep. We must fight in Erin, for the race of fallenCormac. The days of my years begin to fail. I feel the weakness of my arm. Myfathers bend from their clouds, to receive their gray-haired son. But before I go hence,one beam of fame shall rise. My days shall end, as my years began, in fame. My lifeshall be one stream of light to bards of other times!"

Ullin raised his white sails. The wind of the south came forth. He bounded onthe waves towards Selma. I remained in my grief, but my words were not heard. Thefeast is spread on Moi-lena. A hundred heroes reared the tomb of Cairbar. No song israised over the chief. His soul has been dark and bloody. The bards remembered thefall of Cormac! what could they say in Cairbar's praise?

Night came rolling down. The light of a hundred oaks arose. Fingal satbeneath a tree. Old Althan stood in the midst. He told the tale of fallen Cormac.Althan the son of Conachar, the friend of car-borne Cuthullin. He dwelt with Cormacin windy Temora, when Semo's son fell at Lego's stream. The tale of Althan wasmournful. The tear was in his eye when he spoke.

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"The setting sun was yellow on Dora. Gray evening began to descend.Temora's woods shook with the blast of the inconstant wind. A cloud gathered in thewest. A red star looked from behind its edge. I stood in the wood alone. I saw a ghoston the darkening air! His stride extended from hill to hill. His shield was dim on hisside. It was the son of Semo! I knew the warrior's face. But he passed away in hisblast; and all was dark around! My soul was sad. I went to the hall of shells. Athousand lights arose. The hundred bards had strung the harp. Cormac stood in themidst, like the morning star, when it rejoices on the eastern hill, and its young beamsare bathed in showers. Bright and silent is its progress aloft, but the cloud that shallhide it is near! The sword of Artho was in the hand of the king. He looked with joy onits polished studs; thrice he attempted to draw it, and thrice he failed; his yellow locksare spread on his shoulders! his cheeks of youth are red. I mourned over the beam ofyouth, for he was soon to set!

"'Althan!' He said with a smile, ' didst thou behold my father? Heavy is thesword of the king; surely his arm was strong. O that I were like him in battle, whenthe rage of his wrath arose! then would I have met, with Cuthullin, the car-borne sonof Cantéla! But years may come on, O Althan! and my arm be strong. Hast thou heardof Semo's son, the ruler of high Temora? he might have returned with his fame. Hepromised to return to-night. My bards wait him with songs. My feast is spread in thehall of kings.'

"I heard Cormac in silence. My tears began to flow. I hid them with my agedlocks. The king perceived my grief. 'Son of Conachar!' he said, 'is the son of Semolow? Why bursts the sigh in secret? Why descends the tear? Comes the car-borneTorlath? Comes the sounds of red-haired Cairbar? They come! for I behold thy grief.Mossy Tura's chief is low! Shall I not rush to battle? But I cannot lift the spear! O hadmine arm the strength of Cuthullin, soon would Cairbar fly; the fame of my fatherswould be renewed; and the deeds of other times!'

"He took his bow. The tears flow down from both his sparkling eyes. Griefsaddens round. The bards bend forward, from their hundred harps. The lone blasttouched their trembling strings. <3> The sound is sad and low! a voice is heard at adistance, as of one in grief. It was Carril of other times, who came from dark Slimora.He told of the fall of Cuthullin. He told of his mighty deeds. The people werescattered round his tomb. Their arms lay on the ground. They had forgot the war, forhe their sire, was seen no more!

"'But who,' said the soft-voiced Carril, 'who come like bounding roes? Theirstature is like young trees in the valley, growing in a shower! Soft and ruddy are theircheeks! Fearless souls look forth from their eyes? Who but the sons of Usnoth, chiefof streamy Etha? The people rise on every side, like the strength of an half-extinguished fire, when the winds come, sudden, from the desert, on their rustlingwings. Sudden glows the dark brow of the hill; the passing mariner lags, on his winds.The sound of Caithbat's shield was heard. The warriors saw Cuthullin in Nathos. Sorolled his sparkling eyes! his steps were such on the heath. Battles are fought at Lego.The sword of Nathos prevails. Soon shalt thou behold him in thy halls, king ofTemora of groves!'


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"'Soon may I behold the chief!' replied the blue-eyed king. But my soul is sadfor Cuthullin His voice was pleasant in mine ear. Often have we moved, on Dora, tothe chase of the dark-brown hinds. His bow was unerring on the hills. He spoke ofmighty men. He told of the deeds of my fathers. I felt my rising joy. But sit thou at thyfeast, O Carril! I have often heard thy voice. Sing in praise of Cuthullin. Sing ofNathos of Etha!'

"Day rose on Temora, with all the beams of the east. Crathin came to the hall,the son of old Gelláma. 'I behold,' he said, 'a cloud in the desert, king of Erin! a cloudit seemed at first, but now a crowd of men! One strides before them in his strength.His red hair flies in the wind. His shield glitters to the beam of the east. His spear is inhis hand.' — 'Call him to the feast of Temora,' replied the brightening king. 'My hall isin the house of strangers, son of generous Gelláma! It is perhaps the chief of Etha,coming in all his renown. Hail, mighty stranger! art thou of the friends of Cormac?But, Carril, he is dark and unlovely. 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. 'It is Cairbar, thy foe.' 'Why comestthou in thy arms to Temora? chief of the gloomy brow. Let not thy sword rise againstCormac! 'Whither dost thou turn thy speed?' he passed on in darkness.. He seized thehand of the king. Cormac foresaw his death; the rage of his eyes arose. 'Retire, thouchief of Atha! Nathos comes with war. Thou art bold in Cormac's hall, for his arm isweak.' The sword entered the side of the king. He fell in the halls of his father. Hisfair hair is in the dust. His blood is smoking round.

"'Art thou fallen in thy halls?' said Carril, 'O son of noble Artho! The shield ofCuthullin was not near. Nor the spear of thy father. Mournful are the mountains ofErin, for the chief of the people is low! Blest be thy soul, O Cormac! Thou artdarkened in thy youth!'"

"His words came to the ears of Cairbar. He closed us in the midst of darkness.He feared to stretch his sword to the bards, though his soul was dark. Long we pinedalone! At length the noble Cathmor came. He heard our voice from the cave. Heturned the eye of his wrath on Cairbar.

"'Brother of Cathmor,' he said, 'how long wilt thou pain my soul? Thy heart isa rock. Thy thoughts are dark and bloody! But thou art the brother of Cathmor; andCathmor shall shine in thy war. But my soul is not like thine; thou feeble hand infight! The light of my bosom is stained with thy deeds. Bards will not sing of myrenown; they may say, "Cathmor was brave, but he fought for gloomy Cairbar. "Theywill pass over my tomb in silence. My fame shall not be heard. Cairbar! loose thebards. They are the sons of future times. Their voice shall be heard in other years;after the kings of Temora have failed. We came forth at the words of the chief. Wesaw him in his strength. He was like thy youth, O Fingal! when thou first didst lift thespear. His face was like the plain of the sun, when it is bright. No darkness travelledover his brow. But he came with his thousands to aid the red-haired Cairbar. Now hecomes to revenge his death, O king of woody Morven!'

"Let Cathmor come," replied the king," I love a foe so great. His soul is bright.His arm is strong. His battles are full of fame. But the little soul is a vapor that hovers

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round the marshy lake. It never rises on the green hill, lest the winds should meet itthere. Its dwelling is in the cave: it sends forth the dart of death! Our young heroes, Owarriors! are like the renown of our fathers. They fight in youth. They fall. Theirnames are in song. Fingal is amid his darkening years. He must not fall, as an agedoak, across a secret stream. Near it are the steps of the hunter, as it lies beneath thewind. 'How has that tree fallen?' he says, and, whistling, strides along. Raise the songof' joy, ye bards of Morven! Let our souls forget the past. The red stars look on usfrom the clouds, and silently descend. Soon shall the gray beam of the morning rise,and show us the foes of Cormac. Fillan! my son, take thou the spear of the king. Go toMora's dark-brown side. Let thine eyes travel over the heath. Observe the foes ofFingal; observe the course of generous Cathmor. I hear a distant sound, like fallingrocks in the desert. But strike thou thy shield, at times, that they may not comethrough night, and the fame of Morven cease. I begin to be alone, my son. I dread thefall of my renown!"

The voice of bards arose. The king leaned on the shield of Trenmor. Sleepdescended on his eyes. His future battles arose in his dreams. The host are sleepingaround. Dark-haired Fillan observes the foe. His steps are on the distant hill. We hear,at time; his clanging shield.

<1> Mor-annal here alludes to the particular appearance of Fingal's spear. If a manupon his first landing in a strange country, kept the point of his spear forward, itdenoted, in those days, that he came in a hostile manner, and accordingly he wastreated as an enemy; if he kept the point behind him, it was a token of friendship, andht was immediately invited to the feast, according to the hospitality of the times.

<2> The clang of shields: when a chief was determined to kill a person already in hispower, it was usual to signify that his death was intended, by the pound of a shieldstruck with the blunt end of a spear: at the same time that a bard at a distance raisedthe death-song.

<3> The lone blast touched their trembling strings: that prophetic sound mentioned inother poems, which the harps of the bards emitted before the death of a person worthyand renowned.


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TEMORA — BOOK II

ARGUMENT.

This book opens, we may suppose, about midnight, with a soliloquy of Ossian, whohad retired from the rest of the army, to mourn for his son Oscar. Upon hearing thenoise of Cathmor's army approaching, he went to find out his brother Fillan, who keptthe watch on the hill of Mora, in the front of Fingal's army. In the conversation of thebrothers, the episode of Conar, the son of Trenmor, who was the first king of Ireland,is introduced, which lays open the origin of the contests between the Gael and the Fir-bolg, the two nations who first possessed themselves of that island. Ossian kindles afire on Mora: upon which Cathmor desisted from the design he had formed ofsurprising the army of the Caledonians. He calls a council of his chiefs: reprimandsFoldath for advising a night attack, as the Irish were so much superior in number tothe enemy. The bard Fonar introduces the story of Crothar, the ancestor of the king,which throws further light on the history of Ireland, and the original pretensions of thefamily of Atha to the throne of that kingdom. The Irish chiefs lie down to rest, andCathmor himself undertakes the watch. In his circuit round the army he is met byOssian. The interview of the two heroes is described. Cathmor obtains a promise fromOssian to order a funeral elegy to be sung over the grave of Cairbar: it being theopinion of the times, that the souls of the dead could not be happy till their elegieswere sung by a bard. Morning comes. Cathmor and Ossian part; and the latter,casually meeting with Carril the son of Kinfena, sends that bard, with a funeral song,to the tomb of Cairbar.

FATHER of heroes! O Trenmor! High dweller of eddying winds! where thedark-red thunder marks the troubled clouds! Open thou thy stormy halls. Let the bardsof old be near. Let them draw near with songs and their half viewless harps. Nodweller of misty valley comes! No hunter unknown at his streams! It is the car-borneOscar, from the field of war. Sudden is thy change, my son, from what thou wert ondark Moi-lena! The blast folds thee in its skirt, and rustles through the sky! Dost thounot behold thy father, at the stream of night? The chiefs of Morven sleep far distant.They have lost no son! But ye have lost a hero, chiefs of resounding Morven! Whocould equal his strength, when battle rolled against his side, like the darkness ofcrowded waters? Why this cloud on Ossian's soul? It ought to burn in danger. Erin isnear with her host. The king of Selma is alone. Alone thou shalt not be, my father,while I can lift the spear!

I rose in all my arms. I rose and listened to the wind. The shield of Fillan is notheard. I tremble for the son of Fingal. "Why should the foe come by night? Whyshould the dark-haired warrior fall?" Distant, sullen murmurs rise; like the noise of thelake of Lego, when its waters shrink, in the days of frost, and all its bursting ice

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resounds. The people of Lara look to heaven, and foresee the storm! My steps areforward on the heath. The spear of Oscar is in my hand? Red stars looked from high. Igleamed along the night.

I saw Fillan silent before me, bending forward from Mora's rock. He heard theshout of the foe. The joy of his soul arose. He heard my sounding tread, and turned hislifted spear. "Comest thou, son of night, in peace? Or dost thou meet my wrath? Thefoes of Fingal are mine. Speak, or fear my steel. I stand not, in vain, the shield ofMorven's race." "Never mayest thou stand in vain, son of blue-eyed Clatho! Fingalbegins to be alone. Darkness gathers on the last of his days. Yet he has two sons whoought to shine in war. Who ought to be two beams of light, near the steps of hisdeparture."

"Son of Fingal," replied the youth, "it is not long since I raised the spear. Feware the marks of my sword in war. But Fillan's soul is fire! The chiefs of Bolga <1>crowd around the shield of generous Cathmor. Their gathering is on the heath. Shallmy steps approach their host? I yielded to Oscar alone in the strife of the race ofCona!"

"Fillan, thou shalt not approach their host; nor fall before thy fame is known.My name is heard in song; when needful, I advance. From the skirts of night I shallview them over all their gleaming tribes. Why, Fillan, didst thou speak of Oscar? Whyawake my sigh! I must forget the warrior, till the storm is rolled away. Sadness oughtnot to dwell in danger, nor the tear in the eye of war. Our fathers forgot their fallensons, till the noise of arms was past. Then sorrow returned to the tomb, and the songof bards arose. The memory of those who fell quickly followed the departure of war:when the tumult of battle is past, the soul in silence melts away for the dead.

"Conar was the brother of Trathal, first of mortal men. His battles were onevery coast. A thousand streams rolled down the blood of. his foes. His fame filledgreen Erin, like a pleasant gale. The nations gathered in Ullin, and they blessed theking; the king of the race of their fathers, from the land of Selma.

"The chiefs of the south were gathered, in the darkness of their pride. In thehorrid cave of Moma they mixed their secret words. Thither often, they said, thespirits of their fathers came; showing their pale forms from the chinky rocks;reminding them of the honor of Bolga. 'Why should Conar reign,' they said, 'the sonof resounding Morven?'

"They came forth, like the streams of the desert, with the roar of their hundredtribes. Cona was a rock before them: broken, they rolled on every side. But often theyreturned, and the sons of Selma fell. The king stood, among the tombs of his warriors.He darkly bent his mournful face. His soul was rolled into itself: and he had markedthe place where he was to fall: when Trathal came, in his strength, his brother fromcloudy Morven. Nor did he come alone. Colgar was at his side: Colgar the son of theking and of white-bosomed Solin-corma.

"As Trenmor, clothed with meteors, descends from the halls of thunder,pouring the dark storm before him over the troubled sea: so Colgar descended tobattle, and wasted the echoing field. His father rejoiced over the hero: but an arrow


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came! His tomb was raised without a tear. The king was to revenge his son. Helightened forward in battle, till Bolga yielded at her streams!

"When peace returned to the land: when his blue waves bore the king toMorven: then he remembered his son, and poured the silent tear. Thrice did the bards,at the cave of Furmono, call the soul of Colgar. They called him to the hills of hisland. He heard them in his mist. Trathal placed his sword in the cave, that the spirit ofhis son might rejoice."

"Colgar, son of Trathal," said Fillan, "thou wert renowned in youth! but theking hath not marked my sword, bright streaming on the field. I go forth with thecrowd. I return without my fame. But the foe approaches, Ossian! I hear their murmuron the heath. The sound of their steps is like thunder, in the bosom of the ground,when the rocking hills shake their groves, and not a blast pours from the darkenedsky!"

Ossian turned sudden on his spear. He raised the flame of an oak on high. Ispread it large on Mora's wind. Cathmor stopt in his course. Gleaming he stood, like arock, on whose sides are the wandering blasts; which seize its echoing streams, andclothe them with ice. So stood the friend of strangers! The winds lift his heavy locks.Thou art the tallest of the race of Erin, king of streamy Atha!

"First of bards" said Cathmor, "Fonar, call the chiefs of Erin. Call red-hairedCormar: dark-browed Malthos: the sidelong-looking gloom of Maronnan. Let thepride of Foldath appear. The red-rolling eye of Turlotho. Nor let Hidalla be forgot; hisvoice, in danger, is the sound of a shower, when it falls in the blasted vale, near Atha'sfalling stream. Pleasant is its sound on the plain, whilst broken thunder travels overthe sky!"

They came in their clanging arms. They bent forward to his voice, as if a spiritof their fathers spoke from a cloud of night. Dreadful shone they to the light, like thefall of the stream of Bruno, <2> when the meteor lights it, before the nightly stranger.Shuddering he stops in his journey, and looks up for the beam of the morn!

"Why delights Foldath," said the king, "to pour the blood of foes by night?Fails his arm in battle, in the beams of day? Few are the foes before us; why shouldwe clothe us in shades? The valiant delight to shine in the battles of their land! Thycounsel was in vain, chief of Moma! The eyes of Morven do not sleep. They arewatchful as eagles on their mossy rocks. Let each collect beneath his cloud thestrength of his roaring tribe. To-morrow I move, in light, to meet the foes of Bolga!Mighty was he that is low, the race of Borbar-duthul!"

"Not unmarked," said Foldath, "were my steps be. fare thy race. In light, I metthe foes of Cairbar. The warrior praised my deeds. But his stone was raised without atear! No bard sung over Erin's king. Shall his foes rejoice along their mossy hills? Nothey must not rejoice! He was the friend of Foldath. Our words were mixed, in secret,in Moma's silent cave; whilst thou, a boy in the field, pursued'st the thistle's beard.With Moma's sons I shall rush abroad, and find the foe on his dusky hills. Fingal shalldie without his song, the gray-haired king of Selma."

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" Dost thou think, thou feeble man," replied Cathmor, half enraged: "Dost thouthink Fingal can fail, without his fame, in Erin? Could the bards be silent at the tombof Selma's king; the song would burst in secret! the spirit of the king would rejoice! Itis when thou shalt fall, that the bard shall forget the song. Thou art dark, chief ofMoma, though thine arm is a tempest in war. Do I forget the king of Erin, in hisnarrow house? My soul is not lost to Cairbar, the brother of my love! I marked thebright beams of joy which travelled over his cloudy mind, when I returned, with fame,to Atha of the streams."

Tall they removed, beneath the words of the king. Each to his own dark tribe;where, humming, they rolled on the heath, faint-glittering to the stars: like waves in arocky bay, before the nightly wind. Beneath an oak lay the chief of Atha. His shield, adusky round, hung high. Near him, against a rock, leaned the fair stranger <3> of Inis-huna: that beam of light, with wandering locks, from Lumon of the roes. At a distancerose the voice of Fonar, with the deeds of the days of old. The song fails, at times, inLubar's growing roar.

"Crothar," began the bard, first dwelt at Atha's mossy stream! A thousandoaks, from the mountains, formed his echoing hail. The gathering of the people

was there, around the feast of the blue-eyed king. But who, among his chiefs, was likethe stately Crothar? Warriors kindled in his presence. The young sigh of the virginsrose. In Alnecma <4> was the warrior honored: the first of the race of Bolga.

"He pursued the chase in Ullin: on the moss-covered top of Drumardo. Fromthe wood looked the daughter of Cathmin, the blue-rolling eye of Con-láma. Her sighrose in secret. She bent her head, amidst her wandering locks. The moon looked in, atnight, and saw the white tossing of her arms; for she thought of the mighty Crothar inthe season of dreams.

"Three days feasted Crothar with Cathmin. On the fourth they awaked thehinds. Con-láma moved to the chase, with all her lovely steps. She met Crothar in thenarrow path. The bow fell at once from her hand. She turned her face away, and halfhid it with her locks. The love of Crothar rose. He brought the white-bosomed maid toAtha. Bards raised the song in her presence. Joy dwelt round the daughter of Cathmin.

"The pride of Turloch rose, a youth who loved the white-handed Con-láma. Hecame, with battle, to Alnecma; to Atha of the roes. Cormul went forth to the strife, thebrother of car-borne Crothar. He went forth, but he fell. The sigh of his people rose.Silent and tall across the stream, came the darkening strength of Crothar: he rolled thefoe from Alnecma. He returned midst the joy of Con-láma.

"Battle on battle comes. Blood is poured on blood. The tombs of the valiantrise. Erin's clouds arc hung round with ghosts. The chiefs of the South gathered roundthe echoing shield of Crothar. He came, with death to the paths of the foe. The virginswept, by the streams of Ullin. They looked the mist of the hill: no hunter descendedfrom its folds. Silence darkened in the land. Blasts sighed lonely on grassy tombs.

"Descending like the eagle of heaven, with all his rustling winds, when heforsakes the blast with joy, the son of Trenmor came; Conar, arm of death, from


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Morven of the groves, lie poured his might along green Erin. Death dimly strodebehind his sword. The sons of Bolga fled from his course, as from a stream, that,bursting from the stormy desert, rolls the fields together, with all their echoing woodsCrothar met him in battle: but Alnecma's warriors fled. The king of Atha slowlyretired, in the grief of his soul. He afterward shone in the south; but dim as the sun ofautumn, when he visits, in his robes of mist, Lara of dark streams. 'The withered grassis covered with dew; the field, though bright, is sad."

"Why wakes the bard before me," said Cathmor, "the memory of those whofled? Has some ghost, from his dusky cloud, bent forward to thine ear; to frightenCathmor from the field, with the tales of old? Dwellers of the skirts of night, yourvoice is but a blast to me; which takes the gray thistle's head, and strews its beard onstreams. Within my bosom is a voice. Others hear it not. His soul forbids the king ofErin to shrink back from war."

Abashed, the bard sinks back on night; retired, lie bends above a stream. Histhoughts are on the days of Atha, when Cathmor heard his song with joy. His tearscame rolling down. The winds are in his beard. Erin sleeps around. No sleep comesdown on Cathmor's eyes. Dark, in his soul, he saw the spirit of low-laid Cairbar. Hesaw him, without his song, rolled in a blast of night. He rose. His steps were round thehost. He struck, at times, his echoing shield. The sound reached Ossian's ear onMora's mossy brow.

"Fillan," I said, "the foes advance. I hear the shield of war. Stand thou in thenarrow path. Ossian shall mark their course. if over my fall the host should pour; thenbe thy buckler heard. Awake the king on his heath, lest his fame should fly away." Istrode in all my rattling arms; wide bounding over a stream that darkly winded in thefield, before the king of Atha. Green Atha's king with lifted spear, came forward onmy course. Now would we have mixed in horrid, fray, like two contending ghosts,that bending forward from two clouds, send forth the roaring winds; did not Ossianbehold, on high, the helmet of Erin's kings. The eagle's wing spread above it, rustlingin the breeze. A red star looked through the plumes. I stopt the lifted spear.

"The helmet of kings is before me! Who art thou, son of night? Shall Ossian'sspear be renowned, when thou art lowly laid?" At once he dropt the gleaming lance.Growing before me seemed the form. He stretched his hand in night. He spoke thewords of kings.

"Friend of the spirits of heroes, do I meet thee thus in shades? I have wishedfor thy stately steps in Atha, in the days of joy. Why should my spear now arise?' Thesun must behold us, Ossian, when we bend, gleaming in the strife. Future warriorsshall mark the place, and shuddering think of other years. They shall mark it, like thehaunt of ghosts, pleasant and dreadful to the soul ."

"Shall it then be forgot," I said, "where we meet in peace? Is the remembranceof battles always pleasant to the soul? Do not we behold, with joy, the place whereour fathers feasted? But our eyes are full of tears, on the fields of their war. This stoneshall rise with all its moss and speak to other years. 'Here Cathmor and Ossian met;the warriors met in peace!' When thou, O stone, shalt fail: when Lubar's stream shallroll away; then shall the traveller come and bend here, perhaps, in rest. When the

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darkened moon is rolled over his head, our shadowy forms may come, and, mixingwith his dreams, remind him of his place. But why turnest thou so dark away; son ofBorbar-duthul?"

"Not forgot, son of Fingal, shall we ascend these winds. Our deeds are streamsof light, before the eyes of bards. But darkness is rolled on Atha: the king is lowwithout his song; still there was a beam towards Cathmor, from his stormy soul; likethe moon in a cloud, amidst the dark-red course of thunder."

"Son of Erin," I replied, "my wrath dwells not in his earth. My hatred flies oneagle wings, from the foe that is low. He shall hear the song of bards. Cairbar shallrejoice on his winds."

Cathmor's swelling soul arose. He took the dagger from his side, and placed itgleaming in my hand. He placed it in my hand, with sighs, and silent strode away.Mine eyes followed his departure. He dimly gleamed, like the form of a ghost, whichmeets a traveller by night, on the dark-skirted heath. His words are dark, like songs ofold: with morning strides the unfinished shade away!

Who comes from Luba's vale? from the skirts of the morning mist? The dropsof heaven are on his head. His steps are in the paths of the sad. It is Carril of othertimes. He comes from Tura's silent cave. I behold it dark in the rock, through the thinfolds of mist. There, perhaps, Cuthullin sits, on the blast which bends its trees.Pleasant is the song of the morning from the bard of Erin.

"The waves crowd away," said Carril." They crowd away for fear. They hearthe sound of thy coming forth, O sun! Terrible is thy beauty, son of heaven, whendeath is descending on thy locks: when thou rollest thy vapors before thee, over theblasted host. But pleasant is thy beam to the hunter, sitting by the rock in a storm,when thou showest thyself from the parted cloud, and brightenest his dewy locks helooks down on the streamy vale, and beholds the de. scent of roes! How long shaltthou rise on war, and roll, a bloody shield, through heaven? I see the death of heroes,dark wandering over thy face!"

"Why wander the words of Carril?" I said. "Does the son of heaven mourn? lieis unstained in his course, ever rejoicing in his fire. Roll on, thou careless light. Thoutoo, perhaps, must fall. Thy darkening hour may seize thee, struggling as thou rollestthrough thy sky. But pleasant is the voice of the bard: pleasant to Ossian's soul! It islike the shower of the morning, when it comes through the rustling vale, on which thesun looks through mist, just rising from his rocks. But this is no time, O bard! to sitdown, at the strife of song. Fingal is in arms on the vale. Thou seest the flaming shieldof the king. His face darkens between his locks. He beholds the wide rolling of Erin.Does not Carril behold that tomb, beside the roaring stream? Three stones lift theirgray heads, beneath a bending oak. A king is lowly laid! Give thou his soul to thewind. He is the brother of Cathmor! Open his airy hall! Let thy song be a stream ofjoy to Cairbar's darkened ghost!"


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TEMORA — BOOK III.

ARGUMENT.

Morning coming on, Fingal, after a speech to his people, devolved the command onGaul, the son of Morni; it being the custom of the times, that the king should notengage, till the necessity of affairs required his superior valor and conduct. The kingand Ossian retire to the hill of Cormul, which overlooked the field of battle. The bardssing the war-song. The general conflict is described. Gaul, the son of Morni,distinguishes himself; kills Tur-lathon, chief of Moruth, and other chiefs of lessername. On the other hand, Foldath, who commanded the Irish army (for Cathmor, afterthe example of Fingal, kept himself from battle,) fights gallantly; kills Connal, chiefof Dun-lora, and advances to engage Gaul himself. Gaul, in the mean time, beingwounded in the hand, by a random arrow, is covered by Fillan the son of Fingal, whoperforms prodigies of valor. Night comes on. The horn of Fingal recalls his army. Thebards meet them with a congratulatory song, in which the praises of Gaul and Fillanare particularly celebrated. The chiefs sit down at a feast; Fingal misses Connal. Theepisode of Connal and Duth-caron is introduced; which throws further light on theancient history of Ireland. Carril is despatched to raise the tomb of Connal. The actionof this book takes up the second day from the opening of the poem.

"Who is that at blue-streaming Lubar? Who, by the bending hill of roes? Tallhe leans on an oak torn from high, by nightly winds. Who but Comhal's son,brightening in the last of his fields? His gray hair is on the breeze. He half unsheathesthe sword of Luno. His eyes are turned to Moi-lena, to the dark moving of foes. Dostthou hear the voice of the king? it is like the bursting of a stream in the desert, when itcomes, between its echoing rocks, to the blasted field of the sun!

Wide-skirted comes down the foe! Sons of woody Selma, arise! Be ye like therocks of our land, in whose brown sides are the rolling of streams. A beam of joycomes on my soul. I see the foe mighty before me. It is when he is feeble, that thesighs of Fingal are heard: lest death should come without renown, and darkness dwellon his tomb. Who shall lead the war, against the host of Alnecma? It is only whendanger grows, that my sword shalt shine. Such was the custom, heretofore, ofTrenmor the ruler of winds! and thus descended to battle the blue-shielded Trathal!"

The chiefs bend towards the king. Each darkly seems to claim the war. Theytell, by halves, their mighty deeds. They turn their eyes on Erin. But far before the restthe son of Morni stands. Silent he stands, for who had not heard of the battles of GaulThey rose within his soul. His hand, in secret, seized the sword. The sword which hebrought from Strumon, when the strength of Morni failed. On his spear leans Fillan ofSelma, in the wandering of his locks. Thrice he raises his eyes to Fingal: his voice

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thrice fails him as he speaks. My brother could not boast of battles: at once he stridesaway. Bent over a distant stream he stands: the tear hangs in his eye. He strikes, attimes, the thistle's head, with his inverted spear. Nor is he unseen of Fingal. Sidelonghe beholds his son. He beholds him with bursting joy; and turns, amid his crowdedsoul. In silence turns the king towards Mora of woods. He hides the big tear with hislocks. At length his voice is heard.

"First of the sons of Morni! Thou rock that defiest the storm! Lead thou mybattle for the race of low-laid Cormac. No boy's staff is thy spear: no harmless beamof light thy sword. Son of Morni of steeds, behold the foe! Destroy! Fillan, observethe chief! He is not calm in strife: nor burns he, heedless in battle. My son, observethe chief! He is strong as Lubar's stream, but never foams and roars. High on cloudyMora, Fingal shall behold the war. Stand, Ossian, near thy father, by the fallingstream. Raise the voice, O bards! Selma, move beneath the sound. It is my latter field.Clothe it over with light."

As the sudden rising of winds; or distant rolling of troubled seas, when somedark ghost in wrath heaves the billows over an isle: an isle the seat of mist on thedeep, for many dark-brown years! So terrible is the sound of the host, wide movingover the field. Gaul is tall before them. The streams glitter within his strides. Thebards raise the song by his side. He strikes his shield between. On the skirts of theblast the tuneful voices rise.

"On Crona," said the bards, "there bursts a stream by night. It swells in its owndark course, till morning's early beam. Then comes it white from the hill, with therocks and their hundred groves. Far be my steps from Crona. Death is tumbling there.Be ye a stream from Mora, sons of cloudy Morven!

"Who rises, from his car, on Clutha? The hills are troubled before the king!The dark woods echo round, and lighten at his steel. See him amidst the foe, likeColgach's sportful ghost: when he scatters the clouds and rides the eddying winds! Itis Morni of bounding steeds! Be like thy father, O Gaul!

"Selma is opened wide. Bards take the trembling harps. Ten youths bear theoak of the feast. A distant sunbeam marks the hill. The dusky waves of the blast flyover the fields of grass. Why art thou silent, O Selma? The king returns with all hisfame. Did not the battle roar? yet peaceful is his brow! It roared, and Fingalovercame. Be like thy father, O Fillan!"

They move beneath the song. High wave their arms, as rushy fields beneathautumnal winds. On Mora stands the king in arms. Mist flies round his bucklerabroad; as aloft it hung on a bough, on Cormul's mossy rock. In silence I stood byFingal, and turned my eyes on Cromla's wood: lest I should behold the host, and rushamid my swelling soul. My foot is forward on the heath. I glittered, tall in steel: likethe falling stream of Tromo, which nightly winds bind over with ice. The boy sees iton high gleaming to the early beam: towards it he turns his ear, wonders why it is sosilent.

Nor bent over a stream is Cathmor, like a youth in a peaceful field. Wide hedrew forward the war, a dark and troubled wave. But when he beheld Fingal on Mora,


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his generous pride arose. "Shall the chief of Atha fight, and no king in the field?Foldath, lead my people forth, thou art a beam of fire."

Forth issues Foldath of Moma, like a cloud, the robe of ghosts. He drew hissword, a flame from his side. He bade the battle move. The tribes, like ridgy waves,dark pour their strength around. Haughty is his stride before them. His red eye rolls inwrath. He calls Cormul, chief of Dun-ratho; and his words were heard.

"Cormul, thou beholdest that path. It winds green behind the foe. Place thypeople there; lest Selma should escape from my sword. Bards of green-valleyed Erin,let no voice of yours arise. The sons of Morven must fall without song. They are thefoes of Cairbar. Hereafter shall the traveller meet their dark, thick mist, on Lena,where it wanders with their ghosts, beside the reedy lake. Never shall they rise,without song, to the dwelling of winds."

Cormul darkened as he went. Behind him rushed his tribe. They sunk beyondthe rock. Gaul spoke to Fillan of Selma; as his eye pursued the course of the dark-eyed chief of Dun-ratho. "Thou beholdest the steps of Cormul! Let thine arm bestrong! When he is low, son of Fingal, remember Gaul in war. Here I fall forward intobaffle, amid the ridge of shields!"

The sign of death ascends: the dreadful sound of Morni's shield. Gaul pourshis voice between. Fingal rises on Mora. He saw them from wing to wing, bending atonce in strife. Gleaming on his own dark hill, stood Cathmor, of streamy Atha. Thekings were like two spirits of heaven, standing each on his gloomy cloud: when theypour abroad the winds, and lift the roaring seas. The blue tumbling of waves is beforethem, marked with the paths of whales. They themselves are calm and bright. Thegale lifts slowly their locks of mist.

What beam of light hangs high in air? What beam but Morni's dreadful sword?Death is strewed on thy paths, O Gaul! Thou foldest them together in thy rage. Like ayoung oak falls Tur-lathon, with his branches round him. His high-bosomed spousestretches her white arms, in dreams, to the returning chief, as she sleeps by gurglingMoruth, in her disordered locks. It is his ghost, Oichoma. The chief is lowly laid.Hearken not to the winds for Tur-lathon's echoing shield. It is pierced, by his streams.Its sound is passed away.

Not peaceful is the hand of Foldath. He winds his course in blood. Connal methim in fight. They mixed their clanging steel. Why should mine eyes behold them?Connal, thy locks are gray! Thou wert the friend of strangers, at the moss-coveredrock of Dun-Ion. When the skies were rolled together: then thy feast was spread. Thestranger heard the winds without; and rejoiced at thy burning oak. Why, son of Duth-caron, art thou laid in blood? the blasted tree bends above thee. Thy shield lies brokennear. Thy blood mixes with the stream, thou breaker of the shields!

Ossian took the spear, in his wrath. But Gaul rushed forward on Foldath. Thefeeble pass by his side: his rage is turned on Moma's chief. Now they had raised theirdeathful spears: unseen an arrow came. it pierced the hand of Gaul. His steel fellsounding to earth. Young Fillan came, with Cormul's shield! lie stretched it large

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before the chief. Foldath sent his shouts abroad, and kindled all the field: as a blastthat lifts the wide-winged flame over Lumon's echoing groves.

"Son of blue-eyed Clatho," said Gaul, "O Fillan! thou art a beam from heaven;that, coming on the troubled deep, binds up the tempest's wing. Cormul is fallenbefore thee. Early art thou in the fame of thy fathers. Rush not too far, my hero. Icannot lift the spear to aid. I stand harmless in battle: but my voice shall be pouredabroad. The sons of Selma shall hear, and remember my former deeds."

His terrible voice rose on the wind. The host bends forward in fight. Often hadthey heard him at Strumon, when he called them to the chase of the hinds. He standstall amid the war, as an oak in the skins of a storm, which now is clothed on high, inmist: then shows its broad waving head. The musing hunter lifts his eye, from his ownrushy field!

My soul pursues thee, O Fillan! through the path of thy fame. Thou rollest thefoe before thee. Now Foldath, perhaps, may fly: but night comes down with itsclouds. Cathmor's horn is heard on high. The sons of Selma hear the voice of Fingal,from Mora's gathered mist. The bards pour their song, like den, on the returning war.

"Who comes from Strumon," they said, "amid her wandering locks? She ismournful in her steps, and lifts her blue eyes towards Erin. Why art thou sad, Evir-choma? Who is like thy chief in renown? He descended dreadful to battle; he returns,like a light from a cloud. He raised the sword in wrath: they shrunk before blue-shielded Gaul!

"Joy, like the rustling gale, comes on the soul of the king. He remembers thebattles of old; the days wherein his fathers fought. The days of old return on Fingal'smind, as he beholds the renown of his sons. As the sun rejoices, from his cloud, overthe tree his beams have raised, as it shades its lonely head on the heath; so joyful isthe king over Fillan!

"As the rolling of thunder on hills when Lara's fields are still and dark, suchare the steps of Selma, pleasant and dreadful to the ear. They return with their sound,like eagles to their dark-browed rock, after the prey is torn on the field, the dun sonsof the bounding hind. Your fathers rejoice from their clouds, sons of streamy Selma!"

Such was the nightly voice of bards, on Mora of the hinds. A flame rose, froma hundred oaks, which winds had torn from Cormul's steep. The feast is spread in themidst; around sat the gleaming chiefs. Fingal is there in his strength. The eagle wingof his helmet sounds. The rustling blasts of the west unequal rush through night. Longlooks the king in silence round; at length his words are heard.

"My soul feels a want in our joy. I behold a breach among my friends. Thehead of one tree is low. The squally wind pours in on Selma. Where is the chief ofDun-lora? Ought Connal to be forgot at the feast? When did he forget the stranger, inthe midst of his echoing hall? Ye are silent in my presence! Connal is then no more!Joy meet thee, O warrior! like a stream of light. Swift be thy course to thy fathers,along the roaring winds. Ossian, thy soul is fire; kindle the memory of the king.Awake the, battles of Connal, when first he shone in war. The locks of Connal were


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gray. His days of youth were mixed with mine.. In one day Duth-caron first strungbows against the roes of Dun-lora."

"Many," I said, "are our paths to battle in green valleyed Erin. Often did oursails arise, over tho blue tumbling waves; when we came in other days, to aid the raceof Cona. The strife roared once in Alnecma, at the foam-covered streams of Duth-ula.With Cormac descended to battle Duth-caron, from cloudy Selma. Nor descendedDuth-caron alone; his son was by his side, the long-haired youth of Connal, lifting thefirst of his spears. Thou didst command them, O Fingal! to aid the king of Erin.

"Like the bursting strength of ocean, the sons of Bolga rushed to war. Colc-ulla was before them, the chief of blue stream Atha. The battle was mixed on theplain. Cormac shone in his own strife, bright as the forms of his fathers. But, farbefore the rest, Duth-caron hewed down the foe. Nor slept the arm of Connal by hisfather's side. Colc-ulla prevailed on the plain: like scattered mist fled the people ofCormac.

"Then rose the sword of Duth-caron, and the steel of broad-shielded Connal.They shaded their flying friends, like two rocks with their heads of pine. Night camedown on Duth-ula; silent strode the chiefs over the field. A mountain-stream roaredacross the path, nor could Duth-caron bound over its course. 'Why stands my father?'said Connal, 'I hear the rushing foe.'

"'Fly, Connal,' he said. 'Thy father's strength begins to fail. I come woundedfrom battle. Here let me rest in night.' 'But thou shalt not remain alone,' said Connal'sbursting sigh. 'My shield is an eagle's wing to cover the king of Dun-lora.' He bendsdark above his father. The mighty Duth-caron dies!

"Day rose, and night returned. No lonely ban appeared, deep musing on theheath: and could Connal leave the tomb of his father, till lie should receive his fame?He bent the bow against the roes of Duth-ula. He spread the lonely feast. Seven nightshe laid his head on the tomb, and saw his father in his dreams. lie saw him rolled, darkin a blast, like the vapor of reedy Lego. At length the steps of Colgan came, the bardof high Temora. Duth-caron received his fame and brightened, as he rose on thewind."

"Pleasant to the ear," said Fingal, "is the praise of the kings of men; when theirbows are strong in battle; when they soften at the sight of the sad. Thus let my namebe renowned, when the bards shall lighten my rising soul. Carril, son of Kinfena! takethe bards, and raise a tomb. To-night let Connal dwell within his narrow house. Letnot the soul of the valiant wander on the winds. Faint glimmers the moon at Moi-lena,through the broad-headed groves of the hill! Raise stones, beneath its beam, to all thefallen in war. Though no chiefs were they, yet their hands were strong in fight. Theywere my rock in danger: the mountain from which I spread my eagle wings. Thenceam I renowned. Carril, forget not the low!"

Loud, at once, from the hundred bards, rose the song of the tomb. Carril strodebefore them; they are the murmur of streams behind his steps. Silence dwells in thevales of Moi-lena, where each, with its owl: dark rib, is winding between the hills. Iheard the voice of the bards, lessening, as they moved along. I leaned forward from

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my shield, and felt the kindling of my soul. Half formed, the words of my song burstforth upon the wind. So hears a tree, on the vale, the voice of spring around. It poursits green leaves to the sun. it shakes its lonely head. The hum of the mountain bee isnear it; the hunter sees it with joy, from the blasted heath.

Young Fillan at a distance stood. His helmet lay glittering on the ground. Hisdark hair is loose to the blast. A beam of light is Clatho's son! He heard the words ofthe king with joy. He leaned forward on his spear.

"My son," said car-borne Fingal, "I saw thy deeds, and my soul was glad.""The fame of our fathers," I said, "bursts from its gathering cloud. Thou art brave, sonof Clatho! but headlong in the strife. So did not Fingal advance, though he neverfeared a foe. Let thy people be a ridge behind. They are thy strength in the field. Thenshalt thou be long renowned, and behold the tombs of the old. The memory of the pastreturns, my deeds in other years: when first I descended from ocean on the green-valleyed isle."

We bend towards the voice of the king. The moon looks abroad from hercloud. The gray-skirted mist is near: the dwelling of the ghosts!

<1> The southern parts of Ireland went, for some time, under the name of Bolga, fromthe Fir-bolg or Belgae of Britain, who settled a colony there. "Bolg" signifies a"quiver," from which proceeds "Fir-bolg," i. e., "bowmen:" so called from their usingbows more than any of the neighboring nations.

<2> Bruno was a place of worship, (Fing. b. 6.) in Craca, which is supposed to be oneof the isles of Shetland

<3> By "the stranger of Inis-huna," is meant Sul-malla. — B iv.

<4> Alnecma, or Alnecmacht, was the ancient name of Connaught. Ullin is still theIrish name of the province of Ulster


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TEMORA — BOOK IV

On the rushy bank of a stream slept the daughter of Inis-huna.

ARGUMENT

The second night continues. Fingal relates, at the feast, his own first expedition intoIreland, and his marriage with Ros-cranna, the daughter of Cormac, king of thatisland. The Irish chiefs convene in the presence of Cathmor. The situation of the kingdescribed. The story of Sul-malla, the daughter of Conmor, king of Inis-huna, who, inthe disguise of a young warrior, hath followed Cathmor to the war. The sullenbehavior of Foldath, who had commanded in the battle of the preceding day, renewsthe difference between him and Malthos: but Cathmor, interposing, ends it. The chiefsfeast, and hear the song of Fonar the bard. Cathmor returns to rest, at a distance fromthe army. The ghost of his brother Cairbar appears to him in a dream; and obscurely

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foretells the issue of the war. The soliloquy of the king. He discovers Sul-malla.Morning comes. Her soliloquy closes the book.

"BENEATH an oak," said the king, "I sat on Selma's streamy rock, whenConnal rose, from the sea, with the broken spear of Duth-caron. Far distant stood theyouth. He turned away his eyes. He remembered the steps of his father, on his owngreen hill. I darkened in my place. Dusky thoughts flew over my soul. The kings ofErin rose before me. I half unsheathed the sword. Slowly approached the chiefs. Theylifted up their silent eyes. Like a ridge of clouds, they wait for the bursting forth of myvoice. My voice was, to them, a wind from heaven, to roll the mist away.

"I bade my white sails to rise, before the roar of Cona's wind. Three hundredyouths looked, from their waves, on Fingal's bossy shield. High on the mast it hung,and marked the dark-blue sea. But when night came down, I struck, at times, thewarning boss: I struck, and looked on high, for fiery-haired Ul-erin. <1> Nor absentwas the star of heaven. It travelled red between the clouds. I pursued the lovely beam,on the faint-gleaming deep. With morning, Erin rose in mist. We came into the bay ofMoi-lena, where its blue waters tumbled, in the bosom of echoing woods. HereCormac, in his secret halls, avoids the strength of Colc-ulla. Nor he alone, avoids thefoe. The blue eye of Ros-cranna is there: Ros-cranna, white-handed maid, thedaughter of the king!

"Gray, on his pointless spear, came forth the aged steps of Cormac. He smiledfrom his waving locks; but grief was in his soul. He saw us few before him, and hissigh arose. 'I see the arms of Trenmor,' he said; 'and these are the steps of the king!Fingal! thou art a beam of light to Cormac's darkened soul! Early is thy fame, my son:but strong are the foes of Erin. They are like the roar of streams in the land, son ofcar-borne Comhal!' 'Yet they may be rolled away,' I said, in my rising soul. 'We arenot of the race of the feeble, king of blue-shielded hosts! Why should fear comeamongst us, like a ghost of night? The soul of the valiant grows when foes increase inthe field. Roll no darkness, king of Erin, on the young in war!'

"The bursting tears of the king came down. He seized my hand in silence.'Race of the daring Trenmor!' at length he said, 'I roll no cloud before thee. Thouburnest in the fire of thy fathers. I behold thy fame. It marks thy course in battle, like astream of light. But wait the coming of Cairbar; my so must join thy sword. He callsthe sons of Erin from all their distant streams.'

"We came to the hall of the king, where it rose in the midst of rocks, on whosedark sides were the marks of streams of old. Broad oaks bend around with their moss.The thick birch is waving near. Half hid, in her shadowy grove, Ros-cranna raises thesong. Her white hands move on the harp. I beheld her blues rolling eyes. She was likea spirit of heaven half folded in the skirt of a cloud!


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Three days we feasted at Moi-lena. She rises bright in my troubled soul.Cormac beheld me dark. He gave the white-bosomed maid. She comes with bendingeye, amid the wandering of her heavy locks. She came! Straight the battle roared.Colc-ulla appeared: I took my spear. My sword rose, with my people against the ridgyfoe. Alnecma fled. Colc-ulla fell. Fingal returned with fame.

"Renowned is he, O Fillan, who fights in the strength of his host. The bardpursues his steps through the land of the foe. But he who fights alone, few are hisdeeds to other times! He shines to-day, a mighty light. To-morrow he is low. Onesong contains his fame. His name is one dark field. He is forgot; but where his tombsends forth the tufted grass."

Such are the words of Fingal, on Mora of the roes. Three bards, from the rockof Cormul, pour down the pleasing song. Sleep descends in the sound, on the broad-skirted host. Carril returned with the bards, from the tomb of Dunlora's chief. Thevoice of morning shall not come to the dusky bed of Duth-caron. No more shalt thouhear the tread of roes around thy narrow house!

As roll the troubled clouds, around a meteor of night, when they brighten theirsides with its light along the heaving sea; so gathers Erin around the gleaming form ofCathmor. He, tall in the midst, careless lifts, at times, his spear: as swells, or falls thesound of Fonar's distant harp. Near him leaned, against a rock, Sul-malla of blue eyes,the white-bosomed daughter of Conmor, king of Inis-huna. To his aid came blue-shielded Cathmor, and rolled his foes away. Sul-malla beheld him stately in the hail offeasts. Nor careless rolled the eyes of Cathmor on the long-haired maid!

''The third day arose, when Fithil came, from Erin of the streams. He told ofthe lifting up of the shield in Selma: he told of the danger of Cairbar. Cathmor raisedthe sail at Cluba; but the winds were in other lands. Three days he remained on thecoast, and turned his eyes on Conmor's halls. He remembered the daughter ofstrangers, and his sigh arose. Now when the winds awaked the wave: from the hillcame a youth in arms; to lift the sword with Cathmor, in his echoing fields. It was thewhite-armed Sul-malla. Secret she dwelt beneath her helmet. Her steps were in thepath of the king: on him her blue eyes rolled with joy, when he lay by his rollingstreams: But Cathmor thought that on Lumon she still pursued the roes. He thought,that fair on a rock, she stretched her white hand to the wind; to feel its course fromErin, the green dwelling of her love. He had promised to return, with his white-bosomed sails. The maid is near thee, O Cathmor: leaning on her rock.

The tall forms of the chiefs stand around; all but dark-browed Foldath. Heleaned against a distant tree, rolled into his haughty soul. His bushy hair whistles inthe wind. At times, bursts the hum of a song. He struck the tree at length, in wrath;and rushed before the king! Calm and stately, to the beam of the oak, arose the formof young Hidalla. His hair falls round his blushing cheek, in the wreaths of wavinglight. Soft was his voice in Clonra, in the valley of his fathers. Soft was his voicewhen he touched the harp, in the hall near his roaring stream!

"King of Erin," said Hidalla, "now is the time to feast. Bid the voice of bardsarise. Bid them roll the night away. The soul returns, from song, more terrible to war.Darkness settles on Erin. From hill to hill bend the skirted clouds. Far and gray, on the

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heath, the dreadful strides of ghosts are seen: the ghosts of those who fell bendforward to their song. Bid, O Cathmor! the harps to rise, to brighten the dead, on theirwandering blasts."

"Be all the dead forgot," said Foldath's bursting wrath. "Did not I fail in thefield? Shall I then hear the song? Yet was not my course harmless in war. Blood was astream around my steps. But the feeble were behind me. 'The foe has escaped frommy sword. In Conra's vale touch thou the harp. Let Dura answer to the voice ofHidalla. Let some maid look, from the wood, on thy long yellow locks. Fly fromLubar's echoing plain. This is the field of heroes!"

"King of Erin," Malthos said, "it is thine to lead in war. Thou art a fire to oureyes, on the dark-brown field. Like a blast thou hast passed over hosts. Thou hast laidthem low in blood. But who has heard thy words returning from the field? Thewrathful delight in death; their remembrance rests on the wounds of their spear. Strifeis folded in their thoughts: their words are ever heard. Thy course, chief of Moma,was like a troubled stream. The dead were rolled on thy path: but others also lift thespear. We were not feeble behind thee: but the foe was strong."

Cathmor beheld the rising rage and bending forward of either chief: for, halfunsheathed, they held their swords, and rolled their silent eyes. Now would they havemixed in horrid fray, had not the wrath of Cathmor burned. He drew his sword: itgleamed through night, to the high-flaming oak! "Sons of pride," said the king," allayyour swelling souls. Retire in night. Why should my rage arise? Should I contend withboth in arms! It is no time for strife! Retire, ye clouds, at my feast. Awake my soul nomore."

They sunk from the king on either side; like two columns of morning mist,when the sun rises, between them, on his glittering rocks. Dark is their rolling oneither side: each towards its reedy pool!

Silent sat the chiefs at the feast. They look, at times, on Atha's king, where hestrode, on his rock, amid his settling soul. The host lie along the field. Sleep descendson Moi-lena. The voice of Fonar ascends alone, beneath his distant tree. It ascends inthe praise of Cathmor, son of Larthon of Lumon. But Cathmor did not hear his praise.He lay at the roar of a stream. The rustling breeze of night flew over his whistlinglocks.

His brother came to his dreams, half seen from his low-hung cloud. Joy rosedarkly in his face. He had heard the song of Carril . <2> A blast sustained his dark-skirted cloud: which he seized in the bosom of night, as he rose, with his fame,towards his airy hail. Half mixed with the noise of the stream, he poured his feeblewords.

"Joy meet the soul of Cathmor. His voice was heard on Moi-lena. The bardgave his song to Cairbar. He travels on the wind. My form is in my father's hall, likethe gliding of a terrible light, which darts across the desert, in a stormy night. No bardshall be wanting at thy tomb when thou art lowly laid. The sons of song love thevaliant. Cathmor, thy name is a pleasant gale. The mournful sounds arise! On Lubar'sfield there is a voice! Louder still, ye shadowy ghosts! The dead were full of fame!


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Shrilly swells the feeble sound. The rougher blast alone is heard! Aid soon is Cathmorlow!" Rolled into himself he flew, wide on the bosom of winds. The old oak felt hisdeparture, and shook its whistling head. Cathmor starts from rest. He takes hisdeathful spear. He lifts his eyes around. He sees but dark-skirted night.

"It was the voice of the king," he said. "But now his form is gone. Unmarkedis your path in the air, ye children of the night. Often, like a reflected beam, are yeseen in the desert wild: but ye retire in your blasts, before our steps approach. Go,then, ye feeble race! Knowledge with you there is none! Your joys are weak, and likethe dreams of our rest, or the light winged thought, that flies across the soul. ShallCathmor soon be low? Darkly laid in his narrow house! Where no morning comes,with her half-opened eyes? Away, thou shade! to fight is mine! All further thoughtaway! I rush forth on eagles' wings, to seize my beam of flame. In the lonely vale ofstreams, abides the narrow soul. Years roll on, seasons return, but he is still unknown.In a blast comes cloudy death, and lays his gray head low. His ghost is folded in thevapor of the fenny field. Its course is never on hills, nor mossy vales of wind. So shallnot Cathmor depart. No boy in the field was he, who only marks the bed of roes, uponthe echoing hills. My issuing forth was with kings. My joy in dreadful plains: wherebroken hosts are rolled away, like seas before the wind."

So spoke the king of Alnecma, brightening in his rising soul. Valor, like apleasant flame, is gleaming within his breast. Stately is his stride on the heath! Thebeam of east is poured around. He saw his gray host on the field, wide spreading theirridges in light. He rejoiced, like a spirit of heaven, whose steps came forth on the seas,when he beholds them peaceful round, and all the winds are laid. But soon he awakesthe waves, and rolls them large to some echoing shore.

On the rushy bank of a stream slept the daughter of Inis-huna. The helmet hadfallen from her head. Her dreams were in the lands of her fathers. There morning is onthe field. Gray streams leap down from the rocks. The breezes, in shadowy waves, flyover the rushy fields. There is the sound that prepares for the chase. There the movingof warriors from the hall. But tall above the rest is seen the hero of streamy Atha. Hebends his eye of love on Sul-malla, from his stately steps. She turns, with pride, herface away, and careless bends the bow.

Such were the dreams of the maid when Cathmor of Atha came. He saw herfair face before him, in the midst of her wandering locks. He knew the maid ofLumon. What should Cathmor do? His sighs arise. His tears come down. But straighthe turns away. "This is no time, king of Atha, to awake thy secret soul. The battle isrolled before thee like a troubled stream."

He struck that warning boss, <3> wherein dwelt the voice of war. Erin rosearound him, like the sound of eagle wing. Sul-malla started from sleep, in herdisordered locks. She seized the helmet from earth. She trembled in her place. "Whyshould they know in Erin of the daughter of Inis-huna?" She remembered the race ofkings. The pride of her soul arose! Her steps are behind a rock, by the blue-windingstream of a vale; where dwelt the dark-brown hind ere yet the war arose, thither camethe voice of Cathmor, at times, to Sul-malla's ear. Her soul is darkly sad. She poursher words on wind.

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"The dreams of Inis-huna departed. They are dispersed from my soul. I hearnot the chase in my land. I am concealed in the skirt of war. I look forth from mycloud. No beam appears to light my path. I behold my warriors low; for the broad-shielded king is near. He that overcomes in danger, Fingal, from Selma of spears!Spirit of departed Conmor! are thy steps on the bosom of winds? Comest thou, attimes, to other lands, father of sad Sul-malla? Thou dost come! I have heard thy voiceat night; while yet I rose on the wave to Erin of the streams. The ghosts of fathers,they say, call away the souls of their race, while they behold them lonely in the midstof wo. Call me, my father, away! When Cathmor is low on earth, then shall Sul-mallabe lonely in the midst of wo!

<1> Ul-erin, "the guide to Ireland," was a star known by that name in the days ofFingal

<2> The song of Carril: the funeral elegy at the tomb of Cairbar.

<3> He struck that warning boss: in order to understand this passage, it is necessary tolook to the description of Cathmor's shield in the seventh book. This shield had sevenprincipal bosses, the sound of each of which, when struck with a spear, conveyed aparticular order from the king to his tribes. The sound of one of them, as here, was thesignal for the army to assemble.


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TEMORA — BOOK V

ARGUMENT.

The poet, after a short address to the harp of Cona, describes the arrangement of botharmies on either side of the river Lubar. Fingal gives the command to Fillan; but at thesame time orders Gaul, the son of Morni, who had been wounded in the hand in thepreceding battle, to assist him with his counsel. The army of the Fir-bolg iscommanded by Foldath. The general onset is described. the great actions of Fillan. Hekills Rothmar and Culmin. But when Fillan conquers in one wing, Foldath presseshard on the other. He wounds Dermid, the son of Duthno, and puts the whole wing toflight. Dermid deliberates with himself. and, at last, resolves to put a stop to theprogress of Foldath, by engaging him in single combat. When the two chiefs wereapproaching towards one another, Fillan came suddenly to the relief of Dermid;engaged Foldath, and killed him. The behavior of Malthos towards the fallen Foldath.Fillan puts the whole army, of the Fir-bolg to flight. The book closes with an addressto Clatho, the mother of that hero.

THOU dweller between the shields that hang, on high, in Ossian's hall!Descend from thy place, O harp, and let me hear thy voice! Son of Alpin, strike thestring. Thou must awake the soul of the bard. The murmur of Lora's stream has rolledthe tale away. I stand in the cloud of years. Few are its openings towards the' past; andwhen the vision comes, it is but dim and dark. I hear thee, harp of Selma! my soulreturns like a breeze, which the sun brings back to the vale, where dwelt the lazy mist.

Lubar is bright before me in the windings of its vale. On either side, on theirhills, arise the tall forms of the kings. Their people are poured around them, bendingforward to their words: as if their fathers spoke, descending from the winds. But theythemselves are like two rocks in the midst; each with its dark head of pines, when theyare seen in the desert, above low-sailing mist. High on their face are streams whichspread their foam on blasts of wind!

Beneath the voice of Cathmor pours Erin, like the sound of flame. Wide theycome down to Lubar. Before them is the stride of Foldath. But Cathmor retires to hishill, beneath his bending oak. The tumbling of a stream is near the king. He lifts, attimes, his gleaming spear. It is a flame to his people, in the midst of war. Near himstands the daughter of Conmor, leaning on a rock. She did not rejoice at the strife. Hersoul delighted not in blood. A valley spreads green behind the hill, with its three, bluestreams. The sun is there in silence. The dun mountain roes come down. On these areturned the eyes of Sul-malla in her thoughtful mood.

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Fingal beholds Cathmor, on high, the son of Borbar-duthul! he beholds thedeep rolling of Erin, on the darkened plain. He strikes that warning boss, which bidsthe people to obey, when he sends his chief before them, to the field of renown. Widerise their spears to the sun. Their echoing shields reply around. Fear, like a vapor,winds not among the host: for he, the king, is near, the strength of streamy Selma.Gladness brightens the hero. We hear his words with joy.

"Like the coming forth of winds, is the sound of Selma's sons! They aremountain waters, determined in their course. Hence is Fingal renowned. Hence is hisname in other lands. He was not a lonely beam in danger: for your steps were alwaysnear! But never was Fingal a dreadful form, in your presence, darkened into wrath.My voice was no thunder to your ears. Mine eyes sent forth no death. When thehaughty appeared, I beheld them not. They were forgot at my feasts. Like mist theymelted away. A young beam is before you! Few are his paths to war! They are few,but he is valiant. Defend my dark-haired son. Bring Fillan back with joy. Hereafter hemay stand alone. His form is like his fathers. His soul is a flame of their fire. Son ofcar-borne Morni, move behind the youth. Let thy voice reach his ear, from the skirtsof war. Not unobserved rolls battle before thee, breaker of the shields."

The king strode, at once, away to Cormul's lofty rock. Intermitting darts thelight from his shield, as slow the king of heroes moves. Sidelong rolls his eye o'er theheath, as forming advance the lines. Graceful fly his half-gray locks round his kinglyfeatures, now lightened with dreadful joy. Wholly mighty is the chief! Behind himdark and slow I moved. Straight came forward the strength of Gaul. His shield hungloose on its thong. He spoke, in haste, to Ossian. "Bind, son of Fingal, this shield!Bind it high to the side of Gaul. The foe may behold it, and think I lift the spear. If Ishould fall, let my tomb be hid in the field; for fall I must without fame. Mine armcannot lift the steel. Let not Evir-choma hear it, to blush between her locks. Fillan, themighty behold us! Let us not forget the strife. Why should they come from their hills,to aid our flying field!"

He strode onward, with the sound of his shield. My voice pursued him as hewent. "Can the son of Morni fall, without his fame in Erin? But the deeds of themighty are forgot by themselves. They rush carless over the fields of renown. Theirwords are never heard!" I rejoiced over the steps of the chief. I strode to the rock ofthe king, where he sat, in his wandering locks, amid the mountain wind!

In two dark ridges bend the host towards each other, at Lubar Here Foldathrises a pillar of darkness: there brightens the youth of Fillan. Each, with his spear inthe stream, sent forth the voice of war. Gaul struck, the shield of Selma. At once theyplunge in battle! Steel pours its gleam on steel: like the fall of streams shone the field,when they mix their foam together, from two dark-browed rocks! Behold he comes,the son of fame! He lays the people low! Deaths sit on blasts around him! Warriorsstrew thy paths, O Fillan!

Rothmar, the shield of warriors, stood between two chinky rocks. Two oaks,which winds had bent from high, spread their branches on either side. He rolls hisdarkening eyes on Fillan, and, silent, shades his friends. Fingal saw the approachingfight. The hero's soul arose. But as the stone of Loda <1> falls, shook, at once, from


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rocking Drumanard, when spirits heave the earth in their wrath; so fell blue-shieldedRothmar.

Near are the steps of Culmin; the youth came, bursting into tears. Wrathful hecut the wind, ere yet he mixed his strokes with Fillan. He had first bent the bow withRothmar, at the rock of his own blue streams. There they had marked the place of theroe, as the sunbeam flew over the fern. Why, son of Cul-allin! why, Culmin, dost thourush on that beam of light? <2> It is a fire that consumes. Son of Cul-allin, retire.Your fathers were not equal in the glittering strife of the field. The mother of Culminremains in the hall. She looks forth on blue-rolling Strutha. A whirlwind rises, on thestream, dark-eddying round the ghost of her son. His dogs <3> are howling in theirplace. His shield is bloody in the hall. "Art thou fallen, my fair-haired son, in Erin'sdismal war?"

As a roe, pierced in secret, lies panting, by her wonted streams; the huntersurveys her feet of wind! He remembers her stately bounding before. So lay the son ofCul-allin beneath the eye of Fillan. His hair is rolled in a little stream. His bloodwanders on his shield. Still his hand holds the sword, that failed him in the midst ofdanger. "Thou art fallen," said Fillan, "ere yet thy fame was heard. Thy father sentthee to war. He expects to hear of thy deeds. He is gray, perhaps, at his streams. Hiseyes are towards Moi-lena. But thou shalt not return with the spoil of the fallen foe!"

Fillan pours the flight of Erin before him, over the resounding heath. But, manon man, fell Morven before the dark-red rage of Foldath: for, far on the field, hepoured the roar of half his tribes. Dermid stands before him in wrath. The sons ofSelma gathered around. But his shield is cleft by Foldath. His people fly over theheath.

Then said the foe in his pride, "They have fled. My fame begins! Go, Malthos,go bid Cathmor guard the dark rolling of ocean; that Fingal may not escape from mysword. He must lie on earth. Beside some fen shall his tomb be seen. It shall risewithout a song. His ghost shall hover, in mist, over the reedy pool."

Malthos heard, with darkening doubt. He rolled his silent eyes. He knew thepride of Foldath. He looked up to Fingal on his hills; then darkly turning, in doubtfulmood, he plunged his sword in war.

In Clono's narrow vale, where bend two trees above the stream, dark, in hisgrief, stood Duthno's silent son. The blood pours from the side of Dermid. His shieldis broken near. His spear leans against a stone. Why, Dermid, why so sad? "I hear theroar of battle. My people are alone. My steps are slow on the heath and no shield ismine. Shall he then prevail? It is then after Dermid is low! I will call thee forth, OFoldath, and meet thee yet in fight."

He took his spear, with dreadful joy. The son of Morni came. "Stay, son ofDuthno, stay thy speed. Thy steps are marked with blood. No bossy shield is thine.Why shouldst thou fall unarmed?" — "Son of Morni, give thou thy shield. It has oftenrolled back the war! I shall stop the chief in his course. Son of Morni, behold thatstone! It lifts its gray head through grass. There dwells a chief of the race of Dermid.Place me there in night."

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He slowly rose against the hill. He saw the troubled field: the gleaming ridgesof battle, disjointed and broken around. As distant fires, on heath by night, now seemas lost in smoke: now rearing their red streams on the hill, as blow or cease the winds;so met the intermitting war the eye of broad-shielded Dermid. Through the host arethe strides of Foldath, like some dark ship on wintry waves, when she issues frombetween two isles to sport on resounding ocean!

Dermid with rage beholds his course. He strives to rush along. But he failsamid his steps; and the big tear comes down. He sounds his father's horn. He thricestrikes his bossy shield. He calls thrice the name of Foldath, from his roaring tribes.Foldath, with joy, beholds the chief. He lifts aloft his bloody spear. As a rock ismarked with streams, that fell troubled down its side in a storm; so streaked withwandering blood, is the dark chief of Moma! The host on either side withdraw fromthe contending kings. They raise, at once, their gleaming points. Rushing comes Fillanof Selma. Three paces back Foldath withdraws, dazzled with that beam of light, whichcame, as issuing from a cloud, to save the wounded chief. Growing in his pride hestands. He calls forth all his steel.

As meet two broad-winged eagles, in their sounding strife, in winds: so rushthe two chiefs, on Moi-lena, into gloomy fight. By turns are the steps of the kings[Fingal and Cathmor] forward on their rocks above; for now the dusky war seems todescend on their swords. Cathmor feels the joy of warriors!, on his mossy hill: theirjoy in secret, when dangers rise to match their souls. His eye is not turned on Lubar,but on Selma's dreadful king. He beholds him, on Mora, rising in his arms.

Foldath falls on his shield. The spear of Fillan pierced the king. Nor looks theyouth on the fallen, but onward rolls the war. The hundred voices of death arise."Stay, son of Fingal, stay thy speed. Beholdest thou not that gleaming form, a dreadfulsign of death? Awaken not the king of Erin. Return, son of blue-eyed Clatho."

Malthos beholds Foldath low. He darkly stands above the chief. Hatred isrolled from his soul. He seems a rock in a desert, on whose dark side are the tricklingof waters; when the slow-sailing mist has left it, and all its trees are blasted withwinds. He spoke to the dying hero about the narrow house. "Whether shall thy graystones rise in Ullin, or in Moma's woody land; where the sun looks, in secret, on theblue streams of Dalrutho? Them are the steps of thy daughter, blue-eyed Dardu-lena!"

"Rememberest thou her," said Foldath, "because no son is mine; no youth toroll the battle before him, in revenge of me? Malthos, I am revenged. I was notpeaceful in the field. Raise the tombs of those I have slain, around my narrow house.Often shall I forsake the blast, to rejoice above their graves; when I behold themspread around, with their long-whistling grass."

His soul rushed to the vale of Moma, to Dardu-lena's dreams, where she slept,by Dalrutho's stream, returning from the chase of the hinds. Her bow is near the maid,unstrung. The breezes fold her long hair on her breasts. Clothed in the beauty ofyouth, the love of heroes lay. Dark bending, from the skirts of the wood, her woundedfather seemed to come. He appears, at times, then hid himself in mist. Bursting intotears she arose. She knew that the chief was low. To her came a beam from his soul,when folded in its storms. Thou wert the last of his race, O blue-eyed Dardu-lena.


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Wide spreading over echoing Lubar, the flight of Bolga is rolled along. Fillanhangs forward on their steps. He strews, with dead, the heath. Fingal rejoices over hisson. Blue-shielded Cathmor rose.

Son of Alpin, bring the harp. Give Fillan's praise to the wind. Raise high hispraise in mine ear, while yet he shines in war.

"Leave, blue-eyed Clatho, leave thy hail! Behold that early beam of thine! Thehost is withered in its course. No further look, it is dark. Light trembling from theharp, strike, virgins, strike the sound. No hunter he descends from the dewy haunt ofthe bounding roe. He bends not his bow on the wind; nor sends his gray arrow abroad.

"Deep folded in red war! See battle roll against his side. Striding amid theridgy strife, he pours the death of thousands forth. Fillan is like a spirit of heaven, hatdescends from the skirt of winds. The troubled ocean feels his steps, as he strides fromwave to wave. His path kindles behind him. Islands shake their heads on the heavingseas! Leave, blue-eyed Clatho, leave thy hall!"

<1> By "the stone of Loda" is meant a place of worship among the Scandinavians.

<2> The poet metaphorically calls Fillan a beam of light.

<3> Dogs were thought to be sensible of the death of their master, let it happen at everso great a distance. It was also the opinion of the times, that the arms, which warriorsleft at home, became bloody when they themselves fell in battle.

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TEMORA — BOOK VI.

ARGUMENT

This book opens with a speech of Fingal, who sees Cathmor descending to theassistance of his flying army. The king despatches Ossian to the relief of Fillan. Hehimself retires behind the rock of Cormul, to avoid the sight of the engagementbetween his son and Cathmor. Ossian advances. The descent of Cathmor described.He rallies the army, renews the battle, and, before Ossian could arrive, engages Fillanhimself. Upon the approach of Ossian, the combat between the two heroes ceases.Ossian and Cathmor prepare to fight, but night coming on pre vents them. Ossianreturns to the place where Cathmor and Fillan fought. He finds Fillan mortallywounded, and leaning against a rock. Their discourse. Fillan dies, his body is laid, byOssian, in a neighboring cave. The Caledonian army return to Fingal. He questionsthem about his son, and understanding that he was killed, retires, in silence, to therock of Cormul. Upon the retreat of the army of Fingal, the Fir-bolg advance.Cathmor finds Bran, one of the dogs of Fingal, lying on the shield of Fillan, before theentrance of the cave, where the body of that hero lay. His reflection thereupon. Hereturns, in a melancholy mood, to his army. Malthos endeavors to comfort him, by theexample of his father, Borbar-duthul. Cathmor retires to rest. The song of Sul-mallaconcludes the book, which ends about the middle of the third night from the openingof the poem.

"Cathmor rises on his hill! Shall Fingal take the sword of Luna? But what shallbecome of thy fame, son of white-bosomed Clatho? Turn not thine eyes from Fingal,fair daughter of Inis-tore. I shall not quench thy early beam. It shines along my soul.Rise, wood-skirted Mora, rise between the war and me! Why should Fingal behold thestrife, lest his dark -haired warrior should fall? Amidst the song, O Carril, pour thesound of the trembling harp! Here are the voices of rocks! and there the brighttumbling of waters. Father of Oscar! lift the spear! defend the young in arms. Concealthy steps from Fillan. He must not know that I doubt his steel. No cloud of mine shallrise, my son, upon thy soul of fire!"

He sunk behind his rock, amid the sound of Carril's song. Brightening in mygrowing soul, I took the spear of Temora. I saw, along Moi-lena, the wild tumbling ofbattle; the strife of death, in gleaming rows, disjointed and broken round. Fillan is abeam of fire. From wing to wing is his wasteful course. The ridges of war melt beforehim. They are rolled, in smoke, from the fields!

Now is the coming forth of Cathmor, in the armor of kings! Dark waves theeagle's wing, above his helmet of fire. Unconcerned are his steps, as if they were tothe chase of Erin. He raises, at times, his terrible voice. Erin, abashed, gathers round.


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Their souls return back, like a stream. They wonder at the steps of their fear. He rose,like the beam of the morning, on a haunted heath: the traveller looks back, withbending eye, on the field of dreadful forms! Sudden from the rock of Moi-lena, areSul-malla's trembling steps. An oak takes the spear from her hand. Half bent shelooses the lance. But then are her eyes on the king, from amid her wandering locks!No friendly strife is before thee! No light contending of bows, as when the youth ofInis-huna come forth beneath the eye of Conmor!

As the rock of Runo, which takes the passing clouds as they fly, seemsgrowing, in gathered darkness, over the streamy heath; so seems the chief of Athataller, as gather his people around. As different blasts fly over the sea, each behind itsdark-blue wave; so Cathmor's words, on every side, pour his warriors forth. Nor silenton his hill is Fillan. He mixes his words with his echoing shield. An eagle be seemed,with sounding wings, calling the wind to his rock, when he sees the coming forth ofthe roes, on Lutha's rushy field!

Now they bend forward in battle. Death's hundred voices arise. The kings, oneither side, were like fires on the souls of the host. Ossian bounded along. High rocksand trees rush tall between the war and me. But I hear the noise of steel, between myclanging arms. Rising, gleaming on the hill, I behold the backward steps of hosts:their backward steps on either side, and wildly-looking eyes. The chiefs were met indreadful fight! The two blue-shielded kings! Tall and dark, through gleams of steel,are seen the striving heroes! I rush. My fears for Fillan fly, burning, across my soul!

I come. Nor Cathmor flies; nor yet comes on; he sidelong stalks along. An icyrock, cold, tall, he seems. I call forth all my steel. Silent awhile we stride, on eitherside of a rushing stream: then, sudden turning, all at once, we raise our pointed spears.We raise our spears, but night comes down. It is dark and silent round; but where thedistant steps of hosts are sounding over the heath.

I come to the place where Fillan fought. Nor voice nor sound is there. Abroken helmet lies on earth, a buckler cleft in twain. Where, Fillan, where art thou,young chief of echoing Morven? He hears me, leaning on a rock, which bends its grayhead over the stream. He hears; but sullen, dark he stands. At length. I saw the hero.

"Why standest thou, robed in darkness, son of woody Selma! Bright is thypath, my brother in this dark-brown field! Long has been thy strife in battle! Now thehorn of Fingal is heard. Ascend to the cloud of thy father, to his hill of feasts. In theevening mists he sits, and hears the sound of Carril's harp. Carry joy to the aged,young breaker of the shields!"

"Can the vanquished carry joy? Ossian, no shield is mine! It lies broken on thefield. The eagle-wing of my helmet is torn. It is when foes fly before them, thatfathers delight in their sons. But their sighs burst forth, in secret, when their youngwarriors yield. No: Fillan shall not behold the king! Why should the hero mourn?"

"Son of blue-eyed Clatho! O Fillan, awake not my soul! Wert thou not aburning fire before him? Shall he not rejoice? Such fame belongs not to Ossian; yet isthe king still a sun to me. He looks on my steps with joy. Shadows never rise on hisface. Ascend, O Fillan, to Mora! His feast is spread in the folds of mist."

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"Ossian! give me that broken shield: those feathers that are rolled in the wind.Place them near to Fillan, that less of his fame may fall. Ossian, I begin to fail. Layme in that hollow rock. Raise no stone above, lest one should ask about my fame. Iam fallen in the first of my fields, fallen without renown. Let thy voice alone send joyto my flying soul. Why should the bard know where dwells the lost beam of Clatho?"

"Is thy spirit on the eddying winds, O Fillan, young breaker of shields. Joypursue my hero, through his folded clouds. The forms of thy fathers, O Fillan, bend toreceive their son! I behold the spreading of their fire on Mora: the blue-rolling of theirwreaths. Joy meet thee, my brother! But we are dark and sad! I behold the foe roundthe aged. I behold the wasting away of his fame. Thou art left alone in the field, Ogray-haired king of Selma!"

I laid him in the hollow rock, at the roar of the nightly stream. One red starlooked in on the hero. Winds lift, at times, his locks. I listen. No sound is heard. Thewarrior slept! as lightning on a cloud, a thought came rushing along my soul. My eyesroll in fire: my stride was in the clang of steel. "I will find thee, king of Erin! in thegathering of thy thousands find thee. Why should that cloud escape, that quenched ourearly beam? Kindle your meteors on your hills, my fathers. Light my daring steps. Iwill consume in wrath. <1> — But should not I return? The king is without a son,gray-haired among his foes! His arm is not as in the days of old. His fame grows dimin Erin. Let me not behold him, laid low in his latter field — But can I return to theking? Will he not ask about his son?" Thou oughtest to defend young Fillan." —Ossian will meet the foe! Green Erin, thy sounding tread is pleasant to my ear. I rushon thy ridgy host, to shun the eyes of Fingal. I hear the voice of the king, on Mora'smisty top! He calls his two sons! I come, my father, in my grief. I come like an eagle,which the flame of night met in the desert, and spoiled of half his wings!

Distant, round the king, on Mora, the broken ridges of Morven are rolled.They turned their eyes: each darkly bends, on his own ashen spear. Silent stood theking in the midst. Thought on thought rolled over his soul: as waves on a secretmountain lake, each with its back of foam. He looked; no son appeared, with his long-beaming spear. The sighs rose, crowding, from his soul; but he concealed his grief. Atlength I stood beneath an oak. No voice of mine was heard.! What could I say toFingal in this hour of wo? His words rose, at length, in the midst: the people shrunkbackward as he spoke.

"Where is the son of Selma; he who led in war? I behold not his steps, amongmy people, returning from the field. Fell the young bounding roe, who was so statelyon my hills? He fell! for ye are silent. The shield of war is cleft in twain. Let his armorbe near to Fingal; and the sword of dark-brown Luno. I am waked on my hills; withmorning I descend to war!"

High on Cormul's rock, an oak is flaming to the wind. The gray skirts of mistare rolled around; thither strode the king in his wrath. Distant from the host he alwayslay, when battle burnt within his soul. On two spears hung his shield on high; thegleaming sign of death! that shield, which he was wont to strike, by night, before herushed to war. It was then his warriors knew when the king was to lead in strife; fornever was his buckler heard, till the wrath of Fingal arose. Unequal were his steps onhigh, as ho shone on the beam of the oak; he was dreadful as the form of the spirit of


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night, when he clothes, on his wild gestures with mist, and, issuing forth, on thetroubled ocean, mounts the car of winds.

Nor settled, from the storm, is Erin's sea of war! they glitter, beneath themoon, and, low humming, still roll on the field. Alone are the steps of Cathmor,before them on the heath: he hangs forward, with all his arms, on Morven's flyinghost. Now had he come to the mossy cave, where Fillan lay in night. One tree wasbent above! the stream, which glittered over the rock. There shone to the moon thebroken shield of Clatho's son; and near it, on grass, lay hairy-footed Bran. He hadmissed the chief on Mora, and searched him along the wind. He thought that the blue-eyed hunter slept; he lay upon his shield. No blast came over the heath unknown tobounding Bran.

Cathmor saw the white-breasted dog; he saw the broken shield. Darkness isblown back on his soul; he remembers the falling away of the people. They came, astream; are rolled away; another race succeeds. But some mark the fields, as theypass, with their own mighty names. The heath, through dark brown years, is theirs;some blue stream winds to their fame. Of these be the chief of Atha, when he lays himdown on earth. Often may the voice of future times meet Cathmor in the air; when hestrides from wind to wind, or folds himself in the wing of a storm.

Green Erin gathered round the king to hear the voice of his power. Their joyfulfaces bend unequal, forward, in the light of the oak. They who were terrible, wereremoved; Lubar winds again in their host. Cathmor was that beam from heaven,which shone when his people were dark. He was honored in the midst. Their soulsarose with ardor around! The king alone no gladness showed; no stranger he to war!

"Why is the king so sad?" said Malthos, eagle-eyed. "Remains there a foe atLubar t Lives there among them who can lift the spear? Not so peaceful was thyfather, Borbar-duthul, king of spears. His rage was a fire that always burned: his joyover fallen foes was great. Three days feasted the gray-haired hero, when he heardthat Calmar fell: Calmar who aided the race of Ullin, from Lara of the streams. Oftendid he feel, with his hands, the steel which they said had pierced his foe. He felt itwith his hands, for Borbar-duthul's eyes had failed. Yet was the king a sun to hisfriends; a gale to lift their branches round. Joy was around him in his halls: he lovedthe sons of Bolga. His name remains in Atha, like the awful memory of ghosts whosepresence was terrible; but they blew the storm away. Now let the voices of Erin <2>raise the soul of the king; he that shone when war was dark, and laid the mighty low.Fonar, from that gray-browed rock pour the tale of other times: pour it on wide-skirtedErin, as it settles round.

"To me," said Cathmor, "no song shall rise; nor Fonar sit on the rock of Lubar.The mighty there are laid low. Disturb not their rushing ghosts. Far, Malthos, farremove the sound of Erin's song. I rejoice not over the foe, when he ceases to lift thespear. With morning we pour our strength abroad. Fingal is wakened on his echoinghill."

Like waves, blown back by sudden winds, Erin retired, at the voice of theking. Deep, rolled into the field of night, they spread their humming tribes. Beneathhis own tree, at intervals, each bard sat down with his harp. They raised the song, and

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touched the string: each to the chief he loved. Before a burning oak Sul-mallatouched, at times, the harp. She touched the harp, and heard, between, the breezes inher hair. In darkness near lay the king of Atha, beneath an aged tree. The beam of theoak was turned from him; he saw the maid, but was not seen. His soul poured forth, insecret, when he beheld her fearful eye. "But battle is before thee, son of Borbar-duthul."

Amidst the harp, at intervals, she listened whether the warrior slept. Her soulwas up; she longed, in secret, to pour her own sad song. The field is silent. On theirwings the blasts of night retire. The bards had ceased; and meteors came, red-windingwith their ghosts. The sky grew dark: the forms of the dead were blended with theclouds. But heedless bends the daughter of Conmor over the decaying flame. Thouwert alone in her soul, car-borne chief of Atha. She raised the voice of the song, andtouched the harp between.

"Clun-galo <3> came; she missed the maid. Where art thou, beam of light?Hunters from the mossy rock, saw ye the blue-eyed fair? Are her steps on grassyLumon; near the bed of roes? Ah, me! I behold her bow in the hail. Where art thou,beam of light?

"Cease, love of Conmor, cease! I hear thee not on the ridgy heath. My eye isturned to the king, whose path is terrible in war. He for whom my soul is up, in theseason of my rest. Deep-bosomed in war he stands; he beholds me not from his cloud.Why, sun of Sul-malla, dost thou not look forth? I dwell in darkness here: wide overme flies the shadowy mist. Filled with dew are my locks: look thou from thy cloud, Osun of Sul-malla's soul!"

<1> "I will consume in wrath —" Here the sentence is designedly left unfinished. Thesense is, that he was resolved, like a destroying fire, to consume Cathmor, who hadkilled his brother. In the midst of this resolution, the situation of Fingal suggests itselfto him in a very strong light. He resolves to return to assist the king in prosecuting thewar. But then his shame for not defending his brother recurs to him. He is determinedagain to go and find out Cathmor. We may consider him as in the act of advancingtowards the enemy, when the horn of Fingal sounded on Mora, and called back hispeople to his presence.

<2> The voices of Erin: A poetical expression for the bards of Ireland.

<3> Clun-galo: the wife of Conmor, king of Inis-huna, and the mother of Sul-malla.She is here represented as missing her daughter, after she had fled with Cathmor.


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TEMORA — BOOK VII.

The king took his deathful spear, and struck the deeply sounding shield.

ARGUMENT.

This book begins about the middle of the third night from the opening of the poem.The poet describes a kind of mist, which rose by night from the Lake of Lego, andwas the usual residence of the souls of the dead, during the interval between theirdecease and the funeral song. The appearance of the ghost of Fillan above the cavewhere his body lay. His voice comes to Fingal on the rock of Cormul. The king strikesthe shield of Trenmor, which was an infallible sign of his appearing in arms himself.The extraordinary effect of the sound of the shield. Sul-malla, starting from sleep,awakes Cathmor. Their affecting discourse. She insists with him to sue for peace; heresolves to continue the war. He directs her to retire to the neighboring valley of Lona,which was the residence of an old Druid, until the battle of the next day should be

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over. He awakes his army with the sound of his shield. The shield described. Fonar,the bard, at the desire of Cathmor, relates the first settlement of the Fir-bolg inIreland, under their leader Larthon. Morning comes. Sul-malla retires to the valley ofLona. A lyric song concludes the book.

From the wood-skirted waters of Lego ascend, at times, gray-bosomed mists;when the gates of the west are closed, on the sun's eagle eye. Wide, over Lara'sstream, is poured the vapor dark and deep: the moon, like a dim shield, lay swimmingthrough its folds. With this, clothe the spirits of old their sudden gestures on the wind,when they stride, from blast to blast, along the dusky night. Often, blended with thegale, to some warrior's grave, they roll the mist a gray dwelling to his ghost, until thesongs arise.

A sound came from the desert; it was Conar, king of Inis-fail. He poured hismist on the grave of Fillan, at blue-winding Lubar. Dark and mournful sat the ghost,in his gray ridge of smoke. The blast, at times, rolled him together; but the formreturned again. It returned with bending eyes, and dark winding of locks of mist.

It was dark. The sleeping host were still in the skirts of night. The flamedecayed, on the hill of Fingal; the king lay lonely on his shield. His eyes were halfclothed in sleep: the voice of Fillan came. "Sleeps the husband of Clatho? Dwells thefather of the fallen in rest? Am I forgot in the folds of darkness; lonely in the seasonof night?"

"Why dost thou mix," said the king, "with the dreams of my father? Can Iforget thee, my son, or thy path of fire in the field? Not such come the deeds of thevaliant on the soul of Fingal. They are not a beam of lightning, which is seen and isthen no more. I remember thee, O Fillan! and my wrath begins to rise."

The king took his deathful spear, and struck the deeply-sounding shield: hisshield, that hung high in night, the dismal sign of war. Ghosts fled on every side, androlled their gathered forms on the wind. Thrice from the winding vales arose the voiceof deaths. The harps of the bards, untouched, sound mournful over the hill.

He struck again the shield; battles rose in the dreams of his host. The wide-tumbling strife is gleaming over their souls. Blue-shielded kings descended to war.Backward-looking armies fly; and mighty deeds are half hid in the bright gleams ofsteel.

But when the third sound arose, deer started from the clefts of their rocks. Thescreams of fowl are heard in the desert, as each flew frightened on his blast. The sonsof Selma half rose and half assumed their spears. But silence rolled back on the host:they knew the shield of the king. Sleep returned to their eyes; the field was dark andstill.


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No sleep was thine in darkness, blue-eyed daughter of Conmor! Sul-mallaheard the dreadful shield, and rose, amid the night. Her steps are towards the king ofAtha. "Can danger shake his daring soul?" In doubt, she stands with bending eyes.Heaven burns with all its stars.

Again the shield resounds! She rushed. She stopt. Her voice half rose. It failed.She saw him, amidst his arms, that gleamed to heaven's fire. She saw him dim in hislocks, that rose to nightly wind. Away, for fear, she turned her steps. "Why should theking of Erin awake? Thou art not a dream to his rest, daughter of Inis-huna."

More dreadful rings the shield. Sul-malla starts. Her helmet fails. Loud echoesLubar's rock, as over it rolls the steel. Bursting from the dreams of night, Cathmorhalf rose beneath his tree. He saw the form of the maid above him, on the rock. A redstar, with twinkling beams, looked through her floating hair.

"Who comes through night to Cathmor in the season of his dreams? Bring'stthou aught of war? Who art thou, son of night? Stand'st thou before me, a form of thetimes of old? a voice from the fold of a cloud, to warn me of the danger of Erin?"

"Nor lonely scout am I, nor voice from folded cloud," she said, "but I warnthee of the danger of Erin. Dost thou hear that sound? It is not the feeble, king ofAtha, that rolls his signs on night."

"Let the warrior roll his signs," he replied, "To Cathmor they are the sounds ofharps. My joy is great, voice of night, and burns over all my thoughts. This is themusic of kings, on lonely hills, by night; when they light their daring souls, the sonsof mighty deeds! The feeble dwell alone, in the valley of the breeze; where mists lifttheir morning skirts, from the blue-winding streams."

"Not feeble, king of men, were they, the fathers of my race. They dwelt in thefolds of battle, in their distant lands. Yet delights not my soul in the signs of death!Lie, who never yields, comes forth: O send the bard of peace!"

Like a dropping rock in the desert, stood Cathmor in his tears. Her voice came,a breeze on his soul, and waked the memory of her land; where she dwelt by herpeaceful streams, before he came to the war of Conmor.

"Daughter of strangers," he said, (she trembling turned away,) "long have Imarked thee in thy steel, young pine of Inis-huna. But my soul, I said, is folded in astorm. Why should that beam arise, till my steps return in peace? Have I been pale inthy presence, as thou bid'st me to fear the king? The time of danger, O maid, is theseason of my soul; for then it swells a mighty stream, and rolls me on the foe.

"Beneath the moss-covered rock of Lona, near his own loud stream; gray inhis locks of age, dwells Clonmal king of harps. Above him is his echoing tree, and thedun bounding of roes. The noise of our strife reaches his ear, as he bends in thethoughts of years. There let thy rest be, Sul-malla, until our battle cease. Until I return,in my arms, from the skirts of the evening mist, that rises on Lona, round the dwellingof my love."

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A light fell on the soul of the maid: it rose kindled before the king. She turnedher face to Cathmor, from amidst her waving locks. "Sooner shall the eagle of heavenbe torn from the stream of his roaring wind, when he sees the dun prey before him, theyoung sons of the bounding roe, than thou, O Cathmor, be turned from the strife ofrenown. Soon may I see thee, warrior, from the skirts of the evening mist, when it isrolled around me, on Lona of the streams. While yet thou art distant far, strike,Cathmor, strike the shield, that joy may return to my darkened soul, as I lean on themossy rock. But if thou shouldst fall, I am in the land of strangers; O send thy voicefrom thy cloud, to the midst of Inis-huna!"

"Young branch of green-headed Lumon, why dost thou shake in the storm?Often has Cathmor returned, from darkly rolling wars. The darts of death are but hailto me; they have often rattled along my shield. I have risen brightened from battle,like a meteor from a stormy cloud. Return not, fair beam, from thy vale, when the roarof battle grows. Then might the foe escape, as from my fathers of old.

"They told to Son-mor, of Clunar, who was slain by Cormac in fight. Threedays darkened Son-mor, over his brother's fall. His spouse beheld the silent king andforesaw his steps in war. She prepared the bow, in secret, to attend her blue-shieldedhero. To her dwelt darkness at Atha, when he was not there. From their hundredstreams, by night, poured down the sons of Alnecma. They had heard the shield of theking, and their rage arose. In clanging arms, they moved along towards Ullin of thegroves. Son-mor struck his shield, at times the leader of the war.

"Far behind followed Sul-allin, over the streamy hills. She was a light on themountain, when they crossed the vale below. Her steps were stately on the vale, whenthey rose on the mossy hill. She feared to approach the king, who left her in echoingAtha. But when the roar of battle rose; when host was rolled on host, when Son-morburnt, like the fire of heaven in clouds, with her spreading hair came Sul-allin, for shetrembled for her king. He stopt the rushing strife to save the love of heroes. The foefled by night; Clunar slept without his blood; the blood which ought to be pouredupon the warrior's tomb.

"Nor rose the rage of Son-mor, but his days were silent and dark. Sul-allinwandered by her gray stream. with her tearful eyes. Often did she look on the hero,when he was folded in his thoughts. But she shrunk from his eyes, and turned her lonesteps away. Battles rose, like a tempest, and drove the mist from his soul. He beheldwith joy her steps in the hall, and the white rising of her hands on the harp."

In his arms strode the chief of Atha, to where his shield hung, high, in night:high on a mossy bough over Lubar's streamy roar. Seven bosses rose on the shield; theseven voices of the king, which his warriors received, from the wind, and marked overall the tribes.

On each boss is placed a star of night: Canmathon with beams unshorn; Col-derna rising from a cloud; U-leicho robed in mist; and the soft beam of Cathlinglittering on a rock. Smiling, on its own blue wave, Rel-durath half sinks its westernlight. The red eye of Berthin looks, through a grove, on the hunter, as he returns, bynight, with the spoils of the bounding roe. Wide, in the midst, rose the cloudlessbeams of Ton-théna, that star, which looked by night on the course of the sea-tossed


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Larthon: Larthon, the first of Bolga's race, who travelled on the winds. White-bosomed spread the sails of the king, towards streamy Inis-fail; dun night was rolledbefore him, with its skirts of mist. Unconstant blew the winds, and rolled him fromwave to wave. Then rose the fiery-haired Ton-théna, and smiled from her partedcloud. Larthon blessed the well-known beam, as it faint gleamed on the deep.

Beneath the spear of Cathmor rose that voice which awakes the bards. Theycame, dark winding from every side: each with the sound of his harp. Before himrejoiced the king, as the traveller, in the day of the sun; when he hears, far rollingaround, the murmur of mossy streams: streams that burst in the desert from the rockof roes.

"Why," said Fonar, "hear we the voice of the king in the season of his rest?Were the dim forms of thy fathers bending in thy dreams? Perhaps they stand on thatcloud, and wait for Fonar's song; often they come to the fields where their sons are tolift the spear. Or shall our voice arise for him who lifts the spear no more; he thatconsumed the field, from Moma of the groves?"

"Not forgot is that cloud in war, bard of other times. High shall his tomb rise,on Moi-lena, the dwelling of renown. But, now, roll back my soul to the times of myfathers: to the years when first they rose, on Inis-huna's waves. Nor alone pleasant toCathmor is the remembrance of wood-covered Lumon. <1> Lumon of the streams, thedwelling of white-bosomed maids."

"Lumon of the streams, thou risest on Fonar's soul! Thy sun is on thy side, onthe rocks of thy bending trees. The dun roe is seen from thy furze; the deer lifts itsbranchy head; for he sees, at times, the hound on the half-covered heath. Slow, on thevale, are the steps of maids; the white-armed daughters of the bow: they lift their blueeyes to the hill, from amidst their wandering locks. Not there is the stride of Larthon,chief of Inis-huna. He mounts the wave on his own dark oak, in Cluba's ridgy bay.That oak which he cut from Lumon, to bound along the sea. The maids turn their eyesaway, lest the king should be lowly laid; for never had they seen a ship, dark rider ofthe wave!

"Now he dares to call the winds, and to mix with the mist of ocean. Blue Inis-fail rose, in smoke; but dark-skirted night came down. The sons of Bolga feared. Thefiery-haired Ton-théna rose. Culbin's bay received the ship, in the bosom of itsechoing woods. There issued a stream from Duthuma's horrid cave; where spiritsgleamed, at times, with their half finished forms.

"Dreams descended on Larthon: he saw seven spirits of his fathers. He heardtheir half-formed words, and dimly beheld the times to come. He beheld the kings ofAtha, the sons of future days. They led their hosts along the field, like ridges of mist,which winds pour in autumn, over Atha of the groves.

Larthon raised the hall of Semla, to the music of the harp. He went forth to theroes of Erin, to their wonted streams. Nor did he forget green-headed Lumon; he oftenbounded over his seas, to where white-handed Flathal looked from the hill of roes.Lumon of the foamy streams, thou risest on Fonar's soul!"

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Mourning pours from the east. The misty heads of the mountains rise. Valleysshow, on every side, the gray winding of the streams. His host heard the shield ofCathmor: at once they rose around; like a crowded sea, when first it feels the wings ofthe wind, The waves know not whither to roll; they lift their troubled heads.

Sad and slow retired Sul-malla to Lona of the streams. She went, and oftenturned; her blue eyes rolled in tears. But when she came to the rock, that darklycovered Lona's vale, she looked, from her bursting soul, on the king; and sunk, atonce, behind.

Son of Alpin, strike the string. Is there aught of joy in the harp? Pour it then onthe soul of Ossian: it is folded in mist. I hear thee, O bard! in my night. But cease thelightly-trembling sound. The joy of grief belongs to Ossian, amidst his dark-brownyears.

Green thorn of the hill of ghosts, that shakest thy head to nightly winds! I hearno sound in thee, is there no spirit's windy skirt now rustling in thy leaves? Often arethe steps of the dead, in the dark-eddying blasts; when the moon, a dun shield, fromthe east is rolled along the sky.

Ullin, Carril, and Ryno, voices of the days of old! Let me hear you, while yetit is dark, to please and awake my soul. I hear you not, ye sons of song; in what hall ofthe clouds is your rest? Do you touch the shadowy harp, robed with morning mist,where the rustling sun comes forth from his green-headed waves?

<1> Lumon: A hill in Inis-huna, near the residence of Sul-malla.


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TEMORA — BOOK VIII

It was the spirit of Cathmor, stalking, large, a gleaming form.

ARGUMENT.

The fourth morning from the opening of the poem comes on Fingal, still continuing inthe place to which he had retired on the preceding sight, is seen, at intervals, throughthe mist which covered the rock of Cormul. The descent of the king is described. Heorders Gaul, Dermid, and Carril the bard, to go to the valley of China, and conductfrom thence the Caledonian army, Ferad-artho, the son of Cairbar, the only personremaining of the family of Conar, the first king of Ireland. The king makes thecommand of the army, and prepares for battle. Marching towards the enemy, hecomes to the cave of Lubar, where the body of Fillan lay. Upon seeing his dog, Bran,who lay at the entrance of the cave, his grief returns. Cathmor arranges the Irish armyin order of battle. The appearance of that hero. The general conflict is described. Theactions of Fingal and Cathmor. A storm. The total rout of the Fir-bolg. The two kingsengage, in a column of mist, on the banks of Lubar, Their attitude and conferenceafter the combat. The death of Cathmor. Fingal resigns the spear of Trenmor to

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Ossian. The ceremonies observed on that occasion. The spirit of Cathmor, in the meantime, appears to Sul-malla, in the valley of Lona. Her sorrow. Evening comes on. Afeast is prepared. The coming of Ferad-artho is announced by the songs of a hundredbards. The poem closes with a speech of Fingal.

As when the wintry winds have seized the waves of the mountain lake, haveseized them in stormy night, and clothed them over with ice; white to the hunter'searly eye, the billows still seem to roll. He turns his ear to the sound of each unequalridge. But each is silent, gleaming, strewn with boughs, and tufts of grass, whichshake and whistle to the wind, over their gray seats of frost. So silent shone to themorning the ridges of Morven's host, as each warrior looked up from his helmettowards the hill of the king; the cloud-covered hill of Fingal, where he strode in thefolds of mist. At times is the hero seen, greatly dim in all his arms. From thought tothought tolled the war, along his mighty soul.

Now is the coming forth of the king. First appeared the sword of Luno; thespear half issuing from a cloud, the shield still dim in mist. But when the stride of theking came abroad, with all his gray dewy locks in the wind; then rose the shouts of hishost over every moving tribe. They gathered, gleaming round, with all their echoingshields. So rise the green seas round a spirit, that comes down from the squally wind.The traveller hears the sound afar, and lifts his head over the rock. He looks on thetroubled bay, and thinks he dimly sees the form. The waves sport, unwieldy, round,with all their backs of foam.

Far distant stood the son of Morni, Duthno's race, and Cona's bard. We stoodfar distant; each beneath his tree. We shunned the eyes of the king: we had notconquered in the field. A little stream rolled at my feet: I touched its light wave, withmy spear. I touched it with my spear: nor there was the soul of Ossian. It darkly rose,from thought to thought, and sent abroad the sigh.

"Son of Morni," said the king, "Dermid, hunter of roes! why are ye dark, liketwo rocks, each with its trickling waters? No wrath gathers on Fingal's soul, againstthe chiefs of men. Ye are my strength in battle; the kindling of my joy in peace. Myearly voice has been a pleasant gale to your years, when Fillan prepared the bow. Theson of Fingal is not here, nor yet the chase of the bounding roes. But why should thebreakers of shields stand, darkened, far way?"

Tall they strode towards the king: they saw him turned to Morn's wind. His,tears came down for his blue-eyed son, no slept in the cave of streams. But hebrightened before them, and spoke to the broad-shielded kings.

"Crommal, with woody rocks, and misty top, the field of winds, pours forth, tothe sight, blue Lubar's streamy roar. Behind it rolls clear-winding Lavath, in the stillvale of deer. A cave is dark in a rock; above it strong-winged eagles dwell; broad-


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headed oaks, before it, sound in Cluna's wind. Within, in his locks of youth, is Ferad-artho, blue-eyed king, the son of broad-shielded Cairbar, from Ullin of the roes. Helistens to the voice of Condan, as gray he bends in feeble light. He listens, for his foesdwell in the echoing halls of Temora. He comes, at times, abroad in the skirts of mist,to pierce the bounding roes. When the sun looks on the field, nor by the rock, norstream, is he! He shuns the race of Bolga, who dwell in his father's hall. Tell him, thatFingal lifts the spear, and that his foes, perhaps, may fail.

"Lift up, O Gaul, the shield before him. Stretch, Dermid, Temora's spear. Bethy voice in his ear, O Carril, with the deeds of his fathers. Lead him to green Moi-lena, to the dusky field of ghosts; for there, I fall forward, in battle, in the folds of war.Before dun night descends, come to high Dunmora's top. Look, from the gray skirts ofmist, on Lena of the streams. If there my standard shall float on wind, over Lubar'sgleaming stream, then has not Fingal failed in the last of his fields."

Such were his words; nor aught replied the silent striding kings. They lookedsidelong on Erin's host, and darkened as they went. Never before had they left theking, in the midst of the stormy field. Behind them, touching at times his harp, thegray-haired Carril moved. He foresaw the fall, of the people, and mournful was thesound! It was like a breeze that comes, by fits, over Lego's reedy lake; when sleep halfdescends on the hunter, within his mossy cave.

"Why bends the bard of Cona," said Fingal, "over his secret stream? Is this atime for sorrow, father of low-laid Oscar? Be the warriors remembered in peace;when echoing shields are heard no more. Bend, then, in grief, over the flood, whereblows the mountain breeze. Let them pass on thy soul, the blue-eyed dwellers of thetomb. But Erin rolls to war; wide tumbling, rough, aid dark. Lift, Ossian, lift theshield. I am alone, my son

As comes the sudden voice of winds to the becalmed ship of Inis-huna, anddrives it large, along the deep, dark rider of the wave; so the voice of Fingal sentOssian, tall along the heath. He lifted high his shining shield, in the dusky wing ofwar; like the broad, blank moon, in the skirt of a cloud, before the storms. arise.

Loud, from moss-covered Mora, poured down, at once, the broad-winged war.Fingal led his people forth, king of Morven of streams. On high spreads the eagle'swing. His gray hair is poured on his shoulders broad. In thunder are his mightystrides. He often stood, and saw, behind, the wide-gleaming rolling of armor. A rockhe seemed, gray over with ice, whose woods are high in wind. Bright streams leaptfrom its head, and spread their foam on blasts.

Now he came to Lubar's cave, where Fillan darkly slept. Bran still lay on thebroken shield: the eagle-wing is strewed by the winds. Bright, from withered furze,looked forth the hero's spear. Then grief stirred the soul of the king, like whirlwindsblackening on a lake. He turned his sudden step, and leaned on his bending spear.

White-breasted Bran came bounding with joy to the known path of Fingal. Hecame, and looked towards the cave, where the blue-eyed hunter lay, for he was wontto stride, with morning, to the dewy bed of the roe. It was then the tears of the kingcame down and all his soul was dark. But as the rising wind rolls away the storm of

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rain, and leaves the white streams to the sun, and high hills with their heads of grass;so the returning war brightened the mind of Fingal. He bounded, on his spear, overLubar, and struck his echoing shield. His ridgy host bend forward, at once, with alltheir pointed steel.

Nor Erin heard, with fear, the sound: wide they come rolling along. DarkMalthos, in the wing of war, looks forward from shaggy brows. Next rose that beamof light, Hidalla! then the sidelong-looking gloom of Maronnan. Blue-shielded Clonarlifts the spear: Cormar shakes his bushy locks on the wind. Slowly, from behind arock, rose the bright form of Atha. First appeared his two-pointed spears, then the halfof his burnished shield: like the rising of a nightly meteor, over the valley of ghosts.But when ha shone all abroad, the hosts plunged, at once, into strife. The gleamingwaves of steel are poured on either side.

As meet two troubled seas, with the rolling of all their waves, when they feelthe wings of contending winds, in the rock-sided firth of Lumon; along the echoinghills in the dim course of ghosts: from the blast fall the torn groves on the deep,amidst the foamy path of whales. So mixed the hosts! Now Fingal; now Cathmorcame abroad. The dark tumbling of death is before them: the gleam of broken steel isrolled on their steps, as, loud, the high-bounding kings hewed down the ridge ofshields.

Maronnan fell, by Fingal, laid large across a stream. The waters gathered byhis side, and leapt gray over his bossy shield. Clonar is pierced by Cathmor; nor yetlay the chief on earth. An oak seized his hair in his fall. His helmet rolled on theground. By its thong, hung his broad shield; over it wandered his streaming blood.Tla-min shall weep, in the hall, and strike her heaving breast. Nor did Ossianforget the spear, in the wing of his war. He strewed the field with dead. YoungHidallan came. "Soft voice of streamy Clonra! why dost thou lift the steel? O that wemet in the strife of song, in thine own rushy vale!" Malthos beheld him low, anddarkened as he rushed along. On either side of a stream, we bent in the echoing strife.Heaven comes rolling down; around burst the voices of squally winds. Hills areclothed, at times, in fire. Thunder rolls in wreaths of mist. In darkness shrunk the foe:Morven's warriors stood aghast. Still I bent over the stream, amidst my whistlinglocks.

Then rose the voice of Fingal, and the sound of the flying foe. I saw the king,at times, in lightning, darkly striding in his might. I struck my echoing shield, andhung forward on the steps of Alnecma; the foe is rolled before me, like a wreath ofsmoke.

The sun looked forth from his cloud. The hundred streams of Moi-lena shone.Slow rose the blue columns of mist, against the glittering hill. Where are the mightykings? Nor by that stream, nor wood, are they! I hear the clang of arms! Their strife isin the bosom of that mist. Such is the contending of spirits in a nightly cloud, whenthey strive for the wintry wings of winds, and the rolling of the foam-covered waves.

I rushed along. The gray mist rose. Tall, gleaming, they stood at Lubar.Cathmor leaned against a rock. His half-fallen shield received the stream, that leapt


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from the moss above. Towards him is the stride of Fingal: he saw the hero's blood.His sword fell slowly to his side. He spoke, amidst his darkening joy.

"Yields the race of Borbar-duthul? Or still does he lift the spear? Not unheardis thy name, at Atha, in the green dwelling of strangers. It has come, like the breeze ofhis desert, to the ear of Fingal. Come o my hill of feasts: the mighty fail, at times. Nofire am I to low-laid foes; I rejoice not over the fall of the brave. To close the woundis mine: I have known the herbs of the hills. I seized their fair heads, on high, as theywaved by their secret streams. Thou art dark and silent, king of Atha of strangers!"

"By Atha of the stream," he said, "there rises a mossy rock. On its head is thewandering of boughs, within the course of winds. Dark, in its face, is a cave, with itsown loud rill. There have I heard the tread of strangers, when they passed to my hallof shells. Joy rose, like a flame, on my soul; I blest the echoing rock. Here be mydwelling, in darkness; in my grassy vale. From this I shall mount the breeze, thatpursues my thistle's beard; or look down on blue-winding Atha, from its wanderingmist."

"Why speaks the king of the tomb? Ossian, the warrior has failed! Joy meetthy soul, like a stream, Cathmor friend of strangers! My son, I hear the call of years;they take my spear as they pass along. Why does not Fingal, they seem to say, restwithin his hall? Dost thou always delight in blood? In the tears of the sad? No; yedark-rolling years, Fingal delights not in blood. Tears are wintry streams that wasteaway my soul. But when I lie down to rest, then comes the mighty voice of war. Itawakes me in my hall and calls forth all my steel. It shall call it forth no more; Ossian,take thou thy father's spear. Lift it, in battle, when the proud arise.

"My fathers, Ossian, trace my steps; my deeds are pleasant to their eyes.Wherever I come forth to battle, on my field, are their columns of mist. But mine armrescued the feeble! the haughty found my rage was fire. Never over the fallen didmine eye rejoice. For this, my fathers shall meet me, at the gates of their airy halls,tall, with robes of light, with mildly-kindled eyes. But to the proud in arms, they aredarkened moons in heaven, which send the fire of night red wandering over their face.

"Father of heroes, Trenmor, dweller of eddying winds, I give thy spear toOssian: let thine eye rejoice. Thee have I seen, at times, bright from between thyclouds; so appear to my son, when he is to lift the spear: then shall he remember thymighty deeds, though thou art now but a blast."

He gave the spear to my hand, and raised at once a stone on high, to speak tofuture times, with its gray head of moss. Beneath he placed a sword in earth, and onebright boss from his shield. Dark in thought awhile he bends: his words at lengthcame forth.

"When thou, O stone, shalt moulder down, and lose thee in the moss of years,then shall the traveller come, and whistling pass away. Thou knowest not, feeble man,that fame once shone on Moi-lena. Here Fingal resigned his spear, after the last of hisfields. Pass away, thou empty shade! in thy voice there is no renown. Thou dwellestby some peaceful stream; yet a few years, and thou art gone. No one remembers thee,

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thou dweller of thick mist! But Fingal shall be clothed with fame, a beam of light toother times; for he went forth, with echoing steel, to save the weak in arms."

Brightening, in his fame, the king strode to Lubar's sounding oak, where itbent, from its rock, over the bright tumbling stream. Beneath it is a narrow plain, andthe sound of the fount of the rock. Here the standard of Morven poured its wreaths onthe wind, to mark the way of Ferad-artho from his secret vale. Bright, from his partedwest, the son of heaven looked abroad. The hero saw his people, and heard theirshouts of joy. In broken ridges round, they glittered to the beam. The king rejoiced, asa hunter in his own green vale, when, after the storm is rolled away, he sees thegleaning sides of the rocks. The green thorn shakes its head in their face; from theirtop look forward the roes.

Gray, at his mossy cave, is bent the aged form of Clonmal. The eyes of thebard had failed. He leaned forward on his staff. Bright in her locks, before him, Sul-malla listened to the tale; the tale of the kings of Atha, in the days of old. The noise ofbattle had ceased in his Sir: he stopt and raised the secret sigh. The spirits of the dead,they said, often lightened along his soul. He saw the king of Atha low, beneath hisbending tree.

"Why art thou dark?" said the maid." The strife of arms is past. Soon shall hecome to thy cave, over thy winding streams. The sun looks from the rocks of the west.The mists of the lake arise. Gray they spread on that hill, the rushy dwelling of roes.From the mist shall my king appear! Behold, he comes in his arms. Come to the caveof Clonmal, O my best beloved!"

It was the spirit of Cathmor, stalking, large, a gleaming form. He sunk by thehollow stream, that roared between the hills. "It was but the hunter," she said," whosearches for the bed of the roe. His steps are not forth to war; his spouse expects himwith night. He shall, whistling, return with the spoils of the dark-brown hinds." Hereyes were turned to the bill; again the stately form came down. She rose in the midstof joy. He retired again in mist. Gradual vanish his limbs of smoke, and mix with themountain wind. Then she knew that he fell! "King of Erin, art thou low!" Let Ossianforget her grief; it wastes the soul of age.

Evening came down on Moi-lena. Gray rolled the streams of the land. Loudcame forth the voice of Fingal: the beam of oaks arose. The people gathered roundwith gladness, with gladness blended with shades. They sidelong looked to the king,and beheld his unfinished joy. Pleasant from the way of the desert, the voice of musiccame. It seemed, at first, the noise of a stream, far distant on its rocks. Slow it rolledalong the hill, like the ruffled wing of a breeze, when it takes the tufted beard of therocks, in the still season of night. It was the voice of Condon, mixed with Carril'strembling harp. They came, with blue-eyed Ferad-artho, to Mora of the streams.

Sudden bursts the song from our bards, on Lena: the host struck their shieldsmidst the sound. Gladness rose brightening on the king, like the beam of a cloudy day,when it rises on the green hill, before the roar of winds. He struck the bossy shield ofkings; at once they cease around. The people lean forward, from their spears, towardsthe voice of their land.


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"Sons of Morven, spread the feast; send the night away in song. Ye have shonearound me, and the dark storm is past. My people are the windy rocks, from which Ispread my eagle wings, when I rush forth to renown, and seize it on its field. Ossian,thou hast the spear of Fingal; it is not the staff of a boy with which he strews thethistles round, young wanderer of the field. No: it is the lance of the mighty, withwhich they stretched forth their hands to death. Look to thy fathers, my son; they areawful beams. With morning lead Ferad-artho forth to the echoing halls of Temora.Remind him of the kings of Erin: the stately forms of old. Let not the fallen be forgot:they were mighty in the field. Let Carril pour his song, that the kings may rejoice intheir mist. To morrow I spread my sails to Selma's shaded walls: where streamy Duth-ula winds through the seats of roes."

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CONLATH AND CUTHONA.

ARGUMENT.

Conlath was the youngest of Morni's sons, and brother to the celebrated Gaul. He wasin love with Cuthona, the daughter of Rumar, when Toscar, the son of Kenfena,accompanied by Fercuth his friend, arrived from Ireland, at Mora, where Conlathdwelt. He was hospitably received, and according to the custom of the times, feastedthree days with Conlath. On the fourth he set sail, and coasting the island of waves,one of the Hebrides, be saw Cuthona hunting, fell in love with her, and carried heraway, by force, in his ship. He was forced, by stress of weather, into I-thona, a desertisle. In the mean time Conlath hearing of the rape, sailed after him, and found him onthe point of sailing for the coast of Ireland. They fought: and they and their followersfell by mutual wounds. Cuthona did not long survive: for she died of grief the thirdday after. Fingal hearing of their unfortunate death, sent Stormal the son of Moran tobury them, but forgot to send a bard to sing the funeral song over their tombs. Theghost of Conlath comes long after to Ossian, to entreat him to transmit to posterity,his and Cuthona's fame. For it was the opinion of the times, that the souls of thedeceased were not happy, till their elegies were composed by a bard.

Did not Ossian hear a voice? or is it the sound of days that are no more? Oftendoes the memory of former times come, like the evening sun, on my soul. The noiseof the chase is renewed. In thought, I lift the spear. But Ossian did hear a voice! Whoart thou, son of night? The children of the feeble are asleep. The midnight wind is inmy hall. Perhaps it is the shield of Fingal that echoes to the blast. It hangs in Ossian'shall. He feels it sometimes with his hands. Yes, I hear thee, my friend! Long has thyvoice been absent from mine ear! What brings thee, on thy cloud, to Ossian, son ofgenerous Morni! Are the friends of the aged near thee? Where is Oscar, son of fame?He was often near thee, O Conlath, when the sound of battle arose.

Ghost of Conlath: Sleeps the sweet voice of Cona, in the midst of his rustlinghall? Sleeps Ossian in his hall, and his friends without their fame? The sea rolls rounddark I-thona. Our tombs are not seen in our isle. How long shall our fame be unheard,son of resounding Selma?

Ossian: O that mine eyes could behold thee! Thou sittest, dim on thy cloud!Art thou like the mist of Lano? An half-extinguished meteor of fire? Of what are theskirts of thy robe? Of what is thine airy bow? He is gone on his blast like the shade ofa wandering cloud. Come from thy wall, O harp! Let me hear thy sound. Let the lightof memory rise on I-thona! Let me behold again my, friends! And Ossian does beholdhis friends, on the dark-blue isle. The cave of Thona appears, with its mossy rocks andbending trees. A stream roars at its mouth. Toscar bends over its course. Fercuth is


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sad by his side. Cuthona sits at a distance and weeps. Does the wind of the wavesdeceive me? Or do I hear them speak?

Toscar: The night was stormy. From their hills the groaning oaks came down.The sea darkly tumbled beneath the blast. The roaring waves climbed against ourrocks. The lightning came often and showed the blasted fern. Fercuth! I saw the ghostwho embroiled the night. Silent he stood, on that bank. His robe of mist flew on thewind. I could behold his tears. An aged man he seemed, and full of thought!

Fercuth: It was thy father, O Toscar. He foresees some death among his race.Such was his appearance on Cromla before the great Maronnan fell. Erin of hills ofgrass! how pleasant are thy vales! Silence is near thy blue streams. The sun is on thyfields. Soft is the sound of the harp in Seláma. Lovely the cry of th hunter on Cromla.But we are in dark I-thona, surrounded by the storm. The billows lift their white headsabove our rocks. We tremble amidst the night.

Toscar: Whither is the soul of battle fled, Fercuth, with locks of age? I haveseen thee undaunted in danger: thine eyes burning with joy in the light. Whither is thesoul of battle fled? Our fathers never feared. Go; view the settling sea: the stormywind is laid. The billows still tremble on the deep. They seem to fear the blast. Go;view the settling sea. Morning is gray on our rocks. The sun will look soon from hiseast; in all his pride of light! I lifted up my sails with joy before the halls of generousConlath. My course was by a desert isle: where Cuthona pursued the deer. I saw her,like that beam of the sun that issues from the cloud. Her hair was on her heavingbreast. She, bending forward, drew the bow. Her white arm seemed, behind her, likethe snow of Cromla. Come to my soul, I said, huntress of the desert isle! But shewastes her time in tears. She thinks of the generous Conlath. Where can I find thypeace, Cuthona, lovely maid?

Cuthona: A distant steep bends over the sea, with aged trees and mossy rocks.The billow rolls at its feet. On its side is the dwelling of roes. The people call it Mora.There the towers of my love arise. There Conlath looks over the sea for his only love.The daughters of the chase returned. He beheld their downcast eyes. "Where is thedaughter of Rumar?" But they answered not. My peace dwells on Mora, son of thedistant land!

Toscar: Cuthona shall return to her peace: to the towers of generous Conlath.He is the friend of Toscar! I have feasted in his halls! Rise, ye gentle breezes of Erin.Stretch my sails towards Mora's shores. Cuthona shall rest on Mora; but the days ofToscar must be sad. I shall sit in my cave in the field of the sun. The blast will rustlein my trees, I shall think it is Cuthona's voice. But she is distant far, in the halls of themighty Conlath!

Cuthona: Ha! what cloud is that? It carries the ghost of my fathers. I see theskirts of their robes, like gray and watery mist. When shall I fall, O Rumar? SadCuthona foresees her death. Will not Conlath behold me, before I enter the narrowhouse?

Ossian: He shall behold thee, O maid! He comes along the heaving sea. Thedeath of Toscar is dark on his spear. A wound is in his side! He is pale at the cave of

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Thona. He shows his ghastly wound. Where art thou with thy tears, Cuthona? Thechief 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 fellbefore his day. Sadness darkened in his hall. His mother looked to his shield on thewall, and it was bloody. She knew that her hero fell. Her sorrow was heard on Mora.Art thou pale on thy rock, Cuthona, beside the fallen chiefs? Night comes, and dayreturns, but none appears to raise their tomb. Thou frightenest the screaming fowlsaway. Thy tears for ever flow. Thou art pale as a watery cloud, that rises from a lake.

The sons of green Selma came. They found Cuthona cold. They raised a tombover the heroes. She rests at the side of Conlath! Come not to my dreams, O Conlath!Thou hast received thy fame. Be thy voice far distant from my hail; that sleep maydescend at night. O that I could forget my friends; till my footsteps should cease to beseen; till I come among them with joy! and lay my aged limbs in the narrow house!


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BERRATHON.

ARGUMENT.

Fingal, in his voyage to Lochlin, whither he had been invited by Starno, the father ofAgandecca, touched at Berrathon an island of Scandinavia, where he was kindlyentertained by Larthmor, the petty king of the place, who was a vassal of the supremekings of Lochlin. The hospitality of Larthmor gained him Fingal's friendship, whichthat hero manifested, after the imprisonment of Larthmor by his own son, by sendingOssian and Toscar, the father of Malvina, so often mentioned, to rescue Larthmor, andto punish the unnatural behavior of Uthal. Uthal was handsome, and, by the ladies,much admired. Nina-thoma, the beautiful daughter of Tor-thoma, a neighboringprince, fell in love and fled with him. He proved inconstant; for another lady, whosename is not mentioned, gaining his affections, he confined Nina-thoma to a desertisland, near the coast of Berrathon. She was relieved by Ossian, who, in companywith Toscar, landing on Berrathon, defeated the forces of Uthal, and killed him insingle combat. Nina-thoma, whose love not all the bad behavior of Uthal could erase,hearing of his death, died of grief. In the mean time Larthmor is restored, and Ossianand Toscar return in triumph to Fingal.

The poem opens with an elegy on the death of Malvina, the daughter ofToscar, and closes with the presages of Ossian's death.

BEND thy blue course, O stream! round the narrow plain of Lutha. Let thegreen woods hang over it, from their hills; the sun look on it at noon. The thistle isthere 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: "Iam covered with the drops of heaven. The time of my fading is near, the blast thatshall scatter my leaves. To-morrow shall the traveller come; he that saw me in mybeauty shall come. His eyes will search the field, but they will not find me." So shallthey search in vain for the voice of Cona, after it has failed in the field. The huntershall come forth in the morning, and thee vote a of my harp shall not be heard."Where is the son of car-borne Fingal?" The tear will be on his cheek! Then comethou, O Malvina! with all thy music, come! Lay Ossian in the plain of Lutha: let histomb rise in the lovely field.

Malvina! where art thou, with thy songs; with the soft sound of thy steps? Sonof Alpin, art thou near? where is the daughter of Toscar? "I passed, O son of Fingal,by Torlutha's mossy walls. The smoke of the hall was ceased. Silence was among thetrees of the hill. The voice of the chase was over. I saw the daughters of the bow. Iasked about Malvina, but they answered not. They turned their faces away: thin

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darkness covered their beauty. They were like stars, on a rainy hill, by night, eachlooking faintly through the mist!"

Pleasant be thy rest, O lovely beam! soon hast thou set on our hills! The stepsof thy departure were stately, like the moon, on the blue-trembling wave. But thouhast left us in darkness, first of the maids of Lutha! We sit, at the rock, and there is novoice; no light but the meteor of fire! Soon hast thou set, O Malvina, daughter ofgenerous Toscar! But thou risest, like the beam of the east, among the spirits of thyfriends, where they sit, in their stormy halls, the chambers of the thunder! A cloudhovers over Cona. Its blue curling sides are high. The winds are beneath it, with theirwings. Within it is the dwelling of Fingal. There the hero sits in darkness. His airyspear 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 round the king, on mist! They hear the songs of Ullin; he strikesthe half-viewless harp. He raises the feeble voice. The lesser heroes, with a thousandmeteors, light the airy hall. Malvina rises in the midst: a blush is on her cheek. Shebeholds the unknown faces of her fathers. She turns aside her humid eyes. "An thoucome so soon," said Fingal, "daughter of generous Toscar! Sadness dwells in the hallsof Lutha. My aged son is sad! I hear the breeze of Cona, that was wont to lift thyheavy locks. It comes to the hall, but thou art not there. Its voice is mournful amongthe arms of thy fathers! Go, with thy rustling wing, O breeze! sigh on Malvina's tomb.It rises yonder beneath the rock, at the blue stream of Lutha. The maids <1> aredeparted to their place. Thou alone, O breeze, mournest there!"

But who comes from the dusky west, supported on a cloud? A smile is on hisgray, watery face. His locks of mist fly on wind. He bends forward on his airy spear.It is thy father, Malvina! "Why shinest thou, so soon, on our clouds," he says, "Olovely light of Lutha? But thou wert sad, my daughter. Thy friends had passed away.The sons of little men were in the hail. None remained of the heroes, but Ossian, kingof spears!"

And dost thou remember Ossian, car-borne Toscar, son of Conloch? Thebattles of our youth were many. Our swords went together to the field. They saw uscoming like two falling rocks. The sons of the stranger fled. "There come the warriorsof Cona!" they said. "Their steps are in the paths of the flying!" Draw near, son ofAlpin, to the song of the aged. The deeds of other times are in my soul. My memorybeams on the days that are past: on the days of mighty Toscar, when our path was inthe deep. Draw near, son of Alpin, to the last sound of the voice of Cona!

The king of Morven commanded. I raised my sails to the wind. Toscar, chiefof Lutha, stood at my side: 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, thestately strength of Larthmor. Larthmor, who spread the feast of shells to Fingal, whenhe went to Starno's halls, in the days of Agandecca. But when the chief was old, thepride of his son arose; the pride of fair-haired Uthal, the love of a thousand maids. Hebound 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 hisdwelling: nor the burning oak by night. But the wind of ocean was there, and the


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parting beam of the moon. The red star looked on the king, when it trembled on thewestern wave. Snitho came to Selma's hall; Snitho, the friend of Larthmor's youth. Hetold of the king of Berrathon: the wrath of Fingal arose. Thrice he assumed the spear,resolved to stretch his hand to Uthal. But the memory of his deeds rose before theking. He sent his son and Toscar. Our joy was great on the rolling sea. We often halfunsheathed our swords. For never before had we fought alone, in battles of the spear.

Night came down on the ocean. The winds departed on their wings. Cold andpale is the moon. The red stars lift their heads on high. Our course is slow along thecoast of Berrathon. The white waves tumble on the rocks. "What voice is that," saidToscar, "which comes between the sounds of the waves? It is soft hut mournful, likethe voice of departed bards. But I behold a maid. She sits on the rock alone. Her headbends on her arms of snow. Her dark hair is in the wind. Hear, son of Fingal, hersong; it is smooth as the gliding stream. We came to the silent bay, and heard the maidof night.

"How long will ye roll round me, blue-tumbling waters of ocean? My dwellingwas not always in caves, nor beneath the whistling tree. The feast was spread in Tor-thoma's hall. My father delighted in my voice. The youths beheld me in the steps ofmy loveliness. They blessed the dark-haired Nina-thoma. It was then thou didst come,O Uthal! like the sun �4 heaven! The souls of the virgins are thine, son of generous Larthmor! But why dost thou leave me alone, in the midst of roaring waters? Was mysoul dark with thy death? Did my while hand lift the sword? Why then hast thou leftme alone, king of high Fin-thormo?"

The tear started from my eye, when I heard the voice of the maid. I stoodbefore her in my arms. I spoke the words of peace! "Lovely dweller of the cave! whatsigh is in thy breast? Shall Ossian lift his sword in thy presence, the destruction of thyfoes? Daughter of Tor-thoma, rise! I have heard the words of thy grief. The race ofMorven are around thee, who never injured the weak. Come to our dark bosomedship, thou brighter than the setting moon! Our course is to the rocky Berrathon, to theechoing walls of Fin-thormo." She came in her beauty; she came with all her lovelysteps. Silent joy brightened in her face; as when the shadows fly from the field ofspring; the blue stream is rolling in brightness, and the green bush bends over itscourse!

The morning rose with its beams. We came to Rothma's bay. A boar rushedfrom the wood: my spear pierced his side, and he fell. I rejoiced over the blood. Iforesaw my growing fame. But now the sound of Uthal's train came, from the highFin-thormo. They spread over the heath to the chase of the boar. Himself comesslowly on, in the pride of his strength. He lifts two pointed spears. On his side is thehero's sword. Three youths carry his polished bows. The bounding of five dogs isbefore him. His heroes move on, at a distance, admiring the steps of the king. Statelywas the son of Larthmor! but his soul was dark! Dark as the troubled face of themoon, when it foretells the storms.

We rose on the heath before the king. He stopped in the midst of his course.His heroes gathered around. A. gray-haired bard advanced. "Whence are the sons ofthe strangers?" began the bard of song. "The children of the unhappy come toBerrathon: to the sword of car-borne Uthal. He spreads no feast in his hall. The blood

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of strangers is on his streams. If from Selma's walls ye come, from the mossy walls ofFingal, choose three youths to go to your king to tell of the fall of his people. Perhapsthe hero may come and pour his blood on Uthal's sword. So shall the fame of Fin-thormo arise; like the growing tree of the vale!"

"Never, will it rise, O bard!" I said, in the pride of my wrath. "He would shrinkfrom the presence of Fingal, whose eyes are the flames of death. The son of Comhalcomes, and kings vanish before him. They are rolled together, like mist, by the breathof 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. Thefoe came on like a stream. The mingled sound of death arose. Man took man; shieldmet shield; steel mixed its beams with steel. Darts hiss through air. Spears ring onmails. Swords on broken bucklers bound. All the noise of an aged grove beneath theroaring wind, when a thousand ghosts break the trees by night, such was the din ofarms! But Uthal fell beneath my sword. The sons of Berrathon fled. It was then I sawhim in 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. Thewinds come from the desert! there is no sound in thy leaves! Lovely art thou in death,son of car-borne Larthmor"

Nina-thoma sat on the shore. She heard the sound of battle. She turned her redeyes on Lethmal, the gray-haired bard of Selma. He alone had remained on the coastwith the daughter of Tor-thoma. "Son of the times of old!" she said, "I hear the noiseof death. Thy friends have met with Uthal, and the chief is low! O that I had remainedon the rock, enclosed with the tumbling waves? Then would my soul be sad, but hisdeath would not reach my ear. Art thou fallen on the heath, O son of high Fin-thormo?Thou didst leave me on a rock, but my soul was full of thee. Son of high Fin-thormo!art thou fallen on thy heath?"

She rose pale in her tears. She saw the bloody shield of Uthal. She saw it inOssian's hand. Her steps were distracted on the heath. She flew. She found him. Shefell. Her soul came forth in a sigh. Her hair is spread on her face. My bursting tearsdescend. A tomb arose on the unhappy. My song of wo was heard. "Rest, haplesschildren of youth! Rest at the noise of that mossy stream! The virgins will see yourtomb, at the chase, and turn away their weeping eyes. Your fame will be in song. Thevoice of the harp will be heard in your praise. The daughters of Selma shall hear it:your renown shall be in other lands. Rest, children of youth, at the noise of the mossystream!"

Two days we remained on the coast. The heroes of Berrathon convened. Webrought Larthmor to his halls. The feast of shells is spread. The joy of the aged wasgreat. He looked to the arms of his fathers; the arms which he left in his hall, when thepride of Uthal rose. We were renowned before Larthmor. He blessed the chiefs ofMorven. He knew not that his son was low, the stately strength of Uthal! They hadtold, that he had retired to the woods, with the tears of grief. They had told it, but hewas silent in the tomb of Rothma's heath.


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On the fourth day we raised our sails, to the roar of the northern wind.Larthmor came to the coast. His bards exalted the song. The joy of the king was great;he looked to Rothma's gloomy heath. He saw the tomb of his son. The memory ofUthal rose. "Who of my heroes," he said, "lies there? he seems to have been of thekings of men. Was he renowned in my halls before the pride of Uthal rose? Ye aresilent, 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 sonhad dwelt in Fin-thormo! I might have heard the tread of his feet, when he went to thechase of the boar. I might have heard his voice on the blast of my cave. Then wouldmy 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 the actions of Toscar, the car-borne son of Conloch. But Toscar is on his flyingcloud. I am alone at Lutha. My voice is like the last sound of the wind, when itforsakes the woods. But Ossian shall not be long alone. He sees the mist that shallreceive his ghost. He beholds the mist that shall form his robe, when he appears on hishills. The Sons of feeble men shall behold me, and admire the stature of the chiefs ofold. They shall creep to their caves. They shall look to the sky with fear: for my stepsshall be in the clouds. Darkness shall roll on my side.

Lead, son of Alpin, lead the aged to his woods. The winds begin to rise. Thedark wave of the lake resounds. Bends there not a tree from Mora with its branchesbare? 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 somepassing ghost? It is the hand of Malvina! Bring me the harp, son of Alpin. Anothersong shall rise. My soul shall depart in the sound. My fathers shall hear it in their airyhail. Their dim faces shall hang, with joy, from their clouds; and their hands receivetheir son. The aged oak bends over the stream. It sighs with all its moss. The witheredfern whistles near, and mixes, as it waves, with Ossian's hair.

"Strike the harp, and raise the song: be near, with all your wings, ye winds.Bear the mournful sound away to Fingal's airy hail. Bear it to Fingal's hall, that hemay hear the voice of his son: the voice of him that praised the mighty!

"The blast of north opens thy gates, O king! I behold thee sitting on mist dimlygleaming in all thine arms. Thy form now is not the terror of the valiant. It is like awatery cloud, when we see the stars behind it with their weeping eyes. Thy shield isthe aged moon: thy sword a vapor half kindled with fire. Dim and feeble is the chiefwho travelled in brightness be fore! But thy steps are on the winds of the desert. Thestorms are darkening in thy hand. Thou takest the sun in thy wrath, and hidest him inthy clouds. The sons of little men are afraid. A thousand showers descend. But whenthou comest forth in thy mildness, the gale of the morning is near thy course. The sunlaughs in his blue fields. The gray stream winds in its vale. The bushes shake theirgreen heads in the wind. The roes bound towards the desert.

"There is a murmur in the heath! the stormy winds abate! I hear the voice ofFingal. 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 have shone for aseason. Our departure was in renown. Though the plains of our battles are dark andsilent; our fame is in the four gray stones. The voice of Ossian has been heard. The

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harp has been strung in Selma. 'Come, Ossian, come away,' he says; 'come, fly withthy fathers on clouds.' I come, I come, thou king of men! The life of Ossian fails. Ibegin to vanish on Cona. My steps are not seen in Selma. Beside the stone of Mora Ishall fall asleep. The winds whistling in my gray hair, shall not awaken me. Depart onthy wings, O wind, thou canst not disturb the rest of the bard. The night is long, buthis eyes are heavy. Depart, thou rustling blast.

"But why art thou sad, son of Fingal? Why grows the cloud of thy soul? Thechiefs of other times are departed. They have gone without their fame. The sons offuture years shall pass away. Another race shall arise. The people are like the wavesof ocean; like the leaves of woody Morven, they pass away in the rustling blast, andother leaves lift their green heads on high.

"Did thy beauty last, O Ryno? Stood the strength of car-borne Oscar! Fingalhimself departed! The hails of his fathers forgot his steps. Shalt thou then remain,thou aged bard? when the mighty have failed? But my fame shall remain, and growlike the oak of Morven; which lifts its broad head to the storm, and rejoices in thecourse of the wind?"

<1> The maids: that is, the young virgins who sung the funeral elegy over her tomb.

THE END

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