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on Morven, and the danger of red-haired Cairbar. Cathmor raised the sail at Cluba; but the winds were in other lands. Three days he remained on the coast, and turned his eyes on Con-mor's halls. He remembered the daughter of strangers, and his sigh arose. Now when the winds awaked the wave; from the hill came a youth in arms, to lift the sword with Cathmor in his echoing field. It was the white-armed Sul-malla: secret she dwelt beneath her helmet. Her steps were in the path of the king; on him her blue eyes rolled with joy, when he lay by his roaring streams. (But Cathmor thought, that on Lumon, she still pursued the roe or fair on a rock, stretched her white hand to the wind; to feel its course from Inis-fail the green dwelling of her love. He had promised to return, with his white-bosomed sails. The maid is near thee, king of Atha, leaning on her rock.

The tall forms of the chiefs stood around: all but dark-browed Foldath'. He stood beneath a distant tree, rolled into his haughty soul. His bushy hair whistles in 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 form of young Hidalla. His hair falls round his blushing cheek, in wreaths of waving light. Soft was his voice in Clon-ra, in the valley of his fathers; when he touched the harp, in the hall, near his roaring

streams.

"King of Erin," said the youth, "now is the time of feasts. Bid the voice of bards arise, and roll the night away. The soul returns, from song, more terrible to war. Darkness settles on Inis-fail: from hill to hill bend the skirted clouds. Far and grey, on the

which were generally fixed in valleys, where the torrents of the neighbouring moun tains were collected into one body, and became large streams or rivers. The lifting up of the shield, was the phrase for beginning a war.

The surly attitude of Foldath is a proper preamble to his after behaviour. Chaffed with the disappointment of the victory which he promised himself, he becomes passionate and overbearing. The quarrel which succeeds between him and Malthos, was, no doubt, introduced by the poet, to raise the character of Cathmor, whose superior worth shines forth, in his manly manner of ending the difference between the

chiefs.

p Claon-rath, winding field.' The th are seldom pronounced audibly in the Gaelie language.

heath, the dreadful strides of ghosts are seen the ghosts of those who fell, bend forward to their song. Bid thou the harps to rise, and brighten the dead on their wandering blasts."

"Be all the dead forgot," said Foldath's bursting wrath. "Did not I fall in the field, and shall I hear the song? Yet was not my course harmless in battle blood was a stream round my steps. But the feeble were behind me, and the foe has escaped my sword."

In Clon-ra's vale touch thou the harp; let Dura answer to thy voice; while some maid looks, from the wood, on thy long yellow locks. Fly from Lubar's echoing plain; it is the field of heroes."

"King of Temora," Malthos said, "it is thine to lead in war. Thou art a fire to our eyes on the darkbrown field. Like a blast thou hast passed over hosts, and laid them low in blood; but who has heard thy words returning from the field? The wrathful delight in death; their remembrance rests on the wounds of their spear. Strife is 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 the spear. We were not feeble behind thee, but the foe was strong."

The king beheld the rising rage, and bending forward of either chief: for half-unsheathed they held their swords, and rolled their silent eyes. Now would they have mixed in horrid fray, had not the wrath of Cathmor burned. He drew his sword: it gleamed through night, to the high flaming oak. "Sons of pride," said the king," allay your swelling souls. Retire in night. Why should my rage arise? Should I contend with both in arms? It is no time for strife.

Retire, ye clouds at my feast. Awake my soul no

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They sunk from the king on either side; like two

7 This speech of Malthos is, throughout, a severe reprimand to the blustering bes haviour of Foldath.

The poet could scarce find, in all nature, a comparison so favourable as this, to the superiority of Cathmor over his two chiefs. I shall illustrate this passage with anc ther from a fragment of an ancient poem, just now in my hands. "As the sun is ab

columns of morning mist, when the sun rises, between them, on his glittering rocks. Dark is their rolling on either side; each towards its reedy pool.

Silent sat the chiefs at the feast. They looked, at times, on Atha's king, where he strode, on his rock, amidst his settling soul. The host lay, at length, on the field sleep descended on Moi-lena. The voice of Fonar rose alone, beneath his distant tree. It rose in the 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 whistling locks.

Cairbar came to his dreams, half seen from his lowhung cloud. Joy rose darkly in his face: he had heard the song of Carril. A blast sustained his darkskirted cloud; which he seized in the bosom of night, as he rose, with his fame towards his airy halls. Halfmixed with the noise of the stream, he poured his feeble words.

"Joy met the soul of Cathmor: his voice was heard on Moi-lena. The bard gave his song to Cairbar? he travels on the wind. My form is in my father's hall, like the gliding of a terrible light, which winds through the desart, in a stormy night. No bard shall be want

the vapours, which his beams have raised; so is the soul of the king above the sons of fear. They roll dark below him, he rejoices in the robe of his beams. But when fee. ble deeds wander on the soul of the king, he is a darkened son rolled along the sky; the valley is sad below: flowers wither beneath the drops of the night."

Lear-thon, sea wave.' The name of the chief of that colony of the Firbolg, which first migrated into Ireland. Larthon's first settlement in that country, is re lated in the seventh book. He was the ancestor of Cathmor; and is here called Larthon of Lumon, from a high hill of that name in Inis-huna, the ancient seat of the Firbolg The poet preserves the character of Cathmor throughout. He had mentioned, in the first book, the aversion of that chief to praise, and we find him bere lying at the side of a stream, that the noise of it might drown the voice of Fonar, who, according to the custom of the times, sung his eulogium in his evening song. Though other chiefs, as well as Cathmor, might be averse to hear their own praise, we find it to be the univer sal policy of the times, to allow the bards to be as extravagant as they pleased in their encomiums on the leaders of armies, in the presence of their people. The vulgar, who had no great ability to judge for themselves, received the character of their princes entirely upon the faith of the bards.

Carril, the son of Kinfena, by the order of Ossian, sung the funeral elegy at the tomb of Cairbar. See the second book, towards the end. In all the poems of Ossian, the visits of ghosts to their living friends, are short, and their language obscure; both which circumstances tend to throw a solemn gloom on those supernatural scenes. Towards the latter,end of the speech of the ghost of Cairbar, he foretels the death of Cath mor, by enumerating those signals which, according to the opinion of the times, pr eded the death of a person renowned. It was thought that the ghosts of deceased bards sung, for three nights preceding the death (near the place where his tomb was to e raised), round an unsubstantial figure which represented the body of the person who as to die.

ing at thy tomb, when thou art lowly laid. The sons of song love the valiant. Cathmor, thy name is a pleasant gale. The mournful sounds arise! On Lubar's field there is a voice! Louder still, ye shadowy ghosts! the dead were full of fame. Shrilly swells the feeble sound. The rougher blast alone is heard! Ah, soon is Cathmor low!" Rolled into himself he flew, wide on the bosom of his blast. The old oak felt his departure, and shook its whistling head. The king started from rest, and took his deathful spear. He lifts his eyes around. He sees but dark-skirted night.

is

"It" was the voice of the king; but now his form gone. Unmarked is your path in the air, ye children of the night. Often, like a reflected beam, are ye seen in the desart 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 like the dreams of our rest, or the lightwinged thought that flies across the soul. Shall Cathmor 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 thought away! I rush forth, on eagle's wings, to seize my beam of fame. In the lonely vale of streams, abides the little" soul. Years roll on, seasons return, but he is still unknown. In a blast comes cloudy death, and lays his grey head low. His ghost is rolled on the

The soliloquy of Cathmor abounds with that magnanimity and love of fame which constitute the hero. Though staggered at first with the predictions of Cairbar's ghost, he soon comforts himself with the agreeable prospect of his future renown: and, like Achilles, prefers a short and glorious life, to an obscure length of years in retirement and ease.

From this passage we may learn in what extreme contempt an indolent and unwarlike life was held in those days of heroism. Whatever a philosopher may say in praise of quiet and retirement, I am far from thinking, but they weaken and debase the human mind. When the faculties of the soul are not exerted, they lose their vigour, and low and circumscribed notions take the place of noble and enlarged ideas. Action, on the contrary, and the vicissitudes of fortune which attend it, call forth, by turns, all the powers of the mind, and, by exercising, strengthen them. Hence it is, that in great and opulent states, when property and indolence are secured to individuals, we seldom meet with that strength of mind which is so common in a nation not far advanced in civilization. It is a curious, but just observation, that great kingdoms seldom produce great characters, which must be altogether attributed to that indolence and dissipation, which are the inseparable companions of too much property and security. Rome, it is certain, had more real great men within it, when its power was confined within the narrow bounds of Latium, than when its dominion extended over all the known world: and one petty state of the Saxon heptarchy had, perhaps, as much genuine spirit in it, as the two British kingdoms united. As a state, we are much more powerful than our ancestors, but we would lose by comparing individuals with

them.

vapour of the fenny field. Its course is never on hills, or mossy vales of wind. So shall not Cathmor depart. No boy in the field was he, who only marks the bed of roes upon the echoing hills. My issuing forth was with kings, and my joy in dreadful plains; where broken hosts are rolled away, like seas before the wind."

So spoke the king of Alnecma, brightning in his rising soul: valour, like a pleasant flame, is gleaming within his breast. Stately is his stride on the heath: the beam of the east is poured around. He saw his grey host on the field, wide-spreading their ridges in light. He rejoiced like a spirit of heaven, whose steps come forth on his seas, when he beholds them peaceful round, and all the winds are laid. But soon he awakes the waves, and rolls them large to some echoing coast.

On the rushy bank of a stream, slept the daughter of Inis-huna. The helmet had fallen from her head. Her dreams were in the land of her fathers. There morning was on the field: grey streams leapt down from the rocks; the breezes, in shadowy waves, fly over the rushy fields. There is the sound that prepares for the chase; and the moving of warriors from the hall. But tall above the rest is the hero of streamy Atha: he bends his eye of love on Sul-malla. From his stately steps, she turns, with pride, her face away, and careless bends the bow.

Such were the dreams of the maid when Atha's warrior came. He saw her fair face before him, in the midst of her wandering locks. He knew the maid of Lumon. What should Cathmor do? His sigh arose: his tears came down. But straight he turned away. "This is no time, king of Atha, to wake thy secret soul. The battle is rolled before thee, like a troubled stream."

He struck that warning boss", wherein dwelt the voice of war. Erin rose around him, like the sound

In order to understand this passage, it is necessary to look to the description of Cathmor's shield which the poet has given us in the seventh book. This shield had seven principal bosses, the sound of each of which, conveyed a particular order from the king to his tribus. The sound of one of them, as here, was the signal for the army

to assemble.

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