in the hall. "Art thou fallen, my fair-haired son, in

Erin's dismal war?"

As a roe, pierced in secret, lies panting, by her wonted streams, the hunter looks over her feet of wind, and remembers her stately bounding before, so lay the son of Cul-allin, beneath the eye of Fillan. His hair is rolled in a little stream: his blood wandered on his shield. Still his hand held the sword, that failed him in the day of his danger. "Thou art fallen," said Fillan, " ere yet thy fame was heard. Thy father sent thee to war: and he expects to hear thy deeds. He is grey, perhaps, at his streams, turning his dim eyes towards Moi-lena. But thou shalt not return, with the spoil of the fallen foe."

Fillan poured the flight of Erin before him, over the echoing heath. But, man on man, fell Morven, before the dark-red rage of Foldath; for, far on the field, he poured the roar of half his tribes. Dermid stood before him in wrath: the sons of Cona gather round. But his shield is cleft by Foldath, and his people poured over the heath.

Then said the foe in his pride, "They have fled, and my fame begins. Go, Malthos, and bid the king to guard the dark-rolling of ocean; that Fingal may not escape from my sword. He must lie on earth. Beside some fen shall his tomb be seen. It shall rise without a song. His ghost shall hover in mist over the reedy pool."

Malthos heard, with darkening doubt; he rolled his silent eyes. He knew the pride of Foldath, and looked up to the king on his hill; then, darkly turning, he plunged his sword in war.

In Clono's narrow vale, where bend two trees above the streams, dark in his grief stood Duthno's silent son.

This valley had its name from Clono, son of Lethmal of Lora, one of the ances tors of Derinid, the son of Duthno. His history is thus related in an old poem. In the days of Conar the son of Trenmor, the first king of Ireland, Clono passed over inta that kingdom, from Caledonia, to aid Conar against the Firbolg. Being remarkable for the beauty of his person, he soon drew the attention of Sulain, the young wife c an Irish chief. She disclosed her passion, which was not properly returned by the Caledonian The lady sickened through disappointment, and her love for Clono cant to the ears of her husband. Fired with jealousy, he vowed revenge. Clono, to avo birage, departed from Temora, in order to pass over into Scotland; and being b

The blood poured from his thigh: his shield lay broken near. His spear leaned against a stone. Why, Dermid, why so sad?" I hear the roar of battle. My people are alone. My steps are slow on the heath, and no shield is mine. Shall he then prevail? It is then after Dermid is low! I will call thee forth, O Foldath! and meet thee yet in fight."

He took his spear with dreadful joy. The son of Morni came. 66 Stay, son of Duthno, stay thy speed; thy steps are marked with blood. No bossy shield is thine. Why shouldest thou fall unarmed?" "King of Strumon, give thou thy shield. It has often rolled back I shall stop the chief in his course. Son of Morni, dost thou behold that stone? It lifts its grey head through grass. There dwells a chief of the race of Dermid. Place me there in night."

the war.

He slowly rose against the hill, and saw the troubled field. The gleaming ridges of the fight, disjoined and broken round. As distant fires, on heath by night, now seem as lost in smoke, then 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 are the strides of Foldath, like some dark ship on wintry waves, when it issues from between two isles, to sport on echoing seas.

Dermid, with rage, beheld his course. He strove to rush along. But he failed in the midst of his steps; and the big tear came down. He sounded his father's horn; and thrice struck his bossy shield. He called

nighted in the valley mentioned here, he laid him down to sleep. "There, Lethmal descended in the dreams of Clono: and told him that danger was near."

Ghost of Lethmal. "Arise from thy bed of moss; son of low-laid Lethmal, arise. The sound of the coming of foes descends along the wind.

Clono. Whose voice is that, like many streams, in the season of my rest?

Ghost of Lethmal. Arise, thou dweller of the souls of the lovely; son of Lethmal, arise.

Clono. How dreary is the night! The moon is darkened in the sky; red are the paths of ghosts, along its sullen face! Green-skirted meteors set around. Dull is the roaring of streams, from the valley of dim forms. I hear thee, spirit of my father, on the eddying course of the wind. I hear thee, but thou bendest not forward thy tall form from the skirts of night."

As Clono prepared to depart, the husband of Sulmin came up, with his numerous attendants. Clono defended himself; but, after a gallant resistance, he was overpowered and slain. He was buried in the place where he was killed, and the valley was called after his name. Dermid, in his request to Gaul the son of Morni, which immediately follows this paragraph, alludes to the tomb of Clono, and his own connection with that unfortunate chief.

thrice the name of Foldath from his roaring tribes, Foldath, with joy, beheld the chief: he lifted high his bloody spear. As a rock is marked with streams, that fell troubled down its side in a storm; so streaked with wandering blood is the dark form of Moma. The host, on either side, withdrew, from the contending of kings. They raised, at once, their gleaming points. Rushing came Fillan of Moruth. Three paces back Foldath withdrew; dazzled with that beam of light which came, as issuing from a cloud, to save the wounded hero. Growing in his pride he stood, and called forth all his steel.

As meet two broad-winged eagles, in their sounding strife, on the winds; so rushed the two chiefs, on Moilena, into gloomy fight. By turns are the steps of the kings forward on their rocks; for now the dusky war seems to descend on their swords. Cathmor feels the joy of warriors, on his mossy hill; their joy in secret when dangers rise equal to their souls. His eye is not turned on Lubar, but on Morven's dreadful king; for he beheld him, on Mora, rising in his arms.

Foldath fell on his shield; the spear of Fillan pierced the king. Nor looked the youth on the fallen, but onward rolled the war. The hundred voices of death

i Fingal and Cathmor.

The fall of Foldath, if we may believe tradition, was predicted to him before he had left his own country, to join Cairbar in his designs on the Irish throne. He went to the cave of Moma, to enquire of the spirits of his fathers concerning the success of the enterprise of Cairbar. The responses of oracles are always attended with obscurity, and liable to a double meaning; Foldath, therefore, put a favourable interpretation on the prediction, and pursued his adopted plan of aggrandising himself with the family of Atha. I shall here translate the answer of the ghosts of his ancestors, as it was handed down by tradition. Whether the legend is really ancient, or the invention of a later age, I shall not pretend to determine, though, from the phraseology, I should suspect the last.

FOLDATH, addressing the spirits of his fathers. Dark, I stand in your presence; Fathers of Foldath, hear. Shall my steps pass over Atha, to Ullin of the roes?

THE ANSWER.

Thy steps shall pass over Atha, to the green dwelling of kings. There shall thy stature arise, over the fallen, like a pillar of thunder-clouds. There, terrible in dark. ness, shalt thou stand, till the reflected beam, or Clon-cath of Moruth, come: Moruth, of many streams, that roars in distant lands.

Clon-cath, or reflected beam, say my traditional authors, was the name of the sword of Fillan so that it was in the latent signification of the word Clon-cath, that the deception lay. My principal reason for introducing this note, is, that if this tradition is equally ancient with the poem, which, by the by, is doubtful, it serves to shew that the religion of the Firbolg differed from that of the Caledonians, as we never find the atter enquiring of the spirits of their deceased ancestors.

arose. "Stay, son of Fingal, stay thy speed. Beholdest thou not that gleaming form, a dreadful sign of death? Awaken not the king of Alnecma. Return, son of blue-eyed Clatho."

Malthos' saw Foldath low. He darkly stood above the king. Hatred was rolled from his soul. He seemed a rock in the desart, on whose dark side are the trickling of waters, when the slow-sailing mist has left it, and his trees are blasted with winds. He spoke to the dying hero, about the narrow house. Whether shall thy grey stone rise in Ullin? or in Moma's" woody land, where the sun looks, in secret, on the blue streams of Dal-rutho"? There are the steps of thy daughter, blue-eyed Dardu-lena.

"Rememberest thou her," said Foldath, "because no son is mine; no youth to roll the battle before him, in revenge of me? Malthos, I am revenged. I was not peaceful in the field. Raise the tombs of those I have slain, around my narrow house. Often shall I forsake the blast, to rejoice over their graves; when I behold them spread around, with their long-whistling grass."

His soul rushed to the vales of Moma, and came to Dardu-lena's dreams, where she slept, by Dal-rutho'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 of youth, the love of heroes lay. Dark-bending, from the skirts of the wood, her wounded father came. He appeared at times, then seemed as hid in mist. Bursting into tears she rose: she knew that the chief was

The characters of Foldath and Malthos are well sustained. They were both dark and surly, but each in a different way. Foldath was impetuous and cruel. Malthos stubborn and incredulous. Their attachment to the family of Atha was equal; their bravery in battle the same. Foldath was vain and ostentatious: Malthos unindulgent, but generous. His behaviour here, towards his enemy Foldath, shows, that a good heart often lies concealed under a gloomy and sullen character.

m Moma was the name of a country in the south of Connaught, once famous for for being the residence of an arch-druid. The cave of Moma was thought to be inhabited by the spirits of the chiefs of the Firbolg, and their posterity sent to enquire there, as to an oracle, concerning the issue of their wars.

n Dal-ruath, parched or sandy field. The etymology of Dardu-lena is uncertain. The daughter of Foldath was, probably, so called from a place in Ulster, where her father had defeated part of the adherents of Artho, king of Ireland. Dardu-lena, the dark wood of Moi-lena. As Foldath was proud and ostentatious, is would appear that he had transferred the name of a place, where he himself had been victorious, to his daughter.

low. To her came a beam from his soul when folded in its storms. Thou wert the last of his race, blue-eyed Dardu-lena!

Wide-spreading over echoing Lubar, the flight of Bolga is rolled along. Fillan hung forward on their steps; and strewed with dead the heath. Fingal rejoiced over his son. Blue-shielded Cathmor rose. Son of Alpin, bring the harp: give Fillan's praise to 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 in its course. No further look-it is dark. Light trembling from the harp, strike, virgins, strike the sound. No hunter he descends from the dewy haunt of the bounding roe. He bends not his bow on the wind; or sends his grey arrow abroad.

Deep-folded in red war, the battle rolls against his side. Or, striding midst the ridgy strife, he pours the deaths of thousands forth. Fillan is like a spirit of heaven, that descends from the skirt of his blast. The troubled ocean feels his steps, as he strides from wave to wave. His path kindles behind him; islands shake their heads on the heaving seas.

Those sudden transitions from the subject are not uncommon in the compositions of Ossian. That in this place has a peculiar beauty and propriety. The suspence in which the mind of the reader is left, conveys the idea of Fillan's danger more forcibly home, than any description which the poet could introduce. There is a sort of elo. quence in silence with propriety. A minute detail of the circumstances of an important scene is generally cold and insipid. The human mind, free and fond of thinking for itself, is disgusted to find every thing done by the poet. It is, therefore, his business to mark the most striking outlines, and to allow the imaginations of his readers to finish the figure for themselves.

The book ends in the afternoon of the third day from the opening of the poem.