The 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, and was the usual residence of the souls of the dead, during the interval between their decease. and the funeral song. The appearance of the ghost of Fillan above the cave where his body lay. His voice comes to Fingal, on the rock of Cormul. The king strikes the 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; he resolves to continue the war. He directs her to retire to the neighbouring valley of Lona, which was the residence of an old druid, until the battle of the next day should be 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 Firbolg in Ireland, under their leader Larthon. Morning comes. Sul-malla retires to the valley of Lona, A lyric song concludes the book.

BOOK VII.

FROM the wood-skirted waters of Lego, ascend, at times, grey-bosomed mists, when the gates of the west are closed on the sun's eagle-eye. Wide, over Lara's stream, is poured the vapour dark and deep: the moon, like a dim shield, is swimming through 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 face of the night. Often blended with the gale, to some warrior's grave they roll the mist, a grey dwelling to his ghost, until the songs arise.

d

Á sound came from the desart! the rushing course of Conar in winds. He poured his deep mist on Fillan, at blue-winding Lubar. Dark and mournful sat the ghost, bending in his grey ridge of smoke. The blast, at times, rolled him together: but the lovely form re

d As the mist which rose from the lake of Lego, occassioned diseases and death, the bards feigned, as here, that it was the residence of the ghosts of the deceased, during the interval between their death and the pronouncing of the funeral elegy over their tombs; for it was not allowable, without that ceremony was performed, for the spirits of the dead to mix with their ancestors, in their airy halls. It was the business of the spirit of the nearest relation to the deceased, to take the mist of Lego, and pour it over the grave. We find here Conar, the son of Trenmor, the first king of Ireland, according to Ossian, performing this office for Fillan, as it was in the cause of the family of Conar, that that hero was killed.

turned again. It returned with slow-bending eyes, and dark-winding of locks of mist.

e

It was dark. The sleeping host were still, in the skirts of night. The flame decayed on the hill of Fingal; the king lay lonely on his shield. His eyes were half-closed in sleep; the voice of Fillan came. Sleeps the husband of Clatho? Dwells the father of the fallen in rest? Am I forgot in the folds of darkness; lonely in the season of dreams ?"

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Why art thou in the midst of my dreams?" said Fingal; as sudden he rose. "Can I forget thee, my son, or thy path of fire in the field? Not such, on the soul of the king, come the deeds of the mighty in arms. They are not there a beam of lightning, which is seen, and is then 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: his shield that hung high on night, the dismal sign of war? Ghosts fled on every side, and rolled their gathered forms on the wind. Thrice from the winding vale arose the voices of death. The harps of the bards, untouched, sound mournful over the hill.

f

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 descend to war. Backward-looking armies fly; and mighty deeds are halfhid in the bright gleams of steel.

The night-descriptions of Ossian were in high repute among succeeding bards. One of them delivered a sentiment, in a distich more favourable to his taste for poetry, than to his gallantry towards the ladies. I shall here give a translation of it.

"More pleasant to me is the night of Cona, dark-streaming from Ossian's harp : more pleasant is it to me, than a white-bosomed dweller between my arms: than a fair-handed daughter of heroes, in the hour of rest."

Though tradition is not very satisfactory concerning the history of this poet, it has taken care to inform us that he was very old when he wrote the distich. He lived (in what age, is uncertain) in one of the western isles, and his name was Turloch Ciab glas, or Turlock of the grey locks.

f It was the opinion of the times, that on the night preceding the death of a person worthy and renowned, the harps of those bards, who were retained by his family, emitted melancholy sounds. This was attributed, to use Ossian's expression, to the light touch of ghosts; who were supposed to have foreknowledge of events. The same opinion prevailed long in the north, and the particular sound was called, the warning voice of the dead. The voice of deaths mentioned in the preceding sentence, was of a different kind. Each person was supposed to have an attendant spirit, who assumed Las form and voice, on the night preceding his death, and appeared to some, in the at ade in which the person was to die. The voices of death were the foreboding shrieks those spirits.

But when the third sound arose, deer started from the clefts of their rocks. The screams of fowl are heard, in the desart, as each flew, frighted, on his blast. The sons of Albion 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 and still.

No sleep was thine in darkness, blue-eyed daughter of Con-mor! Sul-malla heard the dreadful shield, and rose amidst the night. Her steps are towards the king of Atha. "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 his locks that rose to nightly wind. Away for fear, she turned her steps. "Why should the king of Erin awake? Thou art not a dream to his rest, daughter of Inis-huna."

More dreadful rung the shield, Sul-malla starts. Her helmet falls. Loud echoed Lubar's rock, as over it rolled the steel. Bursting from the dreams of night, Cathmor half-rose beneath his tree. He saw the form of the maid, above him, on the rock. A red star with twinkling beam looked down through her floating

hair.

"Who comes through night to Cathmor, in the dark season of his dreams? Bringest thou ought of war? Who art thou, son of night? Standest thou before me, a form of the times of old? a voice from the fold of a cloud, to warn me of Erin's danger?

"Nor traveller of night am I, nor voice from folded cloud: but I warn thee of the danger of Erin. Dost thou hear that sound? It is not the feeble, king of Atha, that rolls his signs on night."

"Let the warrior roll his signs; to Cathmor they are the sound of harps. My joy is great, voice of night, and burns over all my thoughts. This is the music of kings, on lonely hills by night: when they light thei

daring souls, the sons of mighty deeds! the feeble dwell alone, in the valley of the breeze; where mists lift their morning skirts, from the blue-winding streams."

"Not feeble, thou leader of heroes, were they, the fathers of my race. They dwelt in the darkness of battle in their distant lands. Yet delights not my soul in the signs of death! He who never yields, comes forth: Awake the bard of peace!"

Like a rock with its trickling waters, stood Cathmor in his tears. Her voice came, a breeze on his soul, and waked the memory of her land; where she dwelt by her peaceful streams, before he came to the war of Con-mor.

Daughter of strangers," he said; (she trembling turned away) long have I marked in her armour, the young pine of Inis-huna. But my soul, I said, is folded in a storm. Why should that beam arise, till my steps return in peace ? have I been pale in thy presence, when thou bidst me to fear the king? The time of danger, O maid, is the season of my soul; for then it swells a mighty stream, and rolls me on the foe.

b

"Beneath the moss-covered rock of Lona, near his own winding stream: grey in his locks of age, dwells Clonmal king of harps. Above him is his echoing oak, and the dun-bounding of roes. The noise of our strife reaches his ear, as he bends in the thoughts 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 dwelling of my love."

A light fell on the soul of the maid; it rose kindled before the king. She turned her face to Cathmor: her locks are struggling with winds. "Sooner shall the

Fingal is said to have never been overcome in battle. From this proceeded that title of nonour which is always bestowed on him in tradition, Fion-ghal na buai,' Fingal of Victories.' In a poem, just now in my hands, which celebrates some of the great actions of Arthur the famous British hero, that appellation is often bestowed on him. The poem, from the phraseology, appears to be ancient: and is, perhaps, though that is not mentioned, a translation from the Welsh language.

Claon-mal, crooked eye-brow.' From the retired life of this person, it appears, that he was of the order of the druids; which supposition is not, at all, invalidated the appellation of king of harps,' here bestowed on him; for all agree that the bards f the number of the druids originally.

eagle of heaven be torn from the streams of his roaring wind, when he sees the dun prey before him, the young sons of the bounding roe, than thou, O Cathmor, be turned from the strife of renown. Soon may I see thee, warrior, from the skirts of the evening mist, when it is rolled around me, on Lona of the streams. While yet thou are distant far, strike, Cathmor, strike the shield, that joy may return to my darkened soul, as I lean on the mossy rock. But if thou should fall-I am in the land of strangers; O send thy voice, from thy cloud, to the maid 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 hail to me; they have often bounded from my shield. I have risen brightened from battle, like a meteor from a stormy cloud. Return not, fair beam, from thy vale, when the roar of battle grows. Then might the foe escape, as from my fathers of old.

They told to Son-mor', of Clunar, slain by Cormac the giver of shells. Three days darkened Sonmor, over his brother's fall. His spouse beheld the silent king, and foresaw his steps to war. She prepared the bow in secret, to attend her blue-shielded hero. To her dwelt darkness at Atha, when the warrior moved to his fields. From their hundred streams by night, poured down the sons of Aluecma. They had heard the shield of the king, and their rage arose. In clanging arms, they moved along, towards Ullin the land of groves. 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 the mountain, when they crossed the vale below. Her steps were stately on the vale, when they rose on the mossy hill. She feared to approach the king, who left her in Atha of hinds, But

i Son-mor, tall handsome man.' He was the father of Borbar-duthul, chief of Atha, and grandfather to Cathmor himself.

Cluan-er, man of the field.' This chief was killed in battle by Cormac Mac Conar, king of Ireland, the father of Ros-crana, the first wife of Fingal. The story is alluded to in other poems.

Sail-alluin, beautiful eye,' the wife of Son-mor.