"Sons of the mighty," he said, "ye bring back the days of old, when first I descended from waves, on Selma's streamy vale. I pursued Duth-mocarglos, dweller of ocean's wind. Our fathers had been foes,

we met by Clutha's winding waters. He fled along the sea, and my sails were spread behind him. Night deceived me on the deep. I came to the dwelling of kings, to Selma of high-bosomed maids. Fingal came forth with his bards, and Conloch, arm of death. I feasted three days in the hall, and saw the blue eyes of Erin, Ros-crana, daughter of heroes, light of Cormac's race. Nor forgot did my steps depart: the kings gave their shields to Car-ul: they hang, on high, in Colamon, in memory of the past. Son of the daring kings, ye bring back the days of old."

Car-ul placed the oak of feasts. He took two bosses from our shields. He laid them 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 this stone, 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 with the harp arose the voice of white-armed Colna-dona. Toscar darkened! in his place, before 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 waved.

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

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

"By Col-amon of streams," said the youth, "bright Colna-dona dwelt. She dwelt; but her course is now in desarts, with the son of the king; he that seized her soul as it wandered through the hall."

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Stranger of tales," said Toscar, "hast thou mark. ed the warrior's course? He must fall; give thou that bossy shield! In wrath he took the shield. Fair behind it heaved the breast of a maid, white as the bosom of a swan, rising on swift-rolling waves. It was Colna-dona of harps, the daughter of the king, her blue eyes had rolled on Toscar, and her love arose.”

T

A POEM.

Introduction.

One of the fragments of Ancient Poetry lately published, gives a different account of the death of Oscar the son of Ossian. The translator, though he well knew the more probable traditions concerning that hero, was unwilling to reject a poem, which, if not really of Ossian's composition, has much of his manner, and concise turn of erpression. A more correct copy of that fragment, which has since come into the translator's hands, has enabled him to correct the mistake, into which a similarity of naines had led those who handed down the poem by tradition. The heroes of the piece are Oscar the son of Caruth, and Dermid the son of Diaran. Ossian, or perhaps his imitator, opens the poem with a lamentation for Oscar, and afterwards, by an easy transition, relates the story of Oscar the son of Caruth, who seems to have borne the same character, as well as name, with Oscar the son of Ossian. Though the translator thinks he has good reason to reject the fragment as the composition of Ossian, yet as it is, after all, still somewhat doubtful whether it is or not, he has subjoined it.

WHY openest thou afresh the spring of my grief, O son of Alpin, inquiring how Oscar fell? My eyes are blind with tears; but memory beams on my heart. How can I relate the mournful death of the head of the people! Chief of the warriors, Oscar, my son, shall I see thee no more!

He fell as the moon in a storm; as the sun from the midst of his course, when clouds rise from the waste of the waves, when the blackness of the storm inwraps the rocks of Ardannider. 1, like an ancient oak on Morven, moulder alone in my place. The blast hath lopped my branches away: and I tremble at the wings of the north. Chief of the warriors, Oscar, my son! shall I see thee no more?

But, son of Alpin, the hero fell not harmless as the grass of the field; the blood of the mighty was on his sword, and he travelled with death through the ranks of their pride. But Oscar, thou son of Caruth, thou hast fallen low! No enemy fell by thy hand. Tay spear was stained with the blood of thy friend.

Dermid and Oscar were one: they reaped the battle gether. Their friendship was strong as their steel; nd death walked between them to the field. They ame on the foe like two rocks falling from the brows f Ardven. Their swords were stained with the blood f the valiant: warriors fainted at their names. Who as equal to Oscar, but Dermid? and who to Dermid, ut Oscar?

They killed mighty Dargo in the field; Dargo who ever fled in war. His daughter was fair as the morn; hild as the beam of night. Her eyes, like two stars na shower; her breath the gale of spring: her breasts s the new fallen snow, floating on the moving heath. The warriors saw her, and loved; their souls were fixd on the maid. Each loved her as his fame; each must possess her or die. But her soul was fixed on Oscar; the son of Caruth was the youth of her love. She orgot the blood of her father; and loved the hand that lew him.

Son of Caruth, said Dermid, I love; O Oscar, I ove this maid. But her soul cleaveth unto thee; and nothing can heal Dermid. Here, pierce this bosom, Oscar, relieve me, my friend, with thy sword.

My sword, son of Diaran, shall never be stained with he blood of Dermid.

Who then is worthy to slay me, O Oscar, son of Caruth? Let not my life pass away unknown. Let none but Oscar slay me. Send me with honour to the grave, and let my death be renowned.

Dermid, make use of thy sword; son of Diaran wield thy steel. Would that I fell with thee! that my death came from the hand of Dermid !

They fought by the brook of the mountain, by the streams of Branno. Blood tinged the running water, and curdled round the mossy stones. The stately Dermid fell; he fell, and smiled in death.

And fallest thou, son of Diaran, fallest thou by Oscar's hand! Dermid who never yielded in war, thus do I see thee fall! He went, and returned to the maid of his love; he returned, but she perceived his grief.

Why that gloom, son of Caruth? what shades thy mighty soul!

Thou once renowned for the bow, O maid, I have lost my fame. Fixed on a tree, by the brook of the hill, is the shield of the valiant Gormur, whom I slew in battle. I have wasted the day in vain, nor could my arrow pierce it.

Let me try, son of Caruth, the skill of Dargo's daughter. My hands were taught the bow: my father delighted in my skill.

She went. He stood behind the shield. Her arrow flew, and pierced his breast.

Blessed be that hand of snow; and blessed that bow of yew! Who but the daughter of Dargo was worthy to slay the son of Caruth? Lay me in the earth, my fair one; lay me by the side of Dermid.

Oscar! the maid replied, I have the soul of the mighty Dargo. Well pleased I can meet death. My sorrow I can end. She pierced her white bosom with the steel. She fell; she trembled; and died.

By the brook of the hill their graves are laid; a birch's unequal shade covers their tomb. Often on their green earthen tombs, the branchy sons of the mountain feed, when mid-day is all in flames, and silence over all the hills.

FINIS