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in the midst. Their souls rose with ardour around. The king alone no gladness shewed; no stranger he to war!

- Why is the king so sad?” said Malthos eagleeyed. “Remains there a foe at Lubar? Lives there among them, who can lift the spear? Not so peaceful was thy father, Borbar-duthul,* king of spears. His rage was a fire that always burned: his joy over fallen foes was great. Three days feasted the greyhaired hero, when he heard that Calmar fell: Calmar, who aided the race of Ullin, from Lara of the streams. Often did he feel, with his hands, the steel which, they said, had pierced his foe. He felt it with his hands, for Borbar-duthul's eyes had failed. Yet was the king a sun to his friends; a gale to lift their branches round. Joy was around him in his halls: he loved the sons of Bolga. His name remains in

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* Borbar-duthul, the father of Cathmor, was the brother of that Col-ulla, who is said, in the beginning of the fourth book, to have rebelled against Cormac king of Ireland. Borbar-duthul seems to have retained all the prejudice of his family against the succession of the posterity of Conar, on the Irish throne. From this short episode we learn some facts which tend to throw light on the history of the times. It appears that, when Swaran invaded Ireland, he was only opposed by the Caël, who possessed Ulster, and the north of that island. Calmar, the son of Matha, whose gallant behaviour and death are related in the third book of Fingal, was the only chief of the race of the Fire bolg, that joined the Caël, or Irish Caledonians, during the invasion of Swaran. The indecent joy, which Borbar-duthul expressed, upon the death of Calmar, is well suited with that spirit of revenge, which subsisted, universally, in every country where the feudal system was established. It would appear that sume person had carried to Borbar-duthul that weapon, with which, it was pretended, Calmar had been killed.

Atha, like the awful memory of ghosts, whose presence was terrible, but they blew the storm away. Now let the voices * of Erin raise the soul of the king ; he that shone when war was dark, and laid the mighty low. Fonar, from that grey-browed rock, pour the tale of other times : pour it on wide-skirted Erin, 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, far remove the sound of Erin's song. I rejoice not over the foe, when he ceases to lift the spear. With morning we pour our strength abroad. Fingal is wakened on his echoing hill."

Like waves, blown back by sudden winds, Erin retired, at the voice of the king. Deep-rolled into the field of night, they spread their humming tribes. Beneath his own tree, at intervals, each + bard sat down with his harp. They raised the song, and

* The voices of Erin, a poetical expression for the bards of Ireland.

t Not only the kings, but every petty chief had anciently their bards attending them in the field ; and those bards, in proportion to the power of the chiefs, who retained them, had a number of inferior bards in their train. Upon solemn occa. sions, all the bards, in the army, would join in one chorus; either when they celebrated their victories, or lamented the death of a person, worthy and renowned, slain in the war. The words were of the composition of the arch-bard, retained by the king himself who generally attained to that high office on account of his superior genius for poetry. As the persons of the bards were sacred, and the emoluments of their office con. siderable, the order, in succeeding times, became very numerous and insolent. It would appear, that, after the introduc

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touched the string : each to the chief he loved. Before a burning oak Sul-malla touched, at times, the harp. She touched the harp, and heard, between, the breezes in her hair. In darkness near, lay the king of Atha, beneath an aged tree. The beam of the oak was turned from him; he saw the maid, but was not seen. His soul poured forth, in secret, 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 soul was up'; she longed, in secret, to pour her own sad song. The field is silent. On their wings, the blasts of night retire. The bards had ceased; and meteors came, red-winding with their ghosts. The sky drew dark : tlie forms of the dead were blended with the clouds. But heedless bends the daughter of Conmor, over the decaying flame. Thou wert alone in her soul, car-borne chief of Atha. She raised the voice of the song, and touched the harp between.

tion of Christianity, some served in the double capacity of bards and clergymen. It was, from this circumstance, that they had the name of Chlére, which is, probably, derived from the Latin Clericus. The Chlére, be their name derived from what it will, became, at last, a public nuisance; for, taking advantage of their sacred character, they went about, in great bodies, and lived, at discretion, in the houses of the chiefs; till another party, of the same order, drove them away by mere dint of satire. Some of the indelicate disputes of these worthy poetical combatants are handed down, by tradition, and shew how much the bards, at last, abused the privileges, which the ada miration of their countrymen had conferred on the order. It was this insolent behaviour that induced the chiefs to retrench their number, and to take away those privileges which they were no longer worthy to enjoy. Their indolence, and dispo. sition to lampoon, extinguished all the poetical fervour, which distinguished their predecessors, and makes us the less regret the extinction of the order.


“Clun-galo* 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 grassy Lumon ; near the bed of roes ? Ah me! I behold her bow in the hall. Where art thou, beam of light ?” .“ Cease, t love of Conmor, cease; I hear thee not on the ridgy heath. My eye is turned to the king, whose path is terrible in war. He for whom my soul is up, in the season 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 over me flies the shadowy mist. Filled with dew are my locks : look thou from thy cloud, O sun of Sul-malla's soul!” * * * * * * * *

* 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.

of Sul-malla replies to the supposed questions of her mother. Towards the middle of this paragraph she calls Cathmor the sun of her soul, and continues the metaphor throughout. This book ends, we may suppose, about the middle of the third night, from the opening of the poem.

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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
Fir-bolg in Ireland, under their leader Larthon. Morning
comes. Sul-malla retires to the valley of Lona. A lyric song
concludes the book.

Book Seventh. 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 thro' its folds. With this, clothe the spirits of old their sudden gestures on the wind, when they stride, from

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