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As rushes a stream of fuam from the dark shady dorp of Cromla; when the thunder is travelling abure, and dark-brown night sits on half the hill. Through the breaches of the tempest look forth the dim faces of ghosts. So fierce, so vast, so terrible rushed on the sons of Erin. The chief like a whale of ocean, whom all his billows pursue, poured valour forth, as a stream, rolling his might along the shore. The sons of Lochlin heard the noise, as the sound of a winter-storm. Swaran struck his bossy shield: he called the son of Arno, What murmur rolls along the hill, like the gathered flies of the eve? The sons of Erin descend, or rustling winds roar in the distant wood! Such is the noise of Gormal, before the white tops of my waves arise. O son of Arno, ascend the hill; view the dark face of the heath!

He went. He, trembling, swift returned. His eyes rolled wildly round. His heart beat high against his side. His words were faultering, broken, slow. “ Arise, son of ocean, arise, chief of the darkbrown shields ! I see the dark, the mountain-stream of battle! The deep-moving strength of the sons of Erin! The car, the car of war comes on, like the lame of death ! the rapid car of Cuthullin, the noble on of Semo! It bends behind like a wave near a

replenished with spears; the bottom is the foot-stool of heroes! Before the right side of the car is seen the snorting horse ! The high-maned, broad-breasted, proud, wide-leaping, strong steed of the hill. Loud and resounding is his hoof; the spreading of his mane above is like a stream of smoke on a ridge of rocks. Bright are the sides of the steed! his name is Sulin-Sifadda!”

“ Before the left side of the car is seen the snorting horse! The thin-maned, high-headed, stronghoofed, fleet, bounding son of the hill : his name is Dusronnal, among the stormy sons of the sword ! A thousand thongs bind the car on high. Hard polished bits shine in a wreath of foam. Thin thongs, bright-studded with gems, bend on the stately necks of the steeds. The steeds that like wreaths of mist fly over the streamy vales ! The wildness of deer is in their course, the strength of eagles descending on the prey. Their noise is like the blast of winter, on the sides of the snow-headed Gormal.

Within the car is seen the chief; the strong-armed son of the sword. The hero's name is Cuthullin, son of Semo king of shells. His red cheek is like my polished yew. The look of his blue-rolling eye is wide, beneath the dark arch of his brow. . His hair flies from his head like a flame, as bending forward he wields the spear. Fly, king of ocean, fly! He comes, like a storm, along the streamy vale !

" When did I fly?” replied the king: “ When

ock; like the sun-streaked mist of the heath. Its des are embossed with stones, and sparkle like the a round the boat of night. Of polished yew is its zım ; its seat of the smoothest bone. The sides are

fled Swaran from the battle of spears ? When did I shrink from danger, chief of the little soul? I met the storm of Gormal, when the foam of my waves beat high. I met the storm of the clouds; shall Swaran fly from a hero? Were Fingal himself before me, my soul should not darken with fear. Arise to battle, my thousands ! pour round me like the echoing main. Gather round the bright steel of your king; strong as the rocks of my land ; that meet the storm with joy, and stretch their dark pines to the wind !"

Like autumn's dark storms, pouring from two echoing hills, toward each other approached the heroes. Like two deep streams from high rocks meeting, mixing, roaring on the plain ; loud, rough and dark in battle meet Lochlín and Inis-fail. Chief mixes his strokes with chief, and man with man ; steel, clanging, sounds on steel. Helmets are cleft on high. Blood bursts and smokes around. Strings murmur on the polished yews. Darts rush along the sky. Spears fall like the circles of light, which gild the face of night. As the noise of the troubled ocean, when roll the waves on high. As the last peal of thunder in heaven, such is the din of war ! Though Cormac's hundred bards were there, to give the fight to song ; feeble was the voice of a hundred bards to send the deaths to future times! For many were the deaths of heroes; wide poured the blood of the brave !

fled Swaran from the battle of spears? When did I shrink from danger, chief of the little soul? I met the storm of Gormal, when the foam of my waves beat high. I met the storm of the clouds; shall Swaran fly from a hero? Were Fingal himself before me, my soul should not darken with fear. Arise to battle, my thousands ! pour round me like the echoing main. Gather round the bright steel of your king; strong as the rocks of my land; that meet the storm with joy, and stretch their dark pines to the wind !"

Like autumn's dark storms, pouring from two echoing bills, toward each other approached the herocs. Like two deep streams from high rocks meeting, mixing, roaring on the plain ; loud, rough and dark in battle meet Lochlin and Inis-fail. Chief mixes liis strokes with chief, and man with man; steel, clanging, sounds on steel. Helmets are cleft on high. Blood bursts and smokes around. Strings murmur on the polished yews. Darts rush along the sky. Spears fall like the circles of light, which gild the face of night. As the noise of the troubled ocean, when roll the waves on high. As the last peal of hunder in heaven, such is the din of war! Though Cormac's hundred bards were there, to give the fight -) song ; feeble was the voice of a hundred bards to nd the deaths to future times! For many were the

Mourn, ye sons of song, mourn the death of the noble Sithallin.* Let the sighs of Fiöna rise, on the lone plains of her lovely Ardan. They fell, like two hinds of the desert, by the hands of the mighty Swaran; when, in the midst of thousands, he roared; like the shrill spirit of a storm. He sits dim, on the clouds of the north, and enjoys the death of the mariner. Nor slept thy hand by thy side, chief of the isle of mist !t 'many were the deaths of thine arm, Cuthullin, thou son of Semo! His sword was like the beam of heaven when it pierces the sons of the vale; when the people are blasted and fall, and all the hills are burning around. Dusronnal ţ snorted over the bodies of heroes. Sifadda || bathed his hoof in blood. The battle lay behind them, as groves overturned on the desert of Cromla; when the blast has passed the heath, laden with the spirits of night!

Weep on the rocks of roaring winds, O maid of Inistore !ş Bend thy fair head over the waves, thou

* Sithallin signifies a handsome man; Fiöna, a fair maid; and Ardan, pride.

+ The Isle of Sky; not improperly called the isle of mist, as its high hills, which catch the clouds from the western ocean, occasion almost continual rains.

I One of Cuthullin's horses. Dubhstron gheal. || Sith-fadda, i. e. a long stride.

The maid of Inistore was the daughter of Gorlo king of Inistore or Orkney islands. Trenar was brother to the king of Iniscon, supposed to be one of the islands of Shetland. The Orkneys and Shetland were at that time subject to the king of Lochlin. We find that the dogs of Trenar are sensible at home

It of the death of their master, the very instant he is killed.

VOL. II.

aths of heroes; wide poured the blood of the

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lovelier than the ghost of the hills; when it moves, in a sun-beam, at noon, over the silence of Morven! He is fallen! thy youth is low ! pale beneath the sword of Cuthullin ! No more shall valour raise thy love to match the blood of kings. Trenar, graceful Trenar died, O maid of Inistore! His grey dogs are howling at home; they see his passing ghost. His bow is in the hall unstrung. No sound is in the hill of his hinds!

As roll a thousand waves to the rocks, so Swaran's host came on. As meets a rock a thousand waves, so Erin met Swaran of spears. Death raises all his voices around, and mixes with the sounds of shields. Each hero is a pillar of darkness; the sword a beam of fire, in his hand. The field echoes from wing to wing, as a hundred hammers that rise, by turns, on the red son of the furnace. Who are these on Lena's heath, these so gloomy and dark? Who are these like two clouds and their swords like lightning above them? The little hills are troubled around; the rocks trembla with all their moss. Who is it but Ocean's son and the car-borne chief of Erin ? Many are the anxious eyes of their friends, as they see them dim on the heath. . But night conceals the chiefs in clouds, and ends the dreadful fight !

was the opinion of the times, that the souls of heroes went immediately after death to the hills of their country, and the scenes they frequented the most happy time of their life. It was thought too that dogs and horses saw the ghosts of the deceased,

lovelier than the ghost of the hills ; when it moves, in a sun-beam, at noon, over the silence of Morven! He is fallen ! thy youth is low! pale beneath the sword of Cuthullin ! No more shall valour raise thy love to match the blood of kings. Trenar, graceful Trenar died, O maid of Inistore! His grey dogs are howling at home; they see his passing ghost. His bow is in the hall unstrung. No sound is in the hill of his hinds!

As roll a thousand waves to the rocks, so Swaran's host came on. As meets a rock a thousand waves, so Erin met Swaran of spears. Death raises all his voices around, and mixes with the sounds of shields. Each hero is a pillar of darkness; the sword a beam of fire, in his hand. The field echoes from wing to wing, as a hundred hammers that rise, by turns, on the red son of the furnace. Who are these on Lena's heath, these so gloomy and dark? Who are these like two clouds and their swords like lightning above them? The little hills are troubled around; the rocks trembla with all their moss. Who is it but Ocean's son and the car-borne chief of Erin ? Many are the anxious "yes of their friends, as they see them dim on the Heath. But night conceals the chief, in clouds, and nds the dreadful fight !

It was on Cromla's shaggy side that Dorglas had placed the deer ;* the early fortune of the chace, before the heroes left the hill. A hundred youths collect the heath; . ten warriors wake the fire ; three hundred chuse the polish'd stones. The feast is smoaking wide ! Cuthullin, chief of Erin's war, resumed his mighty soul. He stood upon his beamy spear, and spoke to the son of songs; to Carril of other times, the grey-haired son of Kinfena.t « Is this feast spread for me alone and the king of Lochlin on Erin's shore ; far from the deer of his hills, and sounding halls of his feasts ? Rise, Carril of other times; carry my words to Swaran. Tell him from the roaring of waters, that Cuthullin gives his feast. Here let him listen to the sound of my groves, amidst the clouds of night. For cold and bleak the blustering winds rush over the foam of his seas. Here let him praise the trembling harp, and hear the songs of heroes!”

Old Carril went, with softest voice. He called the king of dark-brown shields ! “Rise from the skins of thy chace, rise, Swaran king of groves !

* The ancient manner of preparing feasts after hunting, is handed down by tradition. A pit lined with smooth stones was made; and near it stood a heap of smooth flat stones of the flint kind. The stones as well as the pit were properly heated with heath. Then they laid some venison in the bottom, and a tum of the stones above it; and thus they did alternately till the pit was full. The whole was covered over with heath to confine the steam. Whether this is probable I cannot say ; but some pits are shewn, which the vulgar say, were used in that manner.

+ Cean-feana, i.e. the head of the people.

as the opinion of the times, that the souls of heroes went im. ediately after death to the hills of their country, and the scenes sy frequented the most happy time of their life. It was pught 100 that dogs and horses saw the ghosts of the desed,

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