of Cairbar. Cathmor raised the sail at Cluba: but the winds were in other lands. Three days he remained on the coast, and turned his eyes on Conmor's halls. He remembered the daughter of strangers, and his sigh arose. Now when the winds awaked the wave: from the hill came a youth in arms; to lift the sword with Cathmor, in his echoing fields. It was the white-armed Sul-malla. Secret she dwelt beneath her helmet. Her steps were in the path of the king; on him her blue eyes rolled with joy, when he lay by his roaring streams! But Cathmor thought, that, on Lumon, she still pursued the roes. He thought, night, went to the hall where the tribes feasted upon solemn occasions, raised the war-song, and thrice called the spirits of their deceased ancestors to come, on their clouds, to behold the actions of their children. He then fixed the shield of Trenmor, on a tree on the rock of Selma, striking it, at times, with the blunt end of a spear, and singing the war-song between. Thus he did for three successive nights, and, in the mean time, messengers were dispatched to call together the tribes; or, to use an ancient expression, to call them from all their streams. This phrase alludes to the situation of the residence of the clans, which were generally fixed in valleys, where the torrents of the neighbouring mountains were collected into one body, and became large streams, or rivers. the phrase for beginning a war. The lifting up of the shield was This tradition, I believe, is transcribed from some account of the mode of declaring war among the American tribes. that fair on a rock, she stretched her white hand to the wind, to feel its course from Erin, the green dwelling of her love. He had promised to return, with his white-bosomed sails. The maid is near thee, O Cathmor! leaning on her rock. The tall forms of the chiefs stand around; all but dark-browed Foldath. He leaned against a distant tree, rolled into his haughty soul. His bushy hair whistles in wind. At times, bursts the hum of a song. He struck the tree, at length, in wrath; and rushed before the king! Calm and stately, to the beam of the oak, arose the form of young Hidalla. His hair falls round his blushing cheek, in wreaths of waving light. Soft was his voice in Clon-ra, in the valley of his fathers. Soft was his voice when he touched the harp, in the hall, near his roaring streams! "King of Erin," said Hidalla, "now is the time to feast. Bid the voice of bards arise. Bid them roll the night away. The soul returns, from song, more terrible to war. Darkness settles on Erin. From hill to hill bend the skirted clouds. Far and grey, on the heath, the dreadful strides of ghosts are seen the ghosts of those who fell bend forward to their song. Bid, O Cathmor, the harps to rise, to brighten the dead, on their wandering blasts." "Be all the dead forgot," said Foldath's bursting wrath. "Did not I fail in the field! Shall I then hear the song? Yet was not my course harmless in war. Blood was a stream around my. steps. But the feeble were behind me. The foe has escaped from my sword. In Clonra's vale touch thou the harp. Let Dura answer to the voice of Hidalla. Let some maid look, from the wood, on thy long yellow locks. Fly from Lubar's echoing plain. This is the field of heroes!" King of Erin," Malthos said, "it is THINE to lead in war. THOU art a fire to our eyes, on the dark-brown field. Like a blast THOU hast past over hosts. THOU hast laid them low in blood. But who has heard THY words returning from the field? The wrathful delight in death: Their remembrance rests on the wounds of their spear. Strife is folded in THEIR thoughts: THEIR Words are ever heard. Thy course, chief of Moma, was like a troubled stream. The dead were rolled on thy path: but others also lift the 4 spear. We were not feeble behind thee; but the foe was strong." Cathmor beheld the rising rage, and bending forward of either chief: for, half-unsheathed, they held their swords, and rolled their silent eyes. Now would they have mixed in horrid fray, had not the wrath of Cathmor burned 9. He drew his sword: it gleamed through night, to the high-flaming oak! "Sons of pride," said the king, "allay your swelling souls. Retire in night. Why should мY rage arise? Should I contend with both in arms? It is no Retire, ye clouds, at my feast. no more." time for strife! Awake my soul They sunk from the king on either side; like" 9 Now would they have mixed in horrid fray, had not the wrath of Cathmor burned.] Par. Lost, iv. 989. Now dreadful deeds Might have ensued, had not soon The Eternal, to prevent such horrid fray. 10 This comparison is favourable to the superiority of Cathmor over his two chiefs. I shall illustrate this passage with another from a fragment of an ancient poem, just now in my hands. "As the sun is above the vapours, which his beams have raised; so is the soul of the king above the sons of fear. They roll dark below him; he rejoices in the robe of his beams. But when feeble deeds wander on the soul of the king, he is a two columns of morning mist, when the sun rises, between them, on his glittering rocks. Dark is their rolling on either side; each towards its reedy pool! Silent sat the chiefs at the feast. They look, at times, on Atha's king, where he strode, on his rock, amid his settling soul. The host lie along the field. Sleep descends on Moi-lena. The voice of Fonar ascends alone, beneath his distant tree. It ascends in the praise of Cathmor, son of Larthon of Lumon. But Cathmor did not hear his praise. He lay at the roar of a stream. The rustling breeze of night flew over his whistling locks. His brother came to his dreams, half-seen from his low-hung cloud. Joy rose darkly in his face. He had heard the song of Carril ". darkened sun rolled along the sky: the valley is sad below: flowers wither beneath the drops of the night." MACPHERSON. Supra, iii. 23. "Like two columns of morning mist, when the sun rises between them on his glittering rocks." THOMSON's Summer. Now flaming up the heavens, the potent sun Melts into limpid air the high-raised clouds, 11 Carril, the son of Kinfena, by the orders of Ossian, sung the funeral elegy at the tomb of Cairbar. See the second book, |