It was in the days of the king, while yet my locks were young, that I marked Concathlin **), on high, from ocean's nightly wave. My courfe was towards the ifle of Fuärfed, woody dweller of feas. Fingal had fent me to the aid of Mal-orchol, king of Fuärfed wild:

*) Fingal.

1

What ftar

**Con-cathlin, mild beam of the wave. Forwas fo called of old, is not eafily ascertained. Some now diftinguish the pole - ftar by that na

me.

A fong, which is ftill in repute, among the

fea faring part of the Highlanders, alludes to

this paffage of Offian.

The author commends the knowledge of Offian in fea - affairs, a merit, which, perhaps, few of us moderns will allow him, or any in the age in which he lived.

ין

One thing is certain, that the Caledonians often VR made their way thro' the dangerous and tempeftuous feas of Scandinavia; which is more, perhaps, than the more polifhed nations, fubfitting in thofe times, dared to venture. In eftimating the degree of knowledge of arts among the autients, we ought not to bring it into comparison with the improvements of modern times. Our advantages over them proceed more from accident, than merit of ours.

',

any

wild: for war was around him, and our fathers had met, at the feaft.'

In Col-coiled, I bound my fails, and sent my fword to Mal-orchol of fhells. He knew the fignal of Albin, and his joy arofe. He came from his own high hall, and feized my hand in grief. "Why comes the race of heroes to a falling king? Ton-thormod of many spears is the chief of wavy Sar drónko. He faw and loved my daughter, white-bofomed Oina-mórul. He fought, I denied the maid: for our fathers had been foes. He came, with battle,

to Fuärfed. My people, are rolled away. Why comes the race of heroes to a falling king?"

I come not, I faid, to look, like a boy on the ftrife. Fingal remembers Mal-orchol, and his hall for ftrangers. From his waves, the warrior defcended, on thy woody ifle. Thou wert no cloud before him. Thy feaft was fpread with fongs. For this my fword fhall rife; and thy foes perhaps may fail. friends are not forgot in their danger, tho' diftant is our land.

Our

Son of the daring Trenmor, thy words are like the voice of Cruth-loda, when he fpeaks,

from his parting cloud, ftrong dweller of the fky! Many have rejoiced at my feaft; but they all have forgot Mal- orchol. I have looked towards all the winds, but no white fails were feen. But fteel refounds in my hall; and not the joyful fhells. Come to my

*

dwell

*) There is a fevere fatire couched in this expreffion,
against the guests of Mal-orchol. Had his feaft
been ftill spread, had joy continued in his hall,
his former parafites would not have failed to re.
fort to him. But as the time of festivity was
paft, their attendance alfo ceafed. The fenti-
ments of a certain old bard are agreeable to this
obfervation. He, poetically, compares a great
man to a fire kindled in a defart place. "Tho-
fe that pay court to him, fays he, are rolling
large around him, like the finoke about the fi
*re. This finoke gives the fire a great appearan
ce at a diftance, buc it is but an empty vapour
itself, and varying its form at every breeze.
When the trunk, which fep the fire, is confum-
ed, the fmoke departs on all the winds. So the
flatterers for fake their chief, when his power
declines." I have chofen to give a paraphrafe,
rather than a translation, of this paffage; as the
original is verbofe and forthy, notwithstanding
of the fentimental merit of the author.
He was one of the lefs antient bards, and their
compo-

dwelling, race of heroes; dark skirted night is near. Hear the voice of fongs, from the maid of Fuärfed wild.

We went. On the harp arose the white hands of Oina - mórul. She waked her own fad tale, from every trembling ftring. I ftood in filence; for bright in her locks was the daughter of many ifles. Her eyes were like two stars, looking forward thro' a rufhing fhower. The mariner marks them on high, and bleffes the lovely beams. With morning we rushed to battle, to Tormul's refounding ftream; the foe moved to the found of Ton-thormod's boffy fhield. From wing to wing the ftrife was mixed. I met the chief of Sar-drónlo. Wide flew his broken steel. I feized the king in fight. I gave his hand, bound fast with thongs, to Malorchol, the giver of fhells. Joy rofe at the feaft of Fuärfed, for the foe had failed..

Ton-thormod turned his face away, from Oina. morul of ifles.

Son of Fingal, begun Mal-orchol, not forgot fhalt thou pafs from me. A light fhall

dwell

compofitions are not nervous enough to bear a literal translation.

1

dwell in thy fhip. Oina - mórul of flow-rolling eyes. She shall kindle gladnefs, along thy mighty foul. Nor unheeded fhall the maid move in Selma, thro' the dwelling of kings.

In the hall I lay in night. Mine eyes were half-clofed in fleep. Soft mufic' came to mine ear it was like the rifing breeze, that whirls, at first, the thiftle's beard; then flies, dark-fhadowy, over the grafs. It was the maid of Fuarfed wild: The 'raffed the nightly fong; for the knew that my foul was a ftream, that flowed at pleafant founds.

Who looks, fhe faid, from his rock, on ocean's clofing mift? His long locks, like the raven's wing, are wandering on the blaft. Stately are his fteps in grief. The tears are in his eyes. His manly breaft is heaving over his burfing foul. Retire, I am diftant far; a wanderer in lands unknown. Tho' the race of kings are around me, yet my foul is dark.

Why have our fathers been foes, Ton

thormod love of maids!

Soft voice of the ftreamy ifle, why doft thou mourn by night? the race of daring Trenmor are not the dark in foul. Thou fhalt not

wander,