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fon of Nuäth, with a thoufand of thy heroes? Why doft thou not defcend with thy hoft, before the warriors fly? Their blue arms are beaming to the rifing light, and their steps are before us on the heath.

Son of the feeble hand, faid Lathmon, fhall my hoft defcend? They *) are but two, fon

is not eafily ascertained, at this diftance of time. A river in Scotland, which falls into the fea at Banff, ftill retains the name of Duvran. If that is meant, by Offsian, in this paffage, Lathinon must have been a prince of the Pictish nation, or those Caledonians who inhabited of old the eastern coast of Scotland.

*) Offian feldom fails to give his heroes, though enemies, that generofity of temper, which, it appears from his poems, was a conspicuous part of his own character. Thofe who too much defpife their enemies, do not reflect, that, the mo re they take from the valour of their foes, the lefs merit they have themfelves in conquering them. The cuftom of depreciating enemies is not altogether one of the refinements of modern heroifm. This railing dispofition is one of the capital faults in Homer's characters, which, by

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fon of Dutha, and fhall a thousand lift their fteel? Nuäth would mourn, in his hall, for the departure of is fame. His eyes would turn from Lahmon, when the tread of his feet ap proached. Go thou to the heroes, chief of Dutha; for I behold the stately fteps of Offian. His fame is worthy of my steel; let him fight with Lathmon,

The noble Sulmath came. I rejoiced in the words of the king. I raised the fhield on my arm; and Gaul placed in my hand the fword of Morni. We returned to the murmuring ftream; Lathmon came in his ftrength. His dark hoft rolled, like the clouds, behind him; but the fon of Nuäth was bright in his steel.

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Son of Fingal, faid the hero, thy fame has grown on our fall. How many lie there of my people by thy hand, thou king of men! Lift now thy fpear against Lathion; and lay the fon of Nuäth low. Lay him low among

his

the bye, cannot be imputed to the poet, who kept to the manners of the times, of which he wrote. Milton has followed Homer in this retpect; but railing is lefs fhocking in infernal fpirits, who are the objects of horror, than in heroes, who are fet up as patterns of imitation

his people, or thou thyself muft fall. It fhall never be told in my halls, that my warriors fell in my prefence; that they fell in the prefence of Lathmon, when his fword refted by his fide; the blue eyes of Cutha *) would roll in tears, and her steps be lonely in the vales of Dunlathmon.

Neither shall it be told, I replied, that the fon of Fingal fled. Were his steps covered with darkness, yet would not Offian fly; his foul would meet him and fay, "Does the bard of Selma fear the foe?" No, he does not fear the foe. His joy is in the midft of battle.

Lathmon came on with his fpear, and pierced the fhield of Offian. I felt the cold fteel at my fide; and drew the fword of Morni: I cut the fpear in fell glittering on the ground. The fon of Nuäth burnt in his wrath, and lifted high his founding fhield. His dark eyes rolled above it, as bending forward, it fhone like a gate of brass. But Offian's spear pierced the bright

twain; the bright point

nefs

*) Cutha appears to have been Lathmon's wife or

miftrefs.

i

nefs of its boffes, and funk in a tree that rofe behind. The fhield hung on the quivering lance: but Lathmon ftill advanced. Gaul forefaw

the fail of the chief, and ftretched his buckler before my fword; when it defcended, in a ftream of light, over the king of Dunlathmon.

Lathmon beheld the fon of Morni, and the tear started from his eye. He threw the fword of his fathers on the ground, and fpoke the words of the valiant. Why fhould Lathmon fight against the first of mortal men? Your fouls are beams from heaven; your fwords the flames of death. Who can equal the renown of the heroes, whofe actions are fo great in youth! O that ye were in the halls of Nuäth, in the green dwelling of Lathmon! then would my father fay, that his fon did not yield to the feeble. But who comes, a mighty ftream, along the ecchoing heath? the little hills are troubled be. fore him, and a thoufand fpirits are on the beams of his fteel; the Spirits *) of thofe who are to fall by the arm of the king of refounding Morven. Happy art thou, o Fingal,

thy

* It was thought, in Offian's time, that each perfon had his attending fpirit. The traditions con cerning this opinion are dark and unfatisfactory.

thy fons fhall fight thy battles; they go forth before thee; and they return with the steps of

renown.

Fingal came, in his mildness, rejoicing in fecret over the actions of his fon. Morni's face brightened with gladness, and his aged eyes looked faintly through the tears of joy, We came to the halls of Selma, and fat round the feast of fhells. The maids of the fong came into our prefence, and the mildly blushing Evirallin. Her dark hair fpread on her neck of fnow; her eye rolled in fecret on Offian; fhe touched the harp of mufic, and we bleffed the daughter of Branno,

Fingal rofe in his place, and spoke to Dunlathmon's battling king. The fword of Trenmor trembled by his fide, as he lifted up his mighty arm. Son of Nuäth, he faid, why doft thou fearch for fame in Morven? We are not of the race of the feeble; nor do our fwords gleam over the weak. When did we come to Dunlathmon, with the found of war? Fingal does not delight in battle, though his arm is ftrong. My renown grows on the fall of the haughty. The lightning of my fteel pours on the proud in arms. The battle co

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