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ward in his ftrength. Happy are they who die in youth, when their renown is heard! The feeble will not behold them in the hall; or fmile

day approaches, and calls his bounding dogs. He
afcends the hill, and whiftles on his way. A blast
removes the cloud. He fees the starry plough of
the north. Much of the night is to país.
nods by the mossy rock.

He

Hark! the whirlwind is in the wood! A low murmur in the vale! It is the mighty army of the dead returning from the air.

The moon refts behind the hill. The beam is ftill on that lofty rock. Long are the fhadows of the trees. Now it is dark over all. Night is dreary, filent, and dark; receive me, iny friends, from night.

The CHIEF.

Let clouds reft on the hills, fpirits fly and tra vellers fear. Let the winds of the woods arife, the founding ftoris defcend. Roar ftreams and windows flap, and green-winged meteors fly; rife the pale moon from behind her hills, or inclofe her head in clouds; night is alike to me, blue, ftormy, or gloomy the fky. Night flies

be

file at their trembling hands. Their memory fhall be honoured in the fong; the young tear of the virgin fails. But the aged wither away, by degrees, and the fame of their youth begins

to

before the beam, when it is poured on the hill.
The young day returns from his clouds, but we

return no more.

Where our

Where are our chiefs of old
kings of mighty name? The fields of their batt-
les are filent. Scarce their moffy tombs remain.
We fhall also be forgot. This lofty house shall
fall. Our fons fhall not behold the ruins in
grafs. They fhall afk of the aged, "Where
ftood the walls of our fathers?"

Raife the fong, and ftrike the harp; fend round the fhells of joy. Suspend a hundred tapers on high. Youths and maids, begin the dance. Let fome gray bard be near me, to tell the deeds of other times; of kings renowned in our land, of chiefs we behold no more. Thus let the night pals, until morning fhall, appear in our halls. Then let the bow be at hand, the dogs, the youths of the chace. We fhall afcend the hill with day; and awake the deer.

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to be forgot. They fall in fecret; the figh of their fon is not heard. Joy is around their tomb; and the ftone of their fame is placed without a tear. Happy are they who die in youth, when their renown is around them!

BERRA

BERRATHON:

A

POEM.

1

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