Nina-thoma fat on the fhore, and heard the found of battle. She turned her red eyes on Lethmal, the gray-haired bard of Selma! for he had remained on the coaft, with the daughter of Torthóma. Son of the times of old! fhe faid, I hear the noife of death. Thy friends have met with Uthal, and the chief is low! O that I had remained on the rock, inclofed with the tumbling waves! Then would my foul be fad, but his death would not reach my ear. Art thou fallen on thy heath, o fon of high Finthormo! thou didst leave me on a rock, but my foul was full of thee. Son of high Finthormo! art thou fallen on thy heath?

She rofe pale in her tears, and saw the bloody fhield of Uthal; fhe faw it in Offian's hand; her fteps were distracted on the heath. She flew; fhe found him; the fell. Her foul came forth in a figh. Her hair is fpread on his face. My bursting tears defcend. A tomb arofe on the unhappy; and my fong was heard.

Reft, hapless children of youth! at the noife of that moffy ftream. The virgins will fee your tomb, at the chace, and turn away their weeping eyes. Your fame will be in the fong; the voice of the harp will be heard in

your

your praife. The daughters of Selma fhall hear it; and your renown fhall be in other lands. Reft, children of youth, at the noife of

the moffy ftream.

Two days we remained on the coaft. The heroes of Berrathon convened. We brought Larthmor to his halls; the feaft of fhells was fpread. The joy of the aged was great; he looked to the arms of his fathers; the arms which he left in his hall, when the pride of Uthal arofe. We were renowned before Larthmor, and he bleffed the chiefs of Morven; but he knew not, that his fon was low, the ftately ftrength of Uthal. They had told, that he had retired to the woods, with the tears of grief; they had told it, but he was filent in the tomb of Rothma's heath.

On the fourth day we raifed our fails to the roar of the northern wind. Larthmor came to the coaft, and his bards raised the fong. The joy of the king was great, he looked to Rothma's gloomy heath; he faw the tomb of his fon; and the memory of Uthal rofe. Who of my heroes, he faid, lies there? he feems to have been of the kings of fpears. Was he renowned in my halls, before the pride of Uthal rofe?

Ye

Ye are filent, ye fons of Berrathon; is the

king of heroes low?

My heart melts for

thee, o Uthal; though thy hand was againft O that I had remained in the

thy father.
cave! that my fon had dwelt in Finthormo!

I might have heard the tread of his feet, when
he went to the chace of the boar.
I might
have heard his voice on the blaft of my cave.
Then would my foul be glad: but now dark-
nefs dwells in my halls.

Such were my deeds, fon of Alpin, when the arm of my youth was ftrong; fuch were *) the actions of Tofcar, the car-borne fon of Conloch. But Tofcar is on his flying cloud; and I am alone at Lutha: my voice is like the laft found of the wind, when it forfakes the woods. But Offian fhall no be long alone, he fees the mift, that fhall receive his ghoft. He beholds the mift, that fhall form his robe, when he appears on his hills. The fons of little men fhall behold me, and admire the ftature of the chiefs of old. They fhall creep to their caves, and look to the fky with fear; for my fteps fhall be in the clouds, and darkness fhall roll on my fide.

*) Offian speaks.

Lead,

Lead, fon of Alpin, lead the aged to his woods. The winds begin to rife. The dark wave of the lake refounds. Bends there not a tree from Mora with its branches bare? It bends, fon of Alpin, in the ruftling blaft. My harp hangs on a blafted branch. The found of its ftrings is mournful. Does the wind touch

thee, o harp, or is it fome paffing ghoft?
It is the hand of Malvina! but bring me the
harp, fon of Alpin; another fong fhall rife.
My foul fhall depart in the found; my fathers
fhall hear it in their airy hall.

Their

dim faces fhall hang, with joy, from their clouds; and their hands receive their fon.

*) The aged oak bends over the ftream. It fighs with all its mofs. The withered fern whiftles near, and mixes, as it waves, with Offian's hair. Strike the harp and raife the fong be near, with all your wings, ye winds. Bear the mournful found away to Fingal's airy hall. Bear it to Fingal's hall, that

he

*) Here begins the lyric piece, with which, tradi-
tion fays, Offian concluded his poems.

It

is fet to mufic, and ftill fung in the north, with
a great deal of wild fimplicity, but little variety
of found.

he may hear the voice of his fon; the voice of him that praised the mighty. The blaft of the north opens thy gates, o king, and I behold thee fitting on mift, dimly gleaming in all thine arms. Thy form now is not the terror of the valiant: but like a watery cloud; when we fee the ftars behind it with their

weeping eyes. Thy fhield is like the aged moon: thy fword a vapour half- kindled with fire. Dim and feeble is the chief, who travelled in brightness before."

But thy fteps *) are on the winds of the defart, and the ftorms darken in thy hand. Thou

*) This magnificent defcription of the power of Fingal over the winds and storms, and the image of his taking the fun, and hiding him in the clouds, do not correfpond with the preceding paragraph, where he is represented as a feeble ghoft, and no more the TERROR OF THE VALIANT; but it agrees with the notion of the tiines concerning the fouls of the deceased, who, it was supposed, had the command of the winds and ftorms, but in combat were not a match for valiant men.