I RAISED my voice for Fovar-gormo, when they laid the chief in earth. The aged Crothar was there, but his figh was not heard. He fearched yet it was light, on the lake. Is this his broken boat on the fhore? Are these his groans on the wind? Hark! the hail rattles around. The flaky fnow defcends, The tops of the hills are white. The ftormy winds abate. Various is the night and cold; receive me, my friends, from night. FOURTH BARD. Night is calm and fair; blue, ftarry, fettled is night. The winds, with the clouds, are gone. They fink behind the hill. The moon is up on the mountain. Trees glifter: ftreams shine on the rock. Bright rolls the fettled lake; bright the ftream of the vale. I fee the trees overturned; the fhocks of corn on the plain. The wakeful hind rebuilds the fhocks, and whistles on the diftant field. Calm, fettled, fair is night! Who comes from the place of the dead? That form with the robe of fnow; white arms and dark-brown hair! It is the daughter of the chief of the people: fhe that lately fell! Come, let us view thee, O maid! thou that haft been the delight of heroes! The blaft drives the phantom away; white, without form, it afcends the hill. The breezes drive the blue mift, flowly over the narrow vale. It rifes on the hill, and joins its head to heaven. Night is fettled, calm, blue, flarry, bright with the moon. Receive me not, my friends, for lovely is the night. FITH BARD. Night is calm, but dreary. The moon is in a cloud in the weft. Slow moves that pale beam along the fhaded hill. The diftant wave is heard The torrent murmurs on the rock. The cock is heard from the booth. More than half the night fearched for the wound of his fon, and found it in his breaft. Joy rofe in the face of the aged. is paft. The houfe-wife, groping in the gloom, rekindles the fettled fire. The hunter thinks that day approaches, and calls his bounding dogs. He afcends the hill and whiftles on his way. A blast removes the cloud. He fees the ftarry plough of the north. Much of the night is to pafs. He nods by the moffy rock. 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 shadows of the trees. Now it is dark over all. Night is dreary, filent, and dark; receive me, my friends, from night. The CHIEF. Let clouds reft on the hills: fpirits fly and travellers fear. Let the winds of the woods arife, the founding ftorms defcend. Roar ftreams and windows flap, and green winged meteors fly; rife the pale moon from behind her hills, or inclose her head in clouds; night is alike to me, blue, ftormy, or gloomy the fky. Night flies before the beam, when it is poured on the hill. The young day returns from his clouds, but we return no more. Where are our chiefs of old? Where our kings of mighty name? The fields of their battles are filent. Scarce their moffy tombs remain. We shall also be forgot. This lofty house fhall fall. Our fons fhall not behold the ruins in grafs. They fhall afk of the aged," Where stood the walls of our fathers?" Raise the fong, and ftrike the harp; fend round the shells of joy. Sufpend 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 pafs until morning fhall appear in our halls, Then let the bow be at hand, the dogs, the youths of the chace. We shall afcend the hill with day; and awake the deer. He 66 King of He came and spoke to Offian. fpears!" he faid, " my fon has not fallen without his fame. The young warrior did not fly; but met death, as he went forward in his strength. Happy are they who die in youth, when their renown is heard! The feeble will not behold them in the hall; or fmile at their trembling hands. Their memory fhall be honoured in fong; the young tear of the virgin will fall. But the aged wither away, by degrees, the fame of their youth, while yet they live is all forgot. They fall in fecret. The figh of their fon is not heard. Joy is around their tomb; the tone of their fame is placed without a tear. Happy are they who die in youth, when their renown is around them. |