Thy foul is an unextinguished fire. Why fight we not on the plain, and let our hofts behold our deeds? Let them behold us like roaring waves, that tumble round a rock: the mariners haften away, and look on their ftrife with fear.

"THOU rifeft, like the fun, on my foul," replied the fon of Semo. "Thine arm is mighty, O Torlath! and worthy of my wrath. Retire, ye men of Ullin, to Slimora's fhady fide. Behold the chief of Erin, in the day of his fame.. Carril! tell to mighty Connal, if Cuthullin müst fall, tell him I accused the winds, which roar on Togorma's waves. Never was he abfent in battle, when the ftrife of my fame arofe. Let his fword be before Cormac, like the beam of heaven. Let his counsel found in Temora, in the day of danger!

He rushed, in the found of his arms, like the terrible spirit of Loda *, when he comes, in the roar of a thousand ftorms, and scatters battles from his eyes. He fits on a cloud over Lochlin's feas. His mighty hand is on his fword. Winds

Loda, in the third book of Fingal, is mentioned as a place of worship in Scandinavia: by the spirit of Loda, the poet probably means Odin, the great deity of the northern nations. He is defcribed here with all his terrors.

lift his flaming locks! The waining moon halflights his dreadful face. His features blended in darkness arise to view. So terrible was Cuthullin

in the day of his fame. Torlath fell by his hand. Lego's heroes mourned. They gather around the chief, like the clouds of the defart. A thoufand fwords rofe at once; a thoufand arrows flew; but he flood like a rock in the midst of a roaring fea. They fell around. He ftrode in blood. Dark Slimora ecchoed wide. The fons

of Ullin came. The battle fpread over Lego. The chief of Erin overcame. He returned over the field with his fame. But pale he returned! The joy of his face was dark. He rolled his eyes in filence. The fword hung, unfheathed, in his hand. His fpear bent at every ftep!

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CARRIL," faid the

chief in fecret," the frength of Cuthullin fails. My days are with the years that are paft. No morning of mine shall arise. They fhall feek me at Temora, but I fhall not be found. Cormac will weep in his hall, and fay, "Where is Erin's chief?" But my name is renowned! my fame in the fong of bards. The youth will fay in fecret, O let me die as Cuthullin died. Renown cloathed him. like a robe. The light of his fame is great. Draw

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Draw the arrow from my fide. Lay Cuthullin beneath that oak. Place the fhield of Caithbat near, that they may behold me amidft the arms of my fathers!"

"AND is the fon of Semo fallen?" faid Carril with a figh. "Mournful are Tura's walls. Sorrow dwells at Dunfcäi. Thy fpoufe is left alone in her youth. The font of thy love is alone! He shall come to Bragela, and afk her why the weeps. He fhall lift his eyes to the wall, and fee his father's fword. "Whofe fword is that?" he will fay. The foul of his mother is fad. Who is that, like the hart of the defart, in the murmur of his courfe? His eyes look wildly round in fearch of his friend. Connal, fon of Colgar, where haft thou been, when the mighty fell? Did the feas of Cogorma roll around thee? Was the wind of the fouth in thy fails? The mighty have fallen in battle, and thou waft not there. Let none tell it in Selma, nor in Morven's woody land. Fingal will be fad, and the fons of the defart mourn !”

+ Conloch, who was afterwards very famous for his great exploits in Ireland. He was fo remarkable for his dexterity in handling the javelin, that when a good marksman is described, it has paffed into a proverb, in the north of Scotland, He is unerring as the arm of Conloch.

By the dark rolling waves of Lego they raised the hero's tomb. Luäth, at a diftance, lies. The fong of bards rofe over the dead.

"BLEST be thy foul, fon of Semo. Thou wert mighty in battle. Thy ftrength was like the ftrength of a ftream: thy speed like the eagle's wing. Thy path in battle was terrible: the fteps of death were behind thy fword. Bleft be thy foul, fon of Semo, car-borne chief of Dunfcai. Thou haft not fallen by the sword of the mighty, neither was thy blood on the spear of the brave. The arrow came, like the fting of death in a blaft: nor did the feeble hand, which drew the bow, perceive it. Peace to thy foul, in thy cave, chief of the ifle of mift!"

"THE mighty are dispersed at Temora : there is none in Cormac's hall. The king mourns in his youth. He does not behold thy return. The found of thy fhield is ceafed: his foes are gathering round. Soft be thy reft in thy cave,

It was of old, the custom to bury the favourite dog near the mafter. This was not peculiar to the ancient Scots, for we find it practifed by many other nations in their ages of heroifm. There is a ftone fhewn ftill at Dunfcai in the isle of Sky, to which Cuthullin commonly bound his dog Luath. The ftone goes by his name to this day.

This is the fong of the bards over Cuthullin's tomb. Every ftanza clofes with fome remarkable title of the hero, which was always the cuftom in funeral elegies.

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chief

chief of Erin's wars! Bragéla will not hope for thy return, or fee thy fails in ocean's foam. Her steps are not on the fhore: nor her ear open to the voice of thy rowers. She fits in the hall of fhells. She fees the arms of him that is no more. Thine eyes are full of tears, daughter of carborne Sorglan! Bleft be thy foul in death, O chief of fhady Tura!"

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