The

"IT was in the days of peace," replied the great Clefsámmor, "I came, in my bounding ship, to Balclutha's walls of towers. winds had roared behind my fails, and Clutha's ftreams received my dark-bofomed ship. Three days I remained in Reuthámir's halls, and faw his daughter, that beam of light. The joy of the shell went round, and the aged hero gave the fair. Her breafts were like foam on the wave, and her eyes like ftars of light: her hair was dark as the raven's wing: her foul was generous and mild. My love for Mcina was great: my heart poured forth in joy."

"THE fon of a ftranger came; a chief who loved the white-bofomed Moina. His words were mighty in the hall; he often half-unfheathed his fword. Where, faid he, is the mighty Comhal, the reftlefs wanderer of the heath? Comes he, with his hoft, to Balclutha, fince Clefsámmor is fo bold? My foul, I replied, O warrior! burns in a

Bede.

Balclutha, i. e. the town of Clyde, probably the Alcluth of

+ Clutha, or Cluäth, the Galic name of the river Clyde, the fignification of the word is bending, in allufion to the winding course of that river. From Clutha is derived its Latin name,

Glotta.

The word in the original here rendered by reftlefs wanderer, is Scuta, which is the true origin of the Scoti of the Romans; an opprobrious name imposed by the Britons, on the Caledonians, on account of the continual incurfions into their country.

light of its own.

I ftand without fear in the midst of thousands, though the valiant are diftant far. Stranger! thy words are mighty, for Clefsámmor is alone. But my fword trembles by my fide, and longs to glitter in my hand. Speak no more of Comhal, fon of the winding Clutha!"

"THE ftrength of his pride arofe. We fought; he fell beneath my fword. The banks of Clutha heard his fall; a thousand spears glittered around. I fought the ftrangers prevailed: I plunged into the stream of Clutha. My white fails rose over the waves, and I bounded on the dark-blue fea. Moina came to the shore; and rolled the red eye of her tears: her loofe hair flew on the wind; and I heard her mournful, distant cries. Often did I turn my ship! but the winds of the Eaft prevailed. Nor Clutha ever fince have I seen, nor Moina of the dark brown hair. She fell in Balclutha, for I have seen her ghoft. I knew her as she came through the dusky night, along the murmur of Lora: fhe was like the new moon, feen through the gathered mift: when the sky pours down its flaky fnow, and the world is filent and dark.”

RAISE*, ye bards, faid the mighty Fingal,

the

The title of this poem, in the original, is Duan na nlaoi, .. The Poem of the Hymns: probably on account of its many

digref

the praise of unhappy Moina. Call her ghoft, with your fongs, to our hills; that she may reft with the fair of Morven, the fun-beams of other days, the delight of heroes of old. I have seen the walls of Balclutha, but they were defolate. The fire had refounded in the halls: and the voice of the people is heard no more. The ftream of Clutha was removed from its place, by the fall of the walls. The thistle fhook, there, its lonely head: the mofs whistled to the wind. The fox looked out, from the windows, the rank grafs of the wall waved round its head. Defolate is the dwelling of Moina, filence is in the houfe of her fathers. Raife the fong of mourning, O bards, over the land of ftrangers. They have but fallen before us: for, one day, we muft fall. Why doft thou build the hall, son of the winged days? Thou lookeft from thy towers to-day; yet a few years, and the blast of the defart comes; it howls in thy empty court, and whiffles round thy half-worn fhield. And let the blaft of the defart come! we shall be renowned in our day! The mark of my arm thall be in battle; my name in the fong of bards, Raife

digreffions from the subject, all which are in a lyric measure, as this fong of Fingal. Fingal is celebrated by the Irish hif torians for his wisdom in making laws, his poetical genius, and his foreknowledge of events. O'Flaherty goes fo far as to fay, that Fingal's laws were extant in his own time.

the

the fong; fend round the shell: let joy be heard my hall. When thou, fun of heaven, fhalt fail! if thou shalt fail, thou mighty light! if

in

thy brightness is for a feafon, like Fingal; our fame shall survive thy beams!

SUCH was the fong of Fingal, in the day of his joy. His thousand bards leaned forward from their feats, to hear the voice of the king. It was like the mufic of harps on the gale of the fpring. Lovely were thy thoughts, O Fingal! why had not Offian the ftrength of thy foul? But thou ftandeft alone, my father! who can equal the king of Selma?

THE night paffed away in fong; morning returned in joy. The mountains fhewed their grey heads; the blue face of ocean fimiled. The white wave is feen tumbling round the diftant rock; a mift rofe, flowly, from the lake. It came, in the figure of an aged man, along the filent plain. Its large limbs did not move in fteps; for a ghoft fupported it in mid air. It came towards Selma's hall, and diffolved in a fhower of blood.

THE king alone beheld the fight; he forefaw the death of the people. He came, in filence, to his hall; and took his father's spear. The mail rattled on his breaft. The heroes rofe around. They looked, in filence, on each other,

G 2

other, marking the eyes of Fingal. They faw battle in his face: the death of armies on his fpear. A thousand shields, at once, are placed on their arms; they drew a thousand fwords. The hall of Selma brightened around. The clang of arms afcends. The grey dogs howl in their place. No word is among the mighty chiefs. Each marked the eyes of the king; and half affumed his fpear.

SONS of Morven, begun the king, this is no time to fill the hell. The battle darkens near us; death hovers over the land. Some ghoft, the friend of Fingal, has forewarned us of the foe. The fons of the ftranger come from the darkly-rolling fea. For, from the water, came the fign of Morven's gloomy danger. each affume his heavy fpear, each gird on his father's fword. Let the dark helmet rife on every head; the mail pour its lightening from every fide. The battle gathers like a ftorm; foon fhall ye hear the roar of death.

Let

THE hero moved on before his hoft, like a cloud before a ridge of green fire; when it pours on the sky of night, and mariners forefec a ftorm. On Cona's rifing heath they flood: the white-bofomed maids beheld them above like a grove; they forefaw the death of the youth, and looked towards the fea with fear. The white

wave