oar is ftopped at once; he panted on the rock and expired. What is thy grief, O Daura, when round thy feet is poured thy brother's blood! The boat is broken in twain by the waves. Armar plunges into the fea, to rescue his Daura, or die. Sudden a blaft from the hill comes over the waves. He funk, and he rose no more. Alone, on the fea-beat rock, my daughter was heard to complain. Frequent and loud were her cries; nor could her father relieve her. All night I ftood on the shore. I faw her by the faint beam of the moon. All night I heard her cries. Loud was the wind; and the rain beat hard on the fide of the mountain. Before morning appeared, her voice was weak. It died away, like the evening-breeze among the grafs of the rocks. Spent with grief she expired. And left thee Armin alone: gone is my ftrength in the war, and fallen my pride among women. When the ftorms of the mountain come; when the north lifts the waves on high; I fit by the founding shore, and look on the fatal rock. Often by the fetting moon I fee the ghofts of my children. Half-view lefs, they walk in mournful conference together. Will none of you speak in pity? They do not regard their father. I am fad, O Carmor, nor small my cause of woe! Such were the words of the bards in the days of fong; when the king heard the mufic of harps, and the tales of other times. The chiefs gathered from all their hills, and heard the lovely found. They praised the voice (1) of Cona! the first among a thousand bards. But age is now on my tongue; and my foul has failed. I hear, fometimes, the ghofts of bards, and learn their pleasant fong. But memory fails in my mind; I hear the call of years. They fay, as they pafs along, why does Offian fing? Soon shall he lie in the narrow house, and no bard shall raise his fame. Roll on, ye dark-brown years, for ye bring no joy on your courfe. Let the tomb open to Offian, for his ftrength has failed. The fons of fong are gone to reft: my voice remains, like a blaft, that roars, lonely, on a fea-furrounded rock after the winds are laid. The dark mofs whistles there, and the distant mariner fees the waving trees. (1) Offian is fometimes poetically called the voice of Cona. |