grief away.

The vanquished, if brave, are renowned. They are like the sun in a cloud, when he hides his face in the south, but looks again on the hills of grass!

Grumal was a chief of Cona. He sought the battle on every coast. His soul rejoiced in blood; his ear in the din of arms. He poured his warriors on Craca; Craca's king met him from his grove; for then, within the circle of Brumo, he spoke to the stone of power. Fierce was the battle of the heroes, for the maid of the breast of snow. The fame of the daughter of Craca had reached Grumal at the streams of Cona; he vowed to have the white bosomed maid, or die on echoing Craca. Three days they strove to gether, and Grumal on the fourth was bound. Far from his friends they placed him in the horrid circle of Brumo; where often. they said, the ghosts of the dead howled round the stone of their fear. But he afterwards shone, like a pillar of the light of heaven. They fell by his mighty hand. Gruma! had all his fame!

Raise, ye bards of other times,' continued the great Fingal, 'raise high the praise of heroes: that my soul may settle on their fame; that the mind of Swaran may cease to be sad.' They lay in the heath of Mora. The dark winds rustled over the chiefs. A hundred voices, at once, arose: a hundred harps were strung. They sung of other times; the mighty chiefs of former years! When now shall I hear the bard? When rejoice at the fame of my fathers? The harp is not strung on Morven. The voice of music ascends not on Cona. Dead, with the mighty, is the bard. Fame is in the desert no more.

Morning trembles with the beam of the east ; it glimmers on Cromla's side. Over Lena is heard the horn of Swaran. The sons of the ocean gather around. Silent and sad they rise on

the wave. The blast of Erin is behind their sails. White, as the mist of Morven, they float along the sea. Call,' said Fingal, call my dogs, the long-bounding sons of the chase. Call whitebreasted Bran, and the surly strength of Luath! Fillan, and Ryno;-but he is not here! My son rests on the bed of death. Fillan and Fergus! blow the horn, that the joy of the chase may arise; that the deer of Cromla may hear and start at the lake of roes.

The shrill sound spreads along the woodThe sons of heathy Cromla arise. A thousand dogs fly off at once, gray-bounding through the heath. A deer fell by every dog; three by the white-breasted Bran He brought them, in their flight, to Fingal, that the joy of the king might be great! One deer fell at the tomb of Ryno. The grief of Fingal returned. He saw how peaceful lay the stone of him, who was the first at the chase! No more shalt thou rise, O my son to partake of the feast of Cromla. Soon will thy tomb be hid, and the grass grow rank on thy grave. The sons of the feeble shall They shall not know where the

pass along. mighty lie.

Ossian and Fillan, sons of my strength. Gaul, chief of the blue steel of war! let us ascend the hill to the cave of Tura. Let us find the chief of the battles of Erin. Are these the walls of Tura? gray and lonely they rise on the heath. The chief of shells is sad and the halls are silent and lonely. Come, let us find Cuthullin, and give him all our joy. But is that Cuthullin, O Fillin, or a pillar of smoke on the heath? The wind of Cromla is on my eyes. distinguish not my friend.'

I

Fingal!' replied the youth, it is the son of Semo!' Gloomy and sad is the hero! his hand is on his sword. Hail to the son of battle, break

er of the shields! Hail to thee,' replied Cuthullin, hail to all the sons of Morven ! Delightful is thy presence, O Fingal! it is the sun on Cromla: when the hunter mourns his absence for a season, and sees him between the clouds. Thy sons are like stars that attend thy course. They give light in the night. It is not thus thou hast seen me, O Fingal! returning from the wars of thy land: when the kings of the world had fled, and joy returned to the hills of hinds!'

Many are thy words, Cuthullin,' said Connan of small renown. 6 Thy words are many, son of Semo, but where are thy deeds in arms? Why did we come, over ocean, to aid thy feeble sword? Thou fliest to thy cave of grief, and Connan fights thy battles. Resign to me these arms of light. Yield them, thou chief of Erin.'

No hero,' replied the chief, 'ever sought the arms of Cuthullin! and had a thousand heroes sought them, it were in vain, thou gloomy youth! I fled not to the cave of grief, till Erin failed at her streams.

• Youth of the feeble arın,' said Fingal, 'Connan, cease thy words! Cuthullin is renowned in battle terrible over the world. Often have I heard thy fame, thou stormy chief of Inis-fail. Spread now thy white sails for the isle of mist. See Bragéla leaning on her rock. Her tender eye is in tears, the winds lift her long hair from her heaving breast. She listens to the breeze of night, to hear the voice of thy rowers; to hear the song of the sea: the sound of thy distant harps.'

Long shall she listen in vain. Cuthullin shall never return. How can I behold Bragéla, to raise the sigh of her breast? Fingal, I was always victorious, in battles of other spears. And hereafter thou shalt be victorious,' said

Fingal of generous shells. The fame of Cuthullin shall grow, like the branchy tree of Croma Many battles await thee, chief! Many shall be the wounds of thy hand! Bring hither, Os car, the deer! Prepare the feast of shells. Let our souls rejoice after danger, and our friends delight in our presence.'

We sat.

We feasted. We sung.

of Cuthullin rose.

The soul

The strength of his arm re

turned. Gladness brightened along his face. Ullin gave the song; joined the bards, and sung of battles of the spear. Battles! where I often fought. Now I fight no more! The fame of my former deeds is ceased. I sit forlorn at the tombs of my friends! We

Carril raised the voice. I

Thus the night passed away in song. brought back the morning with joy. Fingal arose on the heath, and shook his glittering spear. He moved first toward the plains of Lena. We followed in all our arms

'Spread the sail,' said the king, 'seize the winds as they pour from Lena. We rose on the wave with songs. We rushed, with joy, through the foam of the deep.

LATHMON.

ARGUMENT.

Lathmon, a British prince, taking advantage of Fingal's ab serce on an expedition to Ireland, made a descer.t on Morven, and advanced within sight of Selma, the royal residence. Fingal arrived in the mean time, and Lathmon retreated to a hill, where his army was surprised by night, and himself taken prisoner by Ossian and Gaul the son of Morni. The poem opens with the first appear ance of Fingal on the coast of Morven, and ends, it may be supposed, about noon the next day.

SELMA, thy halls are silent. in the woods of Morven.

There is no sound The wave tumbles

along on the coast. The silent beam of the sun is on the field. The daughters of Morven come forth, like the bow of the shower; they look towards green Erin for the white sails of the king. He had promised to return, but the winds of the north arose !

Who pours from the eastern hill, like a stream of darkness? It is the host of Lathmon. He has heard of the absence of Fingal. He trusts in the winds of the north. His soul brightens with joy. Why dost thou come, O Lathmon? The mighty are not in Selma. Why comest thou with thy forward spear? Will the daughters of Morven fight? But stop, O mighty stream, in thy course! Does not Lathmon behold these sails? Why dost thou vanish, Lathmon, like the mist of the lake? But the squally storm is behind thee; Fingal pursues thy steps!

The king of Morven had started from sleep, as we rolled on the dark-blue wave. He stretched his hand to his spear, his heroes rose around. We knew that he had seen his fathers, for they often descended to his dreams, when the sword of the foe rose over the land; and the battle darkened before us. 'Whither hast thou fled, O wind?' said the king of Morven. 'Dost thou rustle in the chambers of the south? pursuest thou the shower in other lands? Why dost thou not come to my sails? to the blue face of my seas? The foe is in the land of Morven, and the king is absent far. But let each bind on his mail, and each assume his shield. Stretch every spear over the wave; let every sword be unsheathed. Lathmon is before us with his host; he that fled from Fingal on the plains of Lona But he returns, like a collected stream, and his roar is between our hills.'

Such were the words of Fingal. We rushed into Carmon's bay. Ossian ascended the hill!