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youth of the fhream of Loda. Not unequalled fhall Ryno lie in earth, when Orla is by his fide. Weep, ye daughters of Mörven; and ye maids of the streamy i oda. Like a tree they grew on the hills; and they have fallen like the oak [8] of the delart; when it lies acrois a stream , and withers in the wind of the mountain.

Oscar! chief of every youth ! thou feest how they have fallen. Be thou , like them i on earth renowned. Like them the fong of bards. Terrible were their forms in battle ; but calm was Ryno in the days of peace. He was like the bow of the shower, feen far distant on the stream; when the fun is fetting on Mora, and filence on the hill of deer, Reft, youngeft of my fons, rest, o Ryno, on Lena. we too shall be no more; for the warrior one day muft fall.

Such was thy grief, thou king of hills, when Ryno lay on earth. What muft the L- - - - grief

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as the mountain oak Nods to the ax, till with a groating found It fink», and spreads its honours on the ground, H 4 . P o P : .

grief of Offian be, for thou thyfelf art gone. I hear not thy distant voice on Cona. - My eyes'perceive thee not. Often forlorn and dark I fit at thy tomb; and feel it with my hands. When I think I hear thy voice; it is but the blast of the defart. Fingal has long fînce fallen asleep, the ruler of the war.

Then Gaul and Offian fat with Swaran on the foft green banks of Lubar. I touched the harp to pleafe the king. But gloomy was his brow. He rolled his red eyes towards Lena. The hero mourned his people.

I lifted my eyes to Cromla, and I fiw the fon of generous Semo. – Sad and flow he retired from his hill towards the lonely ca

ve of Tura. He faw Fingal victorious, and mixed his joy with grief. The fun is bright on his armour, and Connal slowly followed. They funk behind the hill, like two pillars of the fire of night ; when winds parfue them over the mountain, and the flaming heath refounds. Beside a stream of roaring foam his cave is in a rock. One tree bends above it; and the rushing winds eccho against its fides. Here refs the chief of Dunscaich, the fon of generous Semo. His thoughts are on the batt

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le he lost; and the tear is on his cheek. He mourned the departure of his fame, that fled like the mift of Cona. O Bragela , thou art too far remote to cheer the foul of the hero. But let him fee thy bright form in his foul; that his thoughts may return to the lonely fun -beam of Dunscaich. v -

- - - * * , |- ; : » Who comes with the locks of age? It is the fon of fongs. Hail, Carril of other times, rhy voice is like the harp in the halls of Tura. Thy words are pleafant, as the shower that falls on the fields of the fun. Carril of the times of old, why comest thou from the fon of the generous Semo ?

Offian king of fwords, replied the bard, thou beft raiseft the-fong. -- Long haft thou been known to Carril, thou ruler of battles. Often have I touched the harp to lovely Evirallin. Thou too haft often accompanied my voice in Branno’s hall of generous fhells. And often, amidst our voices, was heard the mildest Evirallin. One day fhe fung of Cormac's fall, the youth that died for her love. I faw the tears on her cheek, and on thine, thou chief of men. Her foul was touched for the unhappy, though

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she loved him not. How fair among a thoufand maids was the daughter of the generous Branno! *

Bring not, Carril, I replied, bring not her memory to my mind. My foul muft melt at the remembrance. My eyes muft have their tears. Pale in the earth is fhe, the foftly - blushing fair of my love. But fit thou on the heath, o Bard, and let us hear thy voice. It is pleafant, as the gale of fpring, that fighs on the hunter’s ear; when he wakens from dreams of joy, and has heard the inufic of the spirits of the hill.

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