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turn his dark ships from the rock, thou rider of the ftorm !

· Such were the words of 'Cuchullin at the found of the mountain - ítream, when Calmar aftended the hill, the wounded fon of Matha, From the field he caune in his blood. He leaned on his bending spear. Feeble is the arm of battle! but strong the foul of the hero! /.

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Welcome! o fon of Matha, faid Connal, welcome art thou to thy friends! Why bursts that broken figh from the breaft of him that never feared before? - ”

And never, Connal, will he fear, chief of the pointed steel. My foul brightens in danger, and exfults in the noife of battle. I am of the race of steel; my fathers never feared.

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Cormar was the first of my race. He fported through the storms of the waves. His black skiff bounded on ocean and travelled on the wings of the blaft. A spirit once embroiled the night. Seas fwell and rocks refound. Winds drive along, the clouds. The lightnigg flies on wings of fire. He feared and came to land: then blushed that he feared at all. He rufhed again among the waves, to find the fon of the wind. Three youths guide the bounding bark; he ftood , with the fword unfheathed. when the low-hung vapour pasted, he took it by the curling head, and fearched its dark womb with his fteel. The fon of the wind forfook the air. The moon and stars returned.

Such was the boldness of my race; and Calmar is like his fathers. Danger flies from the uplifted fword. . They best succeed who

-dare.

But now, ye fons of green - vallyed Erin, retire from Lena's bloody heath. Collećt the fad reinnant of our friends, and join the fword of Fingal. I heard the found of Lochlin’s advancing arms; but Calinar will remain and fight. My voice shall be fuch , my friends, as

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tines may hear my fame; and the mother [8] of Calmar rejoice over the ftone of my renown.

- No, son of Matha, faid Cuchuilin, I will never leave thee, My joy is in the unequal field; my foul a increafes in danger, Connal, and Carril of other times, carry off the fad fons of Erin; and when the battle is over, fearch for our pale corfes in this narrow way. For nemr this oak we fhail stand in the stream of the battle of thousands. O Fithil’s fon, with feet of wind, fly over the heath of Lena. Tell to Fingal, that Erin is inthralled, and bid the king of Morven haften. O let him come like the fun in a storm, when he fhines on the

hills of grafs.

Morning is gray on Cromla; the fons of the fea afeend. Calmar food forth, to meet

them in the pride of his kindling foul. But

pale was the face of thế warrior; he leaned on

his

[ 8] Alclétha, her lainentation over her fon is intro-
duced in the poem concerning the death of Cućh-
uliin, printed in this collećtion.
9 -

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his father’s fpear. That spear which he brought from Lara's hall, when the foul of his mother was fad. But flowly now the hero falls · like a tree on the plains of Cona. Därk Cuehullin flands alone like a rock [9] in a fandy vale. The fea comes with its waves, and roars on its hardened fides. Its head is covered with foam, and the hills are ecchoing around. —

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on the rolling wave.
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Swaran faw them from the hill, and returned from the fons of Erin. As ebbs the refounding fea through the hundred Isles of Inistore; fo loud, fo vaft, fo immenfe returned the fons of Lochlin against the king of the defert hill. But bending , weeping , fad, and flow , and dragging his long spear behind ,

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Cuchullin funk in Cromla's wood, and mourn

- ed his fallen friends. He feared the face of Fingal, who was wont to greet him from the fields of renown. í

How many lie there of my heroes! the chiefs of innis - fail! they that were chearful in the hall, when the found of the fhells arofe. - No more shall I find their fteps in the heath, or hear their voice in the chace of the hinds. Pale, filent, low on bloody beds are they who were my friends! O spirits of the latelydead, meet Cuchullin on his heath. Converfe with him on the wind, when the ruftling tree of Tura's cave refounds. There, far remote, I shall lie unknown. No bard fhall hear of me. No gray ftone fhall rife to my renown. Mourn me with the death, o Bragela! departed is my faine.

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v Such were the words of Cuchullin, when he funk in the woods of Cromla. Fingal, tall in his fhip, stretched his bright lance before him. Terrible was the gleam of the fteel: it was like the green meteor of death, fetting in the heath of Malınor, when the traveller is alone , and the broad moon is

darkened in heaven.

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