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king! I then returned frem Cona's heath, and few were in my train. A white - failed boat appeared far off; we faw it like a mift that rode on ocean's blast. it foon approached; we faw the fair. Her white breaft heaved with fighs. The wind was in her loofe dark hair; her rofy cheek had tears. – Daughter of beauty , calm I faid , what figh is in that breaft? Can I, young as I am, defend thee, daughter of the fea ? My fword is not unmatched in war, but dauntlefs is my heart.
. . - -
*** To thee I fiy, with fighs she replied, o
chief of mighty men ! To thee I fly, chief of
fhells, fupporter of the feeble hand! The king of Craca's ecchoing ifle owned me the fun - beam of his race. And often did the hills of Cromla reply to the fighs of love for the unhappy Fainafóllis. Sora's chief beheld my fair; and loved the daughter of Craca. His fword is like a beam óf light upon the warrior's fide. But dark is his brow'; and tempests are in his foul. I fhun him on the rolling fea; but Sora's chief Pursues. -
Shetland fles. — There is a story concerning a
Reft thou, I faid, behind my fhield; rest in peace, thou beam of light! -The gloomy chief of Sora will fly, if Fingal's arm is like his foul. In fome lone cave, I might conceal , thee, daughter of the fea! But Fingal never flies; for where the danger threatens, I rejoice in the form of spears. – I saw the tears upon her cheek. I pitied Craca’s fair. » . . . . .
|- ; · - - :eo Now ; like a dreadful wave afar, appeared the ship of formy Borbar. His masts highbended over the fea behind their fheets of show. White roll the waters on either fide. The strength of ocean founds. Come thou, I faid, from the roar of ocean, thou rider of the storm. Partake the feast within my, hall. It is the houfe of strangers. The maid stood trembling by my fide; he drew the bow : fhe fell. Unerring is thy hand; I faid, but feeble was the foe. – We fought, nor weak was the ftrife of death: He funk beneath my fword. we laid them in two tombs of stones; the unhappy children of youth.
be thou like the age of Fingal. Never feek |- - the
the battle, nor fhun it when it comes. – Fillan and Ofcar of the dark-brown hair; ye children of the race; fly over the heath of roaring winds; and view the fons of Lochlin. Far off I hear the noife of their fear, like the ftorms of ecchoing Cona. Go: that they may not fiy my fword along the waves of the north. – For many chiefs of Erin's race lie here on the
dark bed of death. The children of the storin
are low; the fons of ecchoing Cromla.
The heroes flew like two dirk clouds; two dark clouds that are the chariots of ghofts; when air's dark children come to frighten haplefs
II1EI1. « '
 Gaul, the fon of Morni, was chief of a tribe, that disputed long, the pre-eminence, with Fingal himself They were reduced at last to obedience, and Gaul, from an enemy, turned Fingal's best -- friend and greatest hero. His charaster is foinething like that of Ajax in the Iliad; a hero of more strength than condust in battle. He was very fond of military fame, and here he demands the next battle to himself. — The poet, by an artifice, removes Fingal, that his return may be the more magnificent.
fpear is glittering to the stars; his voice like many streams. Son of battle, cried the chief, o Fingal, king of shells! let the bards of many fongs footh Erin's friends to reft. And, Fingal, fheath thy fword of death; and let thy people fight. We wither away without our fame; for our king is the only breaker of fhields. When morning rifes on our hills, behold at a distance our deeds. Let Lochlin feel the fword of Morni’s fon, that bards may fing of me. Such was the custom heretofore of Fingal’s noble race. Such was thine own, thou king of fwords, in battles of the spear.
O fon of Morni, Fingal réplied, I glory in thy fame. — Fight; but my spear íhall be near to aid thee in the midft of danger. Raife, raife the voice, fons of the fong, and lull me into reft. Here will Fingal lie amidst the wind of night. And if thou, Agandecca, art near, among the children of thy land; if thou fitteft on a blaft of wind among the high-fhrowded mafts of Lochlin; come to my dreams [t], my fair one, and fhew thy bright face to my foul.
Many  The poet prepares us for the dream of Fingal in
the next book. v
. ; Many a voice and many a harp in tuneful founds arofe. Of Fingalis noble deeds they fung, and of the noble race of the hero. And fometimes on the lovely found was heard the name of the now mournful Offian.
Often have I fought, and often won in battles of the fpear. But blind, and tearful, and forlorn i I now walk with little men. O Fingal, with thy race of battle I now behold thee not. The wild roes feed upon the green tomb of the mighty king of Morven. – Bleft be thy foul, thou king of fwords, thou. most renowned on the hills of Cona!