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the race! purfue the reft of Lochlin over the heath of Lena; that no veffel may hereafter bound on the dark - rolling waves of Inistore.

They flew like lighthing over the heath He flowly moved as a cloud of thunder, when the fultry plain of fummer is filent. His fword is before him as a fun-beam, terrible as the ftreaming meteor of night. He came toward a chief of Lochlin, and spoke to the fon of the

wave.

Who is that like a cloud at the rock of the roaring ftream? He cannot bound over its courfe; yet ftately is the chief! his boffy fhield is on his fide; and his fpear like the tree of the defart. Youth of the dark-brown hair, art thou of Fingal's foes?

I am a fon of Lochlin, he cries, and ftrong is my arm in war. My fpoufe is weeping at home, but Orla [3] will never return.

Or

[3] The ftory of Orla is fo beautiful and affecting in the original, that many are in poffeffion of it in the north of Scotland, who never heard a fyllable more of the poem. It varies the action,

and

Or fights or yields the hero, faid Fingal of the noble deeds? foes do not conquer in my prefence but my friends are renowned in the hall. Son of the wave, follow me, partake the feaft of my fhells, and purfue the deer of my defart..

No: faid the hero, I affift the feeble: my ftrength fhall remain with the weak in arms. My fword has been always unmatched, o warrior let the king of Morven yield.

:

I never yielded, Orla, Fingal never yielded to man.

Draw thy fword and chufe thy foe. Many are my heroes.

And does the king refufe the combat, faid Orla of the dark-brown hair? Fingal is a match for Orla: and he alone of all his race.

But, king of Morven, if I fhall fall; (as one time the warrior muft die;) raife my tomb in the midft, and let it be the greatest on Lena. And fend, over the dark blue wave, the fword of Orla to the fpoufe of his love; that fhe may fhew it to her fon, with tears, to kindle his foul to war.

Son

and awakes the attention of the reader, when he exfpected nothing but languor in the conduc of the poem, as the great action was over in the conqueft of Swaran.

Son of the mournful tale, faid Fingal, why doft thou awaken my tears? One day the warriors muft die, and the children fee their ufelefs arms in the hall. But, Orla, thy tomb fhall rife, and thy white bofomed fpoufe weep over thy fword.

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They fought on the heath of Lena, but feeble was the arm of Orla. The fword of Fingal defcended, and cleft his fhield in twain. It fell and glittered on the ground, as the moon on the stream of night.

King of Morven, faid the hero, lift thy fword, and pierce my breast. Wounded and faint from battle my friends have left me here. The mournful tale fhall come to my love on the banks of the ftreamy Loda; when the is alone in the wood; and the rustling blaft in the leaves.

No; faid the king of Morven, I will never wound thee, Orla. On the banks of Loda let her fee thee efcaped from the hands of war. Let thy gray haired father, who, perhaps, is blind with age, hear the found of thy voice in his hall: With joy let the hero rife, and

fearch for his fon with his hands.

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But never will he find him, Fingal; faid the youth of the ftreamy Loda. - On Lena's heath I fhall die; and foreign bards will talk of me. My broad belt covers my wound of death. And now I give it to the wind.

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The dark blood poured from his fide, he fell pale on the heath of Lena. Fingal bends over him as he dies, and calls his younger heroes.

Ofcar and Fillan, my fons, raise high the memory of Orla, Here let the dark-haired hero reft far from the fpoufe of his love. Here let him reft in his narrow houfe, far from the found of Loda. The fons of the feeble will find his bow at home, but will not be able to bend it. His faithful dogs howl on his hills, and his boars, which he used to pursue rejoice. Fallen is the arm of battle; the mighty among the valiant is low!

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Exalt the voice, and blow the horn, ye fons of the king of Morven: let us go back to Swaran, and fend the night away on fong. Fillan, Ofcar, and Ryno, fly over the heath of Lena. Where, Ryno, art thou, young fon of fame? Thou art not wont to be the laft to answer thy father.

Ryno,

Ryno, faid Ullin first of bards, is with the awful forms of his fathers. With Trathal king of fhields, and Trenmor of the mighty deeds. The youth is low, the youth is pale, he lies on Lena's heath.

And fell the fwifteft in the race, faid the king, the firft to bend the bow? Thou fcarce haft been known to me: why did young Ryno fall? But fleep thou foftly on Lena, Fingal fhall foon behold thee. Soon fhall my voice be heard no more, and my footsteps ceafe to be feen. The bards will tell of Fingal's name; the ftones will talk of me. But, Ryno, thou art low indeed, thou haft not received

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thy fame. Ullin, ftrike the harp for Ryno; tell what the chief would have been. Farewel, thou first in every field. No more fhall I direct thy dart. Thou that haft been fò fair; I behold thee not Farewel.

The tear is on the cheek of the king; for terrible was his fon in war. His fon! that was like a beam of fire by night on the hill; when the forefts fink down in its courfe, and the traveller trembles at the found.

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