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bard of his exalted talents, were he born in Ireland of in Scotland. It is certain that the Scotch and Iriso were united at some early period. That they proceed from the same origin is indisputable; nay, I believe that it is proved beyond any possibility of negating it, that the Scotch derive their origin from the Irish. This truth has been brought in question but of late days; and all ancient tradition, and the general con sent of the Scotch nation, and of their oldest historians, agree to confirm the certitude of this assertion. If any man still doubts of it, he will find, in Macgeoge han's History of Ireland, an entire conviction, estab. lished by elaborate discussion, and most incontroverti. ble proofs:" pp. v. vi.

We shall not stay to quarrel about "Sir Archy's great grandmother,"* or to contend that Fingal, the Irish giant,† did not one day go "over from Carrick

* See Macklin's Love A-la-mode.

"Selma is not at all known in Scotland. When I asked, and particularly those who were possessed of any poetry, songs, or tales, who Fion was? (for he is not known by the name of Fingal by any ;) I was answered, that he was an Irishman, if a man; for they sometimes thought him a giant, and that he lived in Ireland, and sometimes came over to hunt in the Highlands.

"Like a true Scotchman, in order to make his composition more acceptable to his countrymen, Mr. Macpherson changes the name of Fion Mac Cumhal, the Irishman, into Fingal; which, indeed, sounds much better, and sets him up a Scotch king over the ideal kingdom of Morven in the west of Scotland. It had been a better argument for the authenticity, if he had allowed him to be an Irishman, and made Morven an Irish kingdom, as well as Ireland the scene of his battles, but as he must eed make the hero of an epic poem a great character, it was too great honor for any other country but Scotland to have given birth to so considerable a personage. All the authentic histories of Ireland give a full account of Fingal or Fion Mac Cumhal's actions, and any one who wil take the trouble to look at Dr. Keating's, or any other history of that country, will find the matter related as above, whereas, in the Chronicon Scotorum, from which the list of the Scotch kings is taken, and the pretended MSS. they so much boast of to be seen in the Hebrides, there is not one syllable said of such a name a Fingal.”—An Enquiry into the Authenticity of the Poems of Os

fergus, and people all Scotland with his own hands,” and make these sons of the north "illegitimate;" but we may observe, that from the inclination of the baron's opinion, added to the internal evidence of his poems, there appears at least as much reason to believe their author to have been a native of Ireland as of Scotland. The success with which Macpherson's cn. deavors had been rewarded, induced the baron to in quire whether any more of this kind of poetry could be obtained. His search, he confesses, would have proved fruitless, had he expected to find complete pieces; "for, certainly," says he, none such exist. But," he adds, "in seeking with assiduity and care, I found, by the help of my friends, several fragments of old traditionary songs, which were very sublime, and par ticularly remarkable for their simplicity and elegance " D. iv.

"From these fragments," continues Baron de Harold, "I have composed the following poems. They are all founded on tradition; but the dress they now appear in is mine. It will appear singular to some, that Ossian, at times, especially in the songs of Comfort, seems rather to be an Hibernian than a Scotchman, and that some of these poems formally contradict passages of great importance in those handed to the public by Mr. Macpherson, especially that very remarkable one of Evir-allen, where the description of her marriage with Ossian is essentially different in all its parts from that given in former poems." P. v.

dan, by W. Shaw, A. M., F. S. A., author of the Gaelic Dictionary and Grammar. London, 1781.

Mr. Shaw crowns his want of faith in Macpherson's Ossian witn his piece of information. "A gentleman promised to ornament a scalloped shell with silver, if I should bring him one from the Highlands, and to swear that it was the identical shell out of which Fingal used to drink."-A gentleman!

We refer the reader to the opening of the fourth book of Fingal, which treats of Ossian's courtship of Evir-allen. The Evir-allen of Baron de Harold is in these words:

EVIR-ALLEN:

A POEM.

THOU fairest of the maids of Morven, young beam of streamy Lutha, come to the help of the aged, come to the help of the distressed. Thy soul is open to pity. Friendship glows in thy tender breast. Ah come and sooth away my wo. Thy words are music to my

soul.

Bring me my once-loved harp. It hangs long neglected in my hall. The stream of years has borne me away in its course, and rolled away all my bliss. Dim and faded are my eyes; thin-strewed with hairs my head. Weak is that nervous arm, once the terror of foes. Scarce can I grasp my staff, the prop of my trembling limbs.

Lead me to yonder craggy steep. The murmur of the falling streams; the whistling winds rushing through. the woods of my hills; the welcome rays of the bounteous sun, will soon awake the voice of song in my breast. The thoughts of former years glide over my soul like swift-shooting meteors o'er A.dven's gloomy vales.

Come, ye friends of my youth, ye soft-sounding voices of Cona, bend from your gold-tinged clouds,

and join me in my song. A mighty blaze is kindled

"Seize

in my soul. I hear a powerful voice. It says, thy beam of glory, O bard! for thou shalt soon depart. Soon shall the light of song be faded. Soon thy tuneful

voice forgotten."-"Yes, I obey, O powerful voice, for hou art pleasing to mine ear.

O Evir-allen! thou boast of Erin's maids, thy thoughts come streaming on my soul. Hear, O Malvina! a tale of my youth, the actions of my former days.

Peace reigned over Morven's hills. The shell of joy resounded in our halls. Round the blaze of the pak sported in festive dance the maids of Morven. They shone like the radiant bow of heaven, when the fiery rays of the setting sun brightens its varied sides. They wooed me to their love, but my heart was silent, cold Indifference, like a brazen shield, covered my frozen heart.

Fingal saw, he smiled, and mildly spoke: My son, the down of youth grows on thy cheek. Thy arm has wielded the spear of war. Foes have felt thy force Morven's maids are fair, but fairer are the daughters of Erin. Go to that happy isle; to Branno's grass covered fields. The daughter of my friend deserves thy love. Majestic beauty flows around her as a robe, and innocence, as a precious veil, heightens her youthful charms. Go, take thy arms, and win the lovely

fair.

Straight I obeyed. A chosen band followed my steps. We mounted the dark-bosomed ship of the king, spread its white sails to the winds, and ploughed through the foam of ocean. Pleasant shone the fineeyed Ull-Erin. With joyal songs we cut the liquid way. The moon, regent of the silent night, gleamed majestic in the blue vault of heaven, and seemed pleased to bathe her side in the trembling wave. My soul was full of my father's words. A thousand thoughts divided my wavering mind.

Soon as the early beam of morn appeared we saw

The guiding star to Ireland.

the green-skirted sides of Erin advancing in the bosom of the sea. White broke the tumbling surges on the

roast.

Deep in Larmor's woody bay we drove our keel to the shore, and gained the lofty beach. I inquired after the generous Branno. A son of Erin led us to his halls, to the banks of the sounding Lego. He said. "Many warlike youths are assembled to gain the darkhaired maid, the beauteous Evir-allen. Branno will give her to the brave. The conqueror shall bear away the fair. Erin's chiefs dispute the maid, for she is destined for the strong in arms."

These words inflamed my breast, and roused courage in my heart. I clad my limbs in steel. I grasped a shining spear in my hand. Branno saw our approach. He sent the gray-haired Snivan to invite us to his feast, and know the intent of our course. He came with the solemn steps of age, and gravely spoke the words of the chief.

"Whence are these arms of steel? If friends ye come, Branno invites you to his halls; for this day the lovely Evir-allen shall bless the warrior's arms whose lance shall shine victorious in the combat of valor."

"O venerable bard!" I said, "peace guides my steps to Branno. My arm is young, and few are my deeds in war, but valor inflames my soul; I am of the race of the brave."

The bard departed. We followed the steps of age, and soon arrived to Branno's halls.

The hero came to meet us. Manly serenity adorned his brow. His open front showed the kindness of his heart. "Welcome," he said, "ye sons of stran gers; welcome to Branno's friendly halls; partake his shell of joy. Share in the combat of spears. Not unworthy is the prize of volor the lovely dark-haired

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