me, and the foe has escaped my fword.-In Clon-ra's vale touch thou the harp; let Dura anfwer to thy voice; while some maid looks, from the wood, on thy long, yellow locks. -Fly from Lubar's echoing plain : it is the field of heroes.

King of Temora (1), Malthos faid, it is thine to lead in war. Thou art a fire to our eyes, on the dark-brown field. Like a blast thou haft paft over hofts, and laid them low in blood; but who has heard thy words returning from the field? The wrathful delight in death: their remembrance refts on the wounds of their spear. Strife is folded in their thoughts: their words are ever heard. -Thy courfe, chief of Moma, was like a troubled ftream. The dead were rolled on thy path but others alfo lift the fpear. We were not feeble behind thee, but the foe was strong.

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The king beheld the rifing rage, and bending forward of either chief: for halfunsheated, they held their fwords, and rolled their filent eyes.-Now would they have mixed in horrid fray, had not the wrath of

throughout, a

(1) This fpeech of Malthos is fevere reprimand to the bluftering behaviour of Foldath. It abounds with that laconic eloquence, and indirect manner of addrefs, which is fo juftly admired in the short fpeech of Ajax, in the ninth book of the Iliad.

Cathinor burned. He drew his fword: it gleamed thro' night, to the high - flaming oak.

Sons of pride, faid the king, allay your fwelling fouls. Retire in night.Why should my rage arife? Should I contend with both in arms?—It is no time for ftrife. Retire, ye clouds at my feaft. Awake my foul no more. They funk from the king on either fide; like (1) two columns of morning mift, when the fun rifes, between them, on his glittering rocks. Dark is their rolling on either fide; each towards its reedy pool.

Silent fat the chiefs at the feaft. They looked, at times, on Atha's king, where he ftrode, on his rock, amidst his fettling foul. -The hoft lay, at length, on the field: fleep defcended on Moi-lena.-The voice

(1) The poet could scarcely find, in all nature, a comparison fo favourable as this to the fuperiority of Cathmor over his two chiefs. I shail illuftrate this paffage with another from a fragment of an ancient poem, just now in my hands. —« As the fun is above the vapours, which his beams have raised; fo is the foul of the king above the fons of fear. They roll dark below him; he rejoices in the robe of his beams. But when feeble deeds wander on the foul of the king, he is a darkened fun rolled along the sky: the valley is fad below : flowers wither beneath the drops of the night, »

of Fonar rofe alone, beneath his diftant tree. It rofe in the praise of Cathmor fon of Larthon (1) of Lumon. But Cathmor did not hear his praife. He lay at the roar of a ftream. The ruftling breeze of night flew over his whistling locks.

Cairbar came to his dreams, half-seen from his low-hung cloud. Joy rofe darkly in

(1) Lear-thon, Sea-wave, the name of the chief of that colony of the Fir-bolg, which first migrated into Ireland. Larthon's firft fettlement in that country is related in the feventh book. He was the an ceftor of Cathmor; and is here called Larthon of Lumon, from a high hill of that name in Inis-huna, the ancient feat of the Fir-bolg.-The poet preferves the character of Cathmor throughout. He had mentioned, in the first book, the averfion of that chief to praife, and we find him here lying at the fide of a ftream, that the noife of it might drown the voice of Fonar, who, according to the custom of the times, fung his eulogium in his evening fong. Tho' other chiefs, as well as Cathmor, might be averfe to hear their own praife we find it the univerfal policy of the times, to allow the bards to be as extravagant as they pleased in their encomiums on the leaders of armies, in the presence of their people. The vulgar who had no great ability to judge for themfelves, received the characters of their princes, entirely upon the faith of the bards. The good effects which an high opinion of its ruler has upon a community are too obvious to require explanation; on the other hand, diftruft of the abilities of leaders produces the worst confequences.

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his face he had heard the fong of Carril (1). A blaft fuftained his dark-skirted cloud; which he seized in the bofom of night, as he rofe, with his fame, towards his airy hall. Half-mixed with the noife of the ftream he poured his feeble words.

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Joy meet the foul of Cathmor: his voice was heard on Moi-lena, The bard gave his fong to Cairbar he travels on the wind. My form is in my father's hall, like the gliding of a terrible light, which winds thro' the defart, in a stormy night.--No bard shall be wanting at thy tomb, when thou art lowly laid. The fons of fong love the valiant. Cathmor, thy name is a pleafant gale. The mournful founds arife! On

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(1) Carril, the fon of Kinfena, by the orders of Offian, fung the funeral elegy at the tomb of Cairbar. See the fecond book towards the end. In all the poems of Offian, the vifit of ghosts, to their living friends, are short, and their language obfcure, both which circumftances, tend to throw a folemn gloom on thefe fupernatural fcenes. Towards the latter end of the fpeech of the ghoft of Cairbar, he foretels the death of Cathmor, by enumerating thofe fignals which, according to the opinion of the times preceded the death of a perfon renowned. It was thought that the ghofts of deceafed bards fung, for three nights preceding the death (near the place where his tomb was to be raised) round an unfubftantial figure which reprefented the body of the perfon who was to die.

Book IV. Lubar's field there is a voice! - Louder ftill ye shadowy glofts! the dead were full of fame. Shrilly wells the feeble found.The rougher blaft alone is heard! —Ah, foon is Čathmor low!

Rolled into himself he flew, wide on the bofom of his blaft. The old oak felt his departure, and shook its whistling head. The king ftarted from reft, and took his deathful fpear. He lifts his eyes around. He fees but dark-skirted night.

(1) It was the voice of the king; but now his form is gone. Unmarked is your path in the air, ye children of the night. Often, like a reflected beam, are ye feen in the defart wild; but ye retire in your blafts before our steps approach.-Go then, ye feeble race! knowledge with you there is none. Your joys are weak, and like the dreams of our reft, or the light-winged thought that flies across the foul. Shall Cathmor foon be low? Darkly laid in his

(1) The foliloquy of Cathmor abounds with that magnanimity and love of fame which conftitute the hero. Tho' staggered at firft with the prediction of Cairbar's ghost, he foon comforts himself with the agreeable profpect of his future renown; and like Achilles, prefers a short and glorious life to an obfcure length of years in retirement and eafe.