thy father, to his hill of feafts. In the evening mift he fits, and hears the voice of Carril's harp. Carry joy to the aged, young breaker of the shields.

Can the vanquished carry joy? Offian, no shield is mine. It lies broken on the field. The eagle-wing of my helmet is torn. It is when foes fly before them that fathers delight in their fons. But their fighs burft forth, in fecret, when their young warriors yield.No Fillan will not behold the king. Why should the hero mourn?

:

Son of blue-eyed Clatho, why doft thou awake my foul? Wert thou not a burning fire before him; and shall he not rejoice?-Such fame belonged not to Offian; yet was the king ftill a fun to me. He looked on my fteps, with joy shadows never rose on his face. Afcend, O Fillan to Mora: his feaft is spread in the folds of mist.

Offian, give me that broken shield: these feathers that are rolled in the wind. Place them near to Fillan, that lefs of his fame may fall. Offian, I begin to fail.-Lay me in that hollow rock. Raife no ftone above: left one should ask about my fame. I am fallen in the first of my fields; fallen without renown. Let thy woice alone fend joy to

Book VI. my flying foul. Why should the feeble know where dwells the loft beam of Clatho (1)?

(1) In this, as well as the former publication, I have only admitted into the text compleat poems, or independent epifodes; the fragments which remain of the compofitions of Offian, I have chosen to throw, occafionally, into the notes. I shall here give a tranflation of a part of a poem concerning the death of Fillan. It is a dialogue between Clatho the mother, and Bos-mina the fifter, of that hero.

CLAT Hо.

« Daughter of Fingal, arife: thou light between thy locks! Lift thy fair head from reft, foft-gliding fun-beam of Selma ! I beheld thy arms on thy breast, white-tossed amidst thy wandering locks: when the ruftling breeze of the morning came from the defert of ftreams. Haft thou feen thy fathers, Bos-mina, defcending in thy dreams? Arife, daughter of Clatho; dwells there aught of grief in thy foul?

A thin form paffed before me , fading as it flew like the darkening wave of a breeze, along a field of grass. Defcend, from thy wall, O harp, and call back the foul of Bos-mina, it has rolled away, like a ftream. I hear thy pleasant found. I hear thee harp, and my voice shall rife.

Is thy fpirit on the eddying winds, blueeyed king of shields? Joy pursue my hero,

How often shall ye rush to war, ye dwellers of my foul Your paths are diftant, kings of men > in Erin of blue ftreams. Lift thy wing, thou fouthern breeze, from Clono's darkening heath: fpread the fails of Fingal towards the bays of his land.

But who is that, in his ftrength, darkening in the prefence of war? His arm ftretches to the foe, like the beam of the fickly fun; when his fide is crufted with darkness; and he rolls his difmal course thro' the sky. Who is it, but the father of Bos-mina Shall he return till danger is paft ?

Fillan, thou art a beam by his fide; beautiful, but terrible, is thy light. Thy fword is be fore thee, a blue fire of night. When shalt thou return to thy roes; to the ftreams of thy rushy fields? When shall I behold thee from Mora, while winds ftrew my long locks on mofs ! shall a young cagle return from the field where the heroes fall!

-But

CLATH O.

Soft, as the fong of Loda, is the voice of Selma's maid. Pleasant to the ear of Clatho is the

name of the breaker of shields.comes from ocean: the shield

-Behold, the king of Morven is borne

BOOK VI. thro' his folded clouds. The forms of thy fathers, O Fillan, bend to receive their fon. I behold the spreading of their fire on Mora; the blue-rolling of their mifty wreaths.Joy meet thee my brother.-But we are dark and fad. I behold the foe round the aged, and the wafting away of his fame. Thou art left alone in the field grey-haired king of

Selma.

I laid him in the hollow rock, at the roar of the nightly ftream. One red star looked in on the hero winds lift, at times, his locks. I liftened: no found was heard: for the warrior flept.-As lightning on a cloud, a thought came rushing over my foul.-My eyes rolled in fire : my ftride was in the clang

of steel.

I will find thee, chief of Atha, in the gathering of thy thoufands. Why should that cloud efcape, that quenched our early beam? Kindle your meteors, my fathers, to light my daring fteps. I will confume in wrath (1)

by bards. The foe has fled before him, like the departure of mift. I hear not the founding wings of my cagle; the rushing forth of the fon of Clatho. Thou art dark, O Fingal; shall he not return?

(1) Here the fentence is defignedly left unfinished

-Should I not return! the king is without a fon, grey-haired amidft his foes. His arm is not as in the days of old: his fame grows dim in Erin. Let me not behold him from high, laid low in his latter field.-But can I return to the king? Will he not ask about his fon ? « Thou oughteft to defend young Fillan ». I will meet the foe.. Green Inisfail, thy founding tread is pleasant to my ear: I rush on thy ridgy hoft, to shun the

-

by the poet. The fenfe is, that he was refolved, like a destroying fire, to confume Cathmor, who had killed his brother. In the midst of this refolution, the fituation of Fingal fuggefts itself to him, in a very strong light. He refolves to return to affift the king in profecuting the war.

-But then

his shame for not defending his-brother, recurs to him.- -He is determined again to go and find out Cathmor.- -We may confider him, as in the act of advancing towards the enemy when the horn of Fingal founded on Mora, and called back his people to his prefence -This foliloquy is natural: the refolutions which so fuddenly follow one another, are expreffive of a mind extremely agitated with forrow and confcious shame; yet the behaviour of Offian, in his execution of the commands of Fingal, is fo irreprehenfible, that it is not easy to determine where he failed in his duty. The truth is, that when men fail in defigns which they ardently wish to accomplish, they naturally blame themselves as the chief caufe of their dif appointment. The comparifon, with which the poet concludes his foliloquy, is very fanciful; and well adapted to the ideas of thofe, who live in a country, where lightning is extremely common.