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AN

EPIC POEM.

BOOK SEVEN T H.

(1)FROM the wood-skirted waters of Lego, afcend, at times, grey-bofomed mifts, when the gates of the weft are closed on the fun's

(1) No poet departs lefs from his fubject than Offian. No far-fetched ornaments are introduced; the epifodes rife from, and are indeed effentia! to, the ftory of the poem. Even his lyric fongs, where he most indulges the extravagance of fancy, naturally fpring from his fubject. Their propriety and connection with the reft of the poem, shew that the Celtic bard was guided by judgment, amidft the wildeft flights of imagination. It is a common fuppofition among mankind, that a genius for poetry and found fenfe feldom center in the fame perfon. The observation is far from being jult; for true genius and judgment must be infeparable. The wild fights of fancy, without the guidance of judgment, are, as Horace obferves, like the dreams of a fick man, irksome and confufed. Fools can never write good poems. A warm imagination, it is true, domineers over a common portion of fenfe; and hence it is that fo few have fucceeded in the poetical way. But when an uncommon ftrength of judgment, and a glowing fancy, are properly tem

is

eagle-eye. Wide, over Lara's stream, poured the vapour dark and deep: the moon,

pered together, they, and they only, produce genuine poetry.

The prefent book is not the least interesting part of Temora. The awful images, with which it opens, are calculated to prepare the mind for the folemn fcenes which are to follow. Offian, always, throws an air of confequence on every circumftance which relates to Fingal. The very found of his shield produces extraordinary effects; and these are heightened, one above another, in a beautiful climax. The diftrefs of Sul-malla, and her conference with Cathmor, are very affecting. The defcription of his shield is a curious piece of antiquity; and is a proof of the early knowledge of navigation among the inhabitants of Britain and Ireland. Offian, in short, throughout this book, is often fublime, and always pathetic.

Lego, fo often mentioned by Offian, was a lake, in Connaught, in which the river Lara emptied itself. On the banks of this lake dwelt Branno, the father-in-law of Offian, whom the poet often vifited before and after the death of Evir-allin. This circumftance, perhaps, occafioned the partiality, with which he always mentions Leigo and Lara; and accounts for his drawing fo many of his images from them. The fignification of Leigo, is, the lake of disease, probably fo called, on account of the moraffes which furrounded it.

As the mift, which rofe from the lake of Leigo, occafioned difeafes and death, the bards feigned, as here, that it was the refidence of the ghofts of

like a dim shield, is fwimming thro' its folds. With this, clothe the fpirits of old their fudden geftures on the wind, when they ftride, from blaft to blaft, along the dusky face of the night. Often, blended with the gale, to some warrior's grave, they roll the mift, a grey dwelling to his ghoft, until the fongs

arife.

A found came from the defart; the rushing courfe of Conar in winds. He poured his deep mift on Fillan, at blue-winding Lubar. -Dark and mournful fat the ghoft, bending in his grey ridge of fmoak. The blaft, at times,rolled him together: but the lovely form returned again. It returned with flow-bending eyes and dark winding of locks of mift.

the deceased, during the interval between their death and the pronouncing of the funeral elegy over their tombs; for it was not allowable, without that ceremony was performed, for the fpirits of the dead to mix with their ancestors, in their airy halls. It was the bufinefs of the fpirit of the neareft relation to the deceafed, to take the mist of Lego, and pour it over the grave. We find here Conar, the fon of Trenmor, the firft king of Ireland, according to Ofian, performing this office for Fillan, as it was in the caufe of the family of Conar, that that hero was killed. The defcription of the appearance of the ghoft is picturesque and folemn, imposing a still attention to the fpeech that follows it, which, with great propriety, is short and awful.

It is (1) dark. The fleeping hoft were still, in the skirts of night. The flame decayed, on the hill of Fingal; the king lay lonely on his shield. His eyes were half-closed in fleep; the voice of Fillan came. « Sleeps the husband of Clatho? Dwells the father of the fallen in reft? Am I forgot in the folds of darkness; lonely in the season of dreams? »

(1) It has been observed, that Offian takes great delight in defcribing night-scenes. This, in fome measure, is to be attributed to his melancholy difpofition, which delighted to dwell upon folemn objects. Even other poets, of a lefs ferious turn than Offian, have best succeeded in descriptions of this fort. Solemn fcenes make the most lafting impreffions on the imagination; gay and light objects only touch the furface of the foul, and vanish. The human mind is naturally ferious: levity and chearfulness may be amiable, but they are too often the caracteristics of weakness of judgment, and a deplorable shallownefs of foul. The night-defcriptions of Offian were in high repute among fucceeding bards. One of them delivered a fentiment, in a diftich, more favourable to his tafte for poetry, than to his gallantry towards the ladies. I shall here give a tranflation of it.

« More pleasant to me is the night of Cona, dark-ftreaming from Offian's harp; more pleasant it is to me, than a white-bofomed dweller between my arms; than a fair-handed daughter of heroes, in the hour of rest. »

Tho' tradition is not very fatisfactory concerning the hiftory of this poet, it has taken care to inform us, that he was very old when he wrote the diftich. He lived (in what age is uncertain) in one

dreams?

Why art thou in the midst of my faid Fingal, as, fudden, he rofe. Can I forget thee, my fon, or thy path of fire in the field? Not fuch, on the foul of the king, come the deeds of the mighty in arms. They are not there a beam of lightening, which is feen, and is then no more. - I remember thee, O Fillan, and my wrath begins to rife.

The king took his deathful fpear, and ftruck the deeply-founding shield his shield (1) that hung high in night, the difimal fign

of the western ifles, and his name was Turlock Ciabh-glas, or Turloch of the grey locks.

(1) Succeeding bards have recorded many fables, concerning this wonderful shield. They fay, that Fingal, in one of his expeditions into Scandinavia, met, in one of the islands of Juteland, with Luno, a celebrated magician. This Luno was the Vulcan of the north, and had made compleat fuits of armour for many of the heroes of Scandinavia. One difagreeable circumftance was, that every person who wanted to employ Luno to make armour for him, was obliged to overcome him, at his own magic art. Fingal, unskilled in spells or enchantments, effected with dint of prowess, what others failed in, with all their fupernatural art. When Luno demanded a trial of skill from Fingal, the king drew his fword, cut off the skirts of the magician's robe, and obliged him, bare as he was, to fly before him. Fingal pursued, but Luno, coming to the fea, by his magic art, walked upon the waves. Fingal pursued him in his ship, and,

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