wide they came rolling along. Dark Malthos, in the wing of war, looks forward from shaggy brows. Next rofe that beam of light Hidalla; then the fide-long-looking gloom of Maronnan. Blue shielded Clonar lifts the Ipear; Cormar shakes his bushy locks on the wind. Slowly, from behind a rock, rose the bright form of Atha. Firft appeared his two pointed fpears, then the half of his burnished shield like the rifing of a nightly meteor over the vale of ghofts. But when he shone all abroad, the hofts plunged, at once, into ftrife. The gleaming waves of fteel are poured on either fide.

As meet two troubled feas, with the rolling of all their waves, when they feel the wings of contending winds, in the rock-fided firth of Lumon; along the echoing hills is the dim courfe of ghofts: from the blaft fall the torn groves on the deep, amidst the foamy path So mixed the hofts! Now Fingal; now Cathmor came abroad. The dark tumbling of death is before them : the gleam of broken fteel is rolled on their steps, as, loud, the high-bounding kings hewed down the ridge of shields.

of whales.

Maronnan fell, by Fingal, laid large across a ftream. The waters gathered by his fide, and leapt grey over his boffy shield.-Clonar is pierced by Cathmor: nor yet lay the chief

on earth. An oak feized his hair in his fall. His helmet rol ed on the ground. By its thong, hung his broad shield; over it wandered his ftreaming blood. Tla-min (1) shall weep, in the hall, and ftrike her heaving breast.

(1) Tla-min, mildly-foft. The loves of Clonar and Tla-min were rendered famous in the north, by a fragment of a Lyric poem, ftill preferved, which is afcribed to Offian. Be it the compofition of whom it will, its poetical merit may, perhaps. excufe me for inferting it here. It is a dialogue between Clonar and Tla-min. She begins with a foliloquy, which he overhears.

« Clonar, fou of Conglas of I-mor, young hunter of dun-fided roes! where art thou laid amidst rushes, beneath the paffing wing of the breeze? -I behold thee, my love, in the plain of thy own dark ftreams! The clung thorn is rolled by the wind, and ruftles along his shield. Bright in his locks he lies: the thoughts of his dreams fly, darkening, over his face. Thou thinkeft of the battles of Offian, young fon of the echoing ifle!

« Half-hid, in the grove, I fit down. Fly back ye mifts of the hill. Why should ye hide her love from the blue eyes of Tla-min of harps?

CLONA R.

As the fpitit, feen in a dream, flies off from our opening eyes, we think, we behold his bright path between the clofing hills; fo fled the daughter of Clun-gal, from the fight of Clonar of shields. Atife, from the gathering of trees; blue-eyed Tla-min arife,

Nor did Offian forget the fpear, in the wing of his war. He ftrewed the field with dead. Young Hidalla came. Soft voice of ftreamy Clonra! Why doft thou lift the fteel? -O that we met, in the ftrife of song, in thy own rushy vale! rushy vale! Malthos beheld him low, and darkened as he rushed along. On either fide of aftream, we bend in the echoing ftrife. Heaven comes rolling down : around burft the voices of fqually winds.— Hills are clothed, at times, in fire. Thunder rolls in wreaths of mist. — In darkness shrunk the foe Morven's warriors ftood aghaft. Still I bent over the ftream, amidst my ling locks.

whift

TLA MI N.

« I turn me away from his fteps. Why should he know of my love! My white breaft is heaving over fighs, as foam on the dark courfe of ftreams. But he paffes away, in his arms! glas, my foul is fad.

CLONA R.

Son of Con

It was the shield of Fingal ! the voice cf kings from Selma of harps! My path is towards green Erin. Arife, fair light, from thy shades. Come to the field of my foul, there is the fpreading of hofts. Arife, on Clonar's troubled foul, young daughter of blue-shielded Clungal. » —

Clungal was the chief of I-mor, one of the Hebrides.

Then rofe the voice of Fingal, and the found of the flying foe. I faw the king, at times, in lightning, darkly-ftriding in his might. I ftruck my echoing shield, and hung forward on the steps of Alnecma: the foe is rolled before me, like a wreath of smoak.

The fun looked forth from his cloud. The hundred ftreams of Moi-lena shone. Slow rofe the blue columns of mist, against the glittering hill. Where are the mighty kings (1) Nor by that ftream, nor wood, are they! - I hear the clang of arms! Their ftrife is in the bofom of mift. Such is the contending of spirits in a nightly cloud,

(1) Fingal and Cathmor. The conduct of the poet, in this paffage, is remarkable. His numerous defcriptions of fingle combats had already exhaufted the fubject. Nothing new, nor adequate to our high idea of the kings could be faid. Offian, therefore, throws a column of mift over the whole, and leaves the combat to the imagination of the reader. Poets have almost univerfally failed in their defcriptions of this fort. Not all the ftrength of Homer could sustain, with dignity, the minutie of a fingle combat. The throwing of a fpear, and the braying of a shield, as fome of our own poets moft elegantly exprefs it, convey no grand ideas. Our imagination ftretches beyond, and, confequently, defpifes, the defcription. It were, therefore, well, for fome poets, in my opinion, tho' it is, perhaps, fomewhat fingular) to have, fometimes, like Offian, thrown mift over their fingle combats.

when

when they ftrive for the wintry wings of winds, and the rolling of the foam-covered

waves.

I rushed along. The grey mist rose. — Tall, gleaming, they ftood at Lubar. - Cathmor leaned against a rock. His half-fallen shield received the ftream, that leapt from the moss above. Towards him is the ftride of Fingal; he faw the hero's blood. His fword fell flowly to his fide. He fpoke, midst hist darkening joy.

Yields the race of Borbar-duthul? Or ftill does he lift the fpear? Not unheard is thy name, in Selma, in the green dwelling of ftrangers. It has come, like the breeze of his 'defart, to the ear of Fingal. - Come to my hill of feafts: the mighty fail, at times. No fire am I to low-laid foes: I rejoice not over the fall of the brave.-To close (1) the wound is mine I have known the herbs of the hills.

(1) Fingal is very much celebrated, in tradition, for his knowledge in the virtues of herbs. The Irish poems, concerning him, often reprefent him, curing the wounds which his chiefs received in battle. They fable concerning him, that he was in poffeffion of a cup, containing the effence of herbs, which inftantaneoufly healed wounds. The knowledge of curing the wounded, was, till of late, univerfal among the Highlanders. We hear of no other diforder, which required the skill of phyfic. The wholesomeness of the climate, and an active life, fpent in hunting, excluded difeafes.

VOL. III.

M