hills! Raife the stones of my renown. Place the horn of the deer, and my fword within my narrow dwelling.-The torrent hereafter may raise the earth: the hunter may find the fteel and fay, « This has been Oscar's fword. >>

And falleft thou, fon of my fame! And shall I never see thee, Ofcar! When others hear of their fons, I shall not hear of thee. The mofs is on thy four grey ftones; the mournful wind is there. The battle shall be fought without him: he shall not pursue the dark-brown hinds. When the warrior returns from battles, and tells of other lands; I have seen a tomb, he will fay, by the roaring ftream, the dark dwelling of a chief. He fell by car-borne Ofcar, the first of mortal men.-I, perhaps, shall hear his voice; and a beam of joy will rife in my foul.

The night would have defcended in forrow, and morning returned in the shadow of grief: our chiefs would have stood like cold dropping rocks on Moi-lena, and have forgot the war, did not the king difperfe his grief, and raise his mighty voice. The chiefs, as new-wakened from dreams, lift up their heads around.

How long on Moi-lena shall we weep; or pour our tears in Ullin? The mighty

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will not return. Ofcar shall not rife in his ftrength. The valiant must fall one day, and be no more known on his hills.-Where are our fathers, O warriors! the chiefs of the times of old? They have fet like stars that have shone; we only hear the found of their praife. But they were renowned in their day, the terror of other times. Thus shall we pafs, O warriors! in the day of our fall. Then let us be renowned when we may; and leave our fame behind us, like the laft beams of the fun, when he hides his red head in the weft.

Ullin, my aged bard! take the ship of the king. Carry Ofcar to Selma of harps. Let the daughters of Morven weep. We shall fight in Erin for the race of fallen Cormac. The days of my years begin to fail I feel the weakness of my arm. My fathers bend from their clouds, to receive their grey-hair'd fon. But, before I go hence, one beam of fame shall rife: fo shall my days end, as my years begun, in fame: life shall be one ftream of light to bards of other times.

my

Ullin rais'd his white fails: the wind of the fouth came forth. He bounded on the waves towards Selma.-(1) I remained in

(1) The poet fpeaks in his own perfon.

my grief, but my words were not heard.— The feaft is fpread on Moi-lena: an hundred heroes reared the tomb of Cairbar: but no fong is raised over the chief: for his foulhad been dark and bloody. The bards remembered the fall of Cormac ! what could they fay in Cairbar's praise?

The night came rolling down. The light of an hundred oaks arofe. Fingal fat beneath a tree. Old Althan (1) ftood in the midft. He told the tale of fallen Cormac. Althan the fon of Conachar, the friend of car-borne Cuchullin he dwelt with Cormac in windy Temora, when Semo's fon fought with generous Torlath.-The tale of Althan was mournful, and the tear was in his eye.

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(2) The fetting fun was yellow on Dora (3). Grey evening began to defcend. Temora's woods shook with the blaft of the unconftant wind. A cloud, at length, gathered in the weft, and a red ftar looked from behind its

(1) Althan, the fon of Conachar was the chief bard of Arth king of Ireland. After the death of Arth, Althan attended his fon Cormac, and was prefent at his death. He had made his efcape from Cairbar, by the means of Cathmor and coming to Fingal, relared, as here, the death of his mafter Cormac.

(2) Althan fpeaks.

(3) Doira, the woody fide of a mountain; it is here a hill in the neighbourhood of Temora,

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edge. I ftood in the wood alone, and faw a ghoft on the darkening air. His ftride extended from hill to hill his shield was dim on his fide. It was the fon of Semo: I knew the warrior's face. But he paffed away in his blaft; and all was dark around. -- My foul was fad. I went to the hall of shells. A thoufand lights arofe: the hundred bards had ftrung the harp. Cormac food in the midft, like the morning ftar, when it rejoices on the eastern hill, and its young beams are bathed in showers.-The fword of Artho (1) was in the hand of the king; and he looked with joy on its polished ftuds: thrice he ftrove to draw it, and thrice he failed; his yellow locks are fpread on his shoulders his cheeks of youth are red.-I mourned over the beam of youth, for he was foon to set.

Althan he faid, with a smile, haft thou beheld my father? Heavy is the fword of the king, furely his arm was ftrong. O that I were like him in battle, when the rage of his wrath arofe! then would I have met like Cuchullin, the car-borne fon of Cantéla! But years may come on, O Althan! and my arm be ftrong. Haft thou heard of Semo's fon, the chief of high Temora? He might have returned with his fame; for he promised

(1) Arth or Artho, the father of Cormac king of Ireland.

to return to-night. My bards wait him with fongs; my feaft is fpread in Temora.

I heard the king in filence. My tears began to flow. I hid them with my aged locks; but he perceived my grief.

Son of Conachar! he faid, is the king of Tura (1) low Why burfts thy figh in fecret? And why defcends the tear?-Comes the carborne Torlath? Or the found of the redhaired Cairbar?-They come!-for I behold thy grief. Moffy Tura's king is low!-Shall I not rush to battle-But I cannot lift the fpear -O had mine arm the ftrength of Cuchullin, foon would Cairbar fly; the fame

of

my fathers would be renewed; and the deeds of other times!

He took his bow. The tears flow down; from both his fparkling eyes.-Grief faddens round the bards bend forward, from their hundred harps. The lone blast touched their trembling ftrings. The found (2) is fad and low.

(1) Cuchullin is called the king of Tura from caftle of that name on the coaft of Ulfter, where he dwelt, before he undertook the management of the affairs of Ireland, in the minority of Cormac.

(2) The prophetic found, mentioned in other poems, which the harps of the bards emitted before the death of a perfon worthy and renowned. It is here an omen of the death of Cormac, which, foon after, followed.