A voice is heard at a distance, as of one in grief; it was Carril of other times, who came from dark Slimora (1).- He told of

the death of Cuchullin, and of his mighty deeds. The people were fcattered round his tomb: their arms lay on the ground. They had forgot the war, for he, their fire, was seen

no more.

But who, faid the foft-voiced Carril, come like the bounding roes? their ftature is like the young trees of the plain, growing in a shower:

Soft and ruddy are their cheeks; but fearless fouls look forth from their eyes.-Who but the fons of Ufnoth (2), the car-borne chiefs

(1) Slimora, a hill in Connaught, near which Cuchullin was killed.

(2) Ufnoth chief of Etha, a diftri&t on the western coast of Scotland, had three fons, Nathos, Althos and Ardan, by Sliffama the fifter of Cuchullin. The three brothers, when very young, were fent over to Ireland by their father, to learn the ufe of arms under their uncle whofe military fame was very great in that kingdom. They had just arrived in Ulfter when the news of Cuchullin's death arrived. Nathos, the eldest of the three brothers, took the command of Cuchullin's army, and made head against Cairbar the chief of Atha. Cairbar having at laft, murdered young king Cormac, at Temora, the army of Nathos shifted fides, and the brothers were obliged to return into Ulfter, in order to pafs over into Scotland. The fequel of their mournful story is related, at large, in the poem of Dar-thula,

of Etha? The people rife on every fide, like the ftrength of an half-extinguished fire, when the winds come, fudden, from the defart, on their ruftling wings.-The found of Caithbat's (1) shield was heard. The heroes faw Cuchullin (2) in Nathos. So rolled his fparkling eyes: his fteps were fuch on heath. Battles are fought at Lego: the fword of Nathos prevails. Soon shalt thou behold him in thy halls, king of Temora of Groves!

And foon may I behold the chief! replied the blue-eyed king. But my foul is fad for Cuchullin; his voice was pleasant in mine ear. Often have we moved, on Dora, to the chace of the dark-brown hinds: his bow was unerring on the mountains. He spoke of mighty men. He told of the deeds of my fathers; and I felt my joy. But fit thou at the feaft, O bard, I have often heard thy voice. Sing in the praife of Cuchullin; and of that mighty ftranger ( 3 ).

Day role on woody Temora, with all the beams of the east. Trathin came to the hall,

(1) Caithbait was grandfather to Cuchullin; and his shield was made ufe of to alarm his pofterity to the battles of the family.

(2) That is, they faw a manifeft likeness between the perfon of Nathos and Cuchullin,

(3) Nathos the fon of Ufnoth.

the fon of old Gelláma (1).-I behold, he faid, a dark cloud in the defart, king of Innisfail! a cloud it feemed at first, but now a croud of men. One ftrides before them in his ftrength; his red hair flies in wind. His shield glitters to the beam of the east. His fpear is in his hand.

Call him to the feaft of Temora, replied the king of Erin. My hall is the houfe of ftrangers, fon of the generous Gelláma !Perhaps it is the chief of Etha, coming in the found of his renown.-Hail, mighty (2) ftranger, art thou of the friends of Cormac? -But Carril, he is dark, and unlovely; and he draws his fword. Is that the fon of Ufnoth, bard of the times of old?

It is not the fon of Ufnoth, faid Carril, but the chief of Atha.-Why comeft thou in thy arms to Temora, Čairbar of the gloomy brow? Let not thy fword rise against Cormac. Whither doft thou turn thy speed?

He paffed on in his darkness, and seized the hand of the king. Cormac forefaw his death, and the rage of his eyes arofe.-Retire, thou gloomy chief of Atha: Nathos comes with battle. Thou art bold in Cormac's hall, for his arm is weak.-The fword entered the

(1) Geal-lamha, white-handed.

(2) From this expreffion, we understand, that Cairbar had entered the palace of Temora, in the midst of Cormac's speech.

ད

fide of the king: he fell in the halls of his 'fathers. His fair hair is in the duft. His blood is fmoking round.

And art thou fallen in thy halls (1), O fon of noble Artho? The shield of Cuchullin was not near. Nor the fpear of thy father. Mournful are the mountains of Erin, for the chief of the people is low!-Bleft be thy foul, O Cormac thou art darkened in thy youth.

My words came to the ears of Cairbar, and he clofed us ( 2 ) in the midst of darkness. He feared to ftretch his fword to the bards (3), though his foul was dark. Long had we pined alone at length, the noble Cathmor ( 4 ) came. He heard our voice from the cave; he turned the eye of his wrath on Cairbar.

Chief of Atha! he said, how long wilt thou (1) Althan speaks.

(2) That is, himself and Carril, as it afterwards appears.

(3) The perfons of the bards were fo facred, that even he, who had just murdered his fovereign, feared to kill them.

:

(4) Cathmor appears the fame difinterested hero upon every occafion. His humanity and generosity were unparalleled in short, he had no fault, but too much attachment to fo bad a brother as Cairbar. His family connection with Cairbar prevails, as he expreffes it, over every other confideration, and makes him engage in a war, of which he did not approve,

pain my foul Thy heart is like the rock of the defart; and thy thoughts are dark.But thou art the brother of Cathmor, and he will fight thy battles.-But Cathmor's foul is not like thine, thou feeble hand of war! The light of my bofom is ftained with thy deeds: the bards will not fing of my renown. They may fay, « Cathmor was brave, but be fought for gloomy Cairbar. » They will pafs over my tomb in filence: my fame shall not be heard. Cairbar! loose the bards: they are the fons of other times. Their voice shall be heard in other years; after the kings of Temora have failed.

We came forth at the words of the chief. We faw him in his ftrength. He was like thy youth, O Fingal, when thou firft didft lift the fpear. His face was like the plain of the fun, when it is bright: no darkness travelled over his brow. But he came with his thousands to Ullin; to aid the red-haired Cairbar : and now he comes to revenge his death, O king of woody Morven!—

And let him come, replied the king; I love a foe like Cathmor. His foul is great; his arm is ftrong, his battles are full of fame.-But the little foul is a vapour that hovers round the marshy lake: it never rifes on the green hill, left the winds should meet it there: its dwelling is in the cave, it fends forth the dart of death.