eagle-wing, from the foe that is low. Cathmor's fwelling foul arose: he took the dagger from his fide; and placed it gleaming in my hand. He placed it, in my hand, with fighs, and, filent, ftrode away.—Mine eyes followed his departure. He dimly gleamed, like the form of a ghoft, which meets a traveller, by night, on the dark-skirted heath. His words are dark like fongs of old with morning ftrides the unfinished shade away. (1) Who comes from Lubar's vale? From (1) The morning of the fecond day, from the opening of the poem, comes on. After the death of Cuchullin, Carril, the fon of Kinfena, his bard, retired to the cave of Tura, which was in the neighbourhood of Moi-lena, the fcene of the poem of Temora. His cafual appearance here enables Offian to fulfil immediately the promise he had made to Cathmor, of caufing the funeral fong to be pronounced over the tomb of Cairbar.- The whole of this pallage, together with the addrefs of Carril to the fun, is a lyric measure, and was, undoubtedly intended as a relief to the mind, after the long narrative which preceded it. Tho' the lyric pieces fcattered through the poems of Offian, are certainly very beautiful in the original, yet they muft appear much to disadvantage, ftripped of numbers, and the harmony of thime. In the recitative or narrative part of the poem, the original is rather a measured 12 the folds of the morning mift? The drops of heaven are on his head. His steps are in the paths of the fad. It is Carril of other times. He comes from Tura's filent cave. I behold it dark in the rock, thro' the thin folds of mift. There, perhaps, Cuchullin fits, on the blaft which bends its trees. Pleasant is the fong of the morning from the bard of Erin! The waves crowd away for fear: they hear the found of thy coming forth, O fun!Terrible is thy beauty, fon of heaven, when death is folded in thy locks; when thou rolleft thy vapors before thee, over the blasted hoft. But pleafant is thy beam to the hunter, fitting by the rock in a ftorm, when thou lookest from thy parted cloud, and brighteneft his dewy locks; he looks down on the ftreamy vale, and behold the defcent of roes.- How long shalt thou rife on war, and roll, a bloody shield, thro' heaven I fee the deaths of heroes darkwandering over thy face !-Why wander the words of Carril! does the fon of heaven mourn! he is unstained in his course, ever rejoicing in his fire.-Roll on, thou careless light; thou too, perhaps, muft fall. Thy dun fort of profe, than any regular verfification; but it has all that variety of cadences, which fuit the different ideas, and paffions of the fpeakers.This book takes up only the fpace of a few hours. robe (1) may feize thee, ftruggling, in thy s at sky. bet Pleafant is the voice of the fong, O old Carril, to Offian's foul! It is like the shower is, of the morning, when it comes through the ruftling vale, on which the fun looks thro' mift, juft rising from his rocks.-But this is no time, O bard, to fit down, at the strife of fong. Fingal is in arms on the vale. Thou feeft the flaming shield of the king. His face darkens between his locks. He beholds the wide rolling of Erin. Does not Carril behold that tomb, befide the roaring ftream? Three ftones lift their grey heads, beneath a bending oak. A king is lowly-laid: give thou his foul to the wind. He is the Brother of Cathmor! open his airy hall. Let thy fong be a ftream of joy to Cairbar's darkened ghoft. (1) By the dun robe of the fun, is probably meant an eclipfe. |