DERMID, make use of thy fword; fon of Morny, wield thy fteel. Would that I fell with thee! that my death came from the hand of Dermid ! THEY fought by the brook of the mountain; by the ftreams of Branno. Blood tinged the filvery ftream, and crudled round the moffy ftones. Dermid the graceful fell; fell, and fmiled in death. AND falleft thou, fon of Morny; falleft thou by Ofcur's hand! Dermid invincible in war, thus do I fee thee fall! -He went, and returned to the maid whom he loved; returned, but the perceived his grief. WHY that gloom, fon of Ofcian? what shades thy mighty foul? ར Omaid, I have loft my fame. Fixed on a tree by the brook of the hill, is the fhield of Gormur the brave, whom in battle I flew. I have wafted the day in vain, nor could my arrow pierce it. LET me try, fon of Ofcian, the skill of Dargo's daughter. My hands were taught the bow: my father delighted in my fkill. SHE went. He ftood behind the fhield. Her arrow flew and pierced his breast *. *Nothing was held by the ancient Highlanders more effential to their glory, than to die by the hand of fonse perfon worthy or renowned. This was the occafion of Ofcur's contriving to be flain by his mistress, now that he was weary of life. In thofe early times fuicide was utterly unknown among that people, and no traces of it are found in the old poetry. Whence the tranflator fufpe&ts the account that follows of the daughter of Dargo killing herself, to be the interpolation of fome later Bard.. BLESSED be that hand of fnow; and bleffed thy bow of yew! I fall resolved on death and who but the daughter of Dargo was worthy to flay me? Lay me in the earth, my fair-one; lay me by the fide of Dermid. OSCUR! I have the blood, the foul of the mighty Dargo. Well pleafed I can meet death. My forrow I can end thus. She pierced her white bofom with fteel. She fell; fhe trembled; and died. By the brook of the hill their graves are laid; a birch's unequal shade covers their tomb. Often on their green earthen tombs the branchy fons of the mountain feed, when mid-day is all in flames, and filence is over all the hills. VIII. VIII. BY the fide of a rock on the hill, be neath the aged trees, old Ofcian fat on the mofs; the laft of the race of Fingal. Sightless are his aged eyes; his beard is waving in the wind. Dull through the leaflefs trees he heard the voice of the north. Sorrow revived in his foul he began and lamented the dead. How haft thou fallen like an oak, with all thy branches round thee! Where is Fingal the King? where is Ofcur my fon? where are all my race? Alas! in the earth they lie. I feel their tombs with my hands. I hear the river below murmuring hoarfely over the ftones. What doft thou, O river, to me? Thou bringeft back the memory of the past. THE THE race of Fingal stood on thy banks, like a wood in a fertile foil. Keen were their spears of steel. Hardy was he who dared to encounter their rage. Fillan the great was there. ThouOfcur wert there, my fon! Fingal himfelf was there, ftrong in the grey locks of years. Full rofe his finewy limbs; and wide his fhoulders fpread. The unhappy met with his arm, when the pride of his wrath arose. THE fon of Morny came; Gaul, the tallest of men. He ftood on the hill like an oak; his voice was like the ftreams of the hill. Why reigneth alone, he cries, the fon of the mighty Corval? Fingal is not ftrong to fave: he is no fupport for the people. I am ftrong as a ftorm in the ocean; as a whirlwind on the hill. Yield, fon of Corval; Fingal, yield to me. OSCUR |