called the hawks of heaven. They came, from all their winds, to feaft on Annir's foes. Swaran! Fingal is alonet, on his hill of night. Let thy fpear pierce the king in fecret; like Annir, my foul shall rejoice.

"Son of Annir of Gormal, Swaran fhall not flay in fhades. I move forth in light: the hawks rush from all their winds. They are wont to trace my course: it is not harmless through war."

Burning rofe the rage of the king. He thrice raised his gleaming fpear. But ftarting, he fpared his fon; and rushed into the night. By Turthor's ftream a cave is dark, the dwelling of Conban-carglas. There he laid the helmet of kings, and called the maid of Lulan, but she was diftant far, in Loda's refounding hall.

Swelling with rage, he ftrode, to where Fingal lay alone. The king was laid on his fhield, on his own fecret hill. Stern hunter of fhaggy boars, no feeble maid is laid before thee: no boy, on his ferny bed, by Turthor's murmuring ftream. Here is fpread the couch of the mighty, from which they rife to deeds of death. Hunter of fhaggy boars awaken not the terrible.

Starno came murmuring on. Fingal arose in arms. "Who art thou, fon of night?" Silent he threw the fpear. They mixed their gloomy ftrife. The fhield of Starno fell, cleft in twain. He is bound to an oak. The early beam arofe. Then Fingal beheld the king of Gor mal. He rolled a while his filent eyes. He thought of other days, when white-bofomed Agandecca moved like the music of fongs. He loofed the thong from his hands. Son of Annir, he faid, retire. Retire to Gormal of fhells: a beam that was fet returns. I remember thy white-bofomed daughter; dreadful king, away! Go to thy troubled dwelling, cloudy foe of the lovely! Let the ftranger fhun thee, thou gloomy in the hall!

A TALE of the times of old!

+ Fingal, according to the cuftom of the Caledonian kings, had retired to a hill alone, as he himself was to resume the command of the army the next day. Starno might have fome intelligence of the king's retiring, which occafions his request to Swaran to ftab him; as he forefaw, by his art of divination, that he could not e vercome him in open battle.

A POEM.

THE ARGUMENT.

After an addrefs to Malvina, the daughter of Tefcar, Offian proceeds to relate his own expedition to Fuarfed, an island of Scandinavia. Mal-orchol, king of Fuarfed, being hard preffed in war, by Ton-thormod, chief of Sar-dronlo, (who had demanded, in vain, the daughter of Mal-orchol in marriage) Fingal sent Offian to his aid. Offian, on the day after his arrival, came to battle with Ton-thormod, and took him prifoner. Mal-orchol offers his daughter Oina-morul to Offian; but he, discovering her paffion for Ton-thormod, generously furrenders her to her lover, and brings about a reconciliation between the two kings.

As flies the inconftant fun, over Larmon's graffy hill; fo pafs the tales of old, along my foul, by night. When bards are removed to their place; when harps are hung in Selma's hall; then comes a voice to Offian, and awakes his foul. It is the voice of years that are gone: they roll before me, with all their deeds. I feize the tales, as they pass, and pour them forth in fong. Nor a troubled ftream is the song of the king, it is like the rifing of mufic from Lutha of the ftrings. Lutha of many ftrings, not filent are thy ftreamy rocks, when the white hands of Malvina move upon the harp, Light of the fhadowy thoughts, that fly across my foul, daughter of Tofcar of helmets, wilt thou not hear the fong! We call back, maid of Lutha, the years that have rolled away!

It was in the days of the king†, while yet my locks were young, that I marked Con-cathlin, on high from ocean's nightly wave. My course was towards the ifle of Fuärfed, woody dweller of feas. Fingal had

↑ Fingal.

What ftar was fo called of old is not Con-cathlin, mild beam of the wave.' A fong, eafily afcertained. Some now diftinguish the pole-ftar by that name. which is ftill in repute, among the fea faring part of the Highlanders, alludes to this paffage of Offian. The author commends the knowledge of Offian in fea af. fairs, a merit which, perhaps, few of us moderns will allow him, or any in the age in which he lived. One thing is certain, that the Caledonians often made their way through the dangerous and tempeftuous feas of Scandinavia, which is more, perhaps, than the more polished nations, fubfifting in thofe times, dared to venture. In eftimating the degree of knowledge of arts among the ancients, we ought not to bring it into comparifon with the improvements of modern times. Our advantages over them proceed more from accident than any merit of ours.

fent me to the aid of Mal-orchol, king of Fuärfed wild: for war was around him, and our fathers had met at the feaft.

In Col-coiled, I hound my fails, and sent my sword to Mal-orchol of fhells. He knew the fignal of Albion, and his joy arofe. He came from his own high hall, and feized my hand in grief. "Why comes the race of heroes to a falling king? Ton-thormod of many fpears is the chief of wavy Sar-dronlo. He faw and loved my daughter white-bofomed Oina-morul. He fought: I denied the maid; for our fathers had been foes. He came, with battle, to Fuärfed. My people are rolled away. Why comes the race of heroes to a falling king?""

I come not, I faid, to look, like a boy, on the ftrife. Fingal remembers Mal-orchol, and his hall for strangers. From his waves, the warrior defcended, on thy woody ifle. Thou wert no cloud before him. Thy feaft was fpread with fongs. For this my fword fhall rife; and thy foes perhaps may fail. Our friends are not forgot in their danger, though diftant is our land.

"Son of the daring Trenmor, thy words are like the voice of Cruth-loda, when he fpeaks, from his parting cloud, ftrong dweller of the sky! Many have rejoiced at my feaft; but they all have forgot Mal-orchol. I have looked towards all the winds, but no white fails were feen. But fteel + refounds in my hall; and not the joyful fhells. Come to my dwelling, race of he

There is a fevere fatire couched in this expreffios, against the guests of Malorchol. Had his feaft been ftill spread, had joy continued in his hall, his former parafites would not have failed to refort to him. But as the time of feftivity was paft, their attendance alfo ceafed. The fentiments of a certain old bard are agtceable to this obfervation. He poetically compares a great man to a fire kindled in a defert place. "Thofe that pay court to him, fays he, are rolling large around him, like the fmoke about the fire. This fmoke gives the fire a great appearance at a diftance, but it is but an empty vapour itfelf, and varying its form at every breeze. When the trunk which fed the fire is confumed, the fmoke departs on all the winds. So the flatterers forfake their chief, when his power declines." have chosen to give a paraphrafe, rather than a tranflation, of this paffage, as the original is verbose and frothy, notwithftanding of the fentimental merit of the author. He was one of the lefs ancient bards, and their compofitions are not nervous enough to bear a literal translation.

Vol. II.

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roes; dark-fkirted night is near. Hear the voice of fongs, from the maid of Fuärfed wild."

We went. On the harp arose the white hands of Oina-morul. She waked her own fad tale, from every trembling ftring. I ftood in filence; for bright in her locks was the daughter of many ifles. Her eyes were like two flars, looking forward through a rushing shower. The mariner marks them on high, and blesses the lovely beams. With morning we rushed to battle, to Tormul's_refounding stream; the foe moved to the found of Ton-thormod's boffy fhield. From wing to wing the ftrife was mixed. I met the chief of Sardronlo. Wide flew his broken fteel. I feized the king in fight. I gave his hand bound faft with thongs, to Mal-orchol, the giver of fhells. Joy rofe at the feast of Fuärfed, for the foe had failed. Ton-thormod turned his face away, from Oina-morul of ifles.

"Son of Fingal," begun Mal-orchol, "not forgot fhalt thou pafs from me. A light fhall dwell in thy fhip. Oina-morul of flow-rolling eyes. She fhall kindle gladnefs, along thy mighty foul. Ner unheeded fhall the maid move in Selma, through the dwelling of kings.

In the hall I lay in night. Mine eyes were half-clofed in fleep. Soft mufic came to mine ear: it was like the rifing breeze, that whirls, at firft, the thiftle's beard; then flies, dark-fhadowy, over the grafs. It was the maid of Fuärfed wild: fhe raifed the nightly fong; for fhe knew that my foul was a ftream, that flowed at pleafant founds.

"Who looks," fhe faid, "from his rock, on ocean's clofing mift? His long locks, like the raven's wing, are wandering on the blaft. Stately are his fteps in grief. The tears are in his eyes. His manly breaft is heaving over his burfling foul. Retire, I am distant far; a wanderer in lands unknown. Though the race of kings are around me, yet my foul is dark. Why have our fathers been foes, Ton-thormod, love of maids!"

"Soft voice of the streamy ifle, why doft thou mourn by night? The race of daring Trenmor are not the

dark in foul. Thou shalt not wander by ftreams unknown, blue-eyed Oina-morul. Within this bofom is a voice; it comes not to other ears; it bids Offian hear the hapless in their hour of wo. Retire, foft finger by night! Ton-thormod fhall not mourn on his rock."

With morning I loofed the king. I gave the longhaired maid. Mal-orchol heard my words, in the midst of his echoing halls. "King of Fuärfed, wild, why fhould Ton-thormod mourn? He is of the race of heroes, and a flame in war. Your fathers have been foes, but now their dim ghofts rejoice in death. They ftretch their arms of mift to the fame fhell in Loda. Forget their rage, ye warriors! it was the cloud of 9ther years.

Such were the deeds of Offian, while yet his locks were young: though lovelinefs, with a robe of beams, clothed the daughter of many ifles. We call back, maid of Lutha, the years that have rolled away!

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