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cave; where spirits gleamed, at times, with their halffinished forms.
“Dreams descended on Larthon: he saw seven spirits of his fathers. He heard their half-formed words, and dimly beheld the times to come. He beheld the kings of Atha, the sons of future days. They led their liosts along the field, like ridges of mist, which winds pour in autumn, over Atha of the groves.
“Larthon raised the hall of Semia, to the music of the harp. He went forth to the roes of Erin, to their wonted streams. Nor did he forget green-headed Lumon; he often bounded over his seas, to where whitehanded Flathal looked from the bill of roes. Lumon of the foamy streams, thou risest on Fonar's soul !"
Mourning pours from the east. The misty heads of the mountains rise. Valleys show, on every side, the gray winding of the streams. His host heard the shield of Cathmor : at once they rose around; like a crowded sea, when first it feels the wings of the wind. The waves know not whither to roll; they lift their troubled heads.
Sad and slow retired Sul-malla to Lona of the streams. She went, and often turned; her blue eyes rolled in tears. But when she came to the rock, that darkly covered Lona's vale, she looked, from her bursting soul, on the king; and sunk, at once, behind.
Son of Alpin, strike the string. Is there aught of joy in the harp ? Pour it then on the soul of Ossian: it is folded in mist. I hear thee, O bard! in my night. But cease the lightly-trembling sound. The joy of grief belongs to Ossian, amidst his dark-brown years.
Green thorn of the hill of ghosts, that shakest thy head to nightly winds! I hear no sound in thee; is there no spirit's windy skirt now rustling in thy leaves ? Often are the steps of the dead, in the dark-eddying
blasts; when the moon, a dun shield, from the east is rolled along the sky.
Ullin, Carril, and Ryno, voices of the days of old ! Let me hear you, while yet it is dark, to please and awake my soul. I hear you not, ye sons of song; in what hall of the clouds is your rest ? Do you touch the shadowy harp, robed with morning mist, where the rustling sun comes forth from his green-headed waves ? BOOK VIII
The fourth morning, from the opening of the poem, comes on
Fingal, still continuing in the place to which he had retirea on the preceding night, is seen, at intervals, through the mist which covered the rock of Cormul. The descent of the king is de. scribed. He orders Gaul, Dermid, and Carril the bard, to go to the valley of Cluna, and conduct from thence the Caledonian army, Ferad-artho, the son of Cairbar, the only person remaini ing of the family of Conar, the first king of Ireland. The king takes the command of the army, and prepares for battle. Marching towards the enemy, he comes to the cave of Lubar, where the body of Fillan lay. Upon seeing his dog, Bran, who lay at the entrance of the cave, his grief returns. Cathmor arranges the Irish army in order of batile. The appearance of that hero. The general contlict is described. The actions of Fingal and Cathmor. A storm. The total ront of the Fir-boly. The iwo kings engage, in a column of mist, on the banks of Libar. Their attiude and conference after the combat. The death o Cathmor. Fingal re. Agns the spear ot Trenmor to Ossian. The ceremonies o on that occasion. The spirit of Cathmor, in the mean time, appears to Sul-malla, in the valley of Lona. Fler sorrow. Evening comes on. A feast is prepared. The coming of Ferad-artho is announced by the songs of a hundred bards. The poena closes with a speech of Fingal.
As when the wintry winds have seized the waves of the mountain lake, have scized them in stormy night, and clothed them over with ice; white to the hunter's early eye, the billows still seem to roll. He turns his ear to the sound of each unequal ridge. But each is silent, gleaming, strewn with boughs, and tufts of grass, which shake and whistle to the wind, over their gray seats of frost. So silent shone to the mornivy the ridges of Morven's host, as each warrior looked up from his helmet towards the hill of he king; the cloud. covered hill of Fingal, where he stru e in the folds of mist. Ai times is the hero seen. greats 'im in all his arms. From thought to thought rolled the war, along his mighty soul.
Now is the coming forth of the king. First an peared the sword of Luno; the spear half issuing from à cloud, the shield still dim in mist. But when the stride of the king came abroad, with all nis gray dewy locks in the wind; then rose the shouts of his host over every moving tribe. They gathered, gleaning, round, with all their echoing shields. So rise the green scas round a spirit, that comes down from the squally wind. The traveller hears the sound afar, and litis his head over the rock. He looks on the troubled bay, and thinks he dimly sees the form. The waves sport, unwieldy, round, with all their backs of foam.
Far distant stood the son of Morni, Duthno's race, and Cona's bard. We stood far distant; each beneath his tree. We shunned the eves of the king: we had not conquered in the field. A little stream rolled at my feet: I touched its light wave, with my spear. I touched it with my spear: nor there was the soul of Ossian. It darkly rose, from thought to thought, and sent abroad the sigh.
“Son of Morni," said the king. “ Dermid, hunter of roes! why are ye dark, like two rocks, each with its trickling waters? No wrath gathers on Fingal's soul, against the chiefs of men. Ye are my strength in battle; the kindling of my joy in peace. My early voice has been a pleasant gale to your years, when Fillan prepared the bow. The son of Fingal is not here, nor yet the chase of the bounding roes. But why should the breakers of shields stand, darkened, far
Tall they strode towards the king: they saw him turned to Mora's wind. His tears came down for his blue-eyed son, no slept in the cave of streams. But he brightener before them, and spoke to the broad. shielded kings.
“ Crommal, with woody rocks, and misty top, the
field of winds, pours forth, to the sight, blue Lubar's streamy roar. Behind it rolls clear-winding Lavath, in the still vale of deer. A cave is dark in a rock; above it strong-winged eagles dwell; broad-headed oaks, before it, sound in Cluna's wind. Within, in his locks of youth, is Ferad-artho, blue-eyed king, the son of broad-shielded Cairbar, from Ullin of the roes. He listens to the voice of Condan, as gray he bends in feeble light. He listens, for his foes dwell in the echo. ing halls of Temora. He comes, at times, abroad in the skirts of mist, to pierce the bounding roes. When the sun looks on the field, nor by the rock, nor stream, is he! He shuns the race of Bolga, who dwell in his father's hall. Tell him, that Fingal lists the spear, and that his foes, perhaps, may fail.
“Lift up, O Gaul, the shield before him. Stretch, Dermid, Temora's spear. Be thy voice in his ear, O Carril, with the deeds of his fathers. Lead him to green Moi-lena, to the dusky field of ghosts ; for there, I fall forward, in battle, in the folds of war. Before dun night descends, come to high Dunmora's top. Look, from the gray skirts of mist, on Lena of the streams. If there my standard shall float on wind, over Lubar's gleaming stream, then has not Fingal failed in the last of his fields."
Such were his words; nor aught replied the silent striding kings. They looked sidelong on Erin's host, and darkened as they went. Never before had they left the king, in the midst of the stormy field. Behind them, touching at times his harp, the gray-haired Carril moved. He foresaw the fall of the people, and mournful was the sound! It was like a breeze that comes, by fits, over Lego's reedy lake; when sleep half descends on the hunter, within his mossy cave.
“Why bends the bard of Cona,” said Fingal, “over his secret stream? Is this a time for sorrow, father of