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his Eyes. His Stature like the Oak of Morven. He moved in the Lightning of Steel.

Our Warriors fell before him, like the Field before the Reapers. Fingal's three Sons he bound. He plunged his Sword into the Fair-one's Breaft. She fell as a Wreath of Snow before the Sun in Spring. Her Bofom heaved in Death; her Soul came forth in Blood.

Ofcur my Son came down; the mighty in Battle defcended. His Armour rattled as Thunder; and the Lightning of his Eyes was terrible. There, was the clashing of Swords; there, was the Voice of Steel. They ftruck and they thurft; they digged for Death with their Swords. But Death was diftant far, and delayed to come. The Sun began to decline; and the Cow-herd thought of Home. Then Ofcur's keen Steel found the Heart of Ullin. He fell like a Mountain-Oak covered over with gliftering Froft: He fhone like a Rock on the Plain.-Here the Daughter of Beauty lieth ; and here the bravest of Men. Here one Day ended the Fair and the Valiant. Here reft the Purfuer and the Purfued.

Son of Alpin! the Woes of the Aged are many. Their Tears are for the past. This raised my Sorrow, Warrior; Memory awaked my Grief. Ofcur my Son was Brave; but Ofcur is now no more. Thou haft heard my Grief, O Son of Alpin; forgive the Tears of the aged.

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FRAGMEMT VII.

WHY openeft thou afresh the Spring of my Grief, O Son of Alpin, inquiring how Ofcur fell? My Eyes are blind with Tears; but Memory beams on my Heart. How can I relate the mournful Death of the Head of the People! Prince of the Warriors, Ofcur, my Son, fhall I fee thee no more!

He fell as the Moon in a Storm; as the Sun from the Midft of his Courfe, when Clouds rife from the Waste of the Waves, when the Blackness of the Storm inwraps the Rocks of Ardannider. I like an ancient Oak on Morvan, I moulder alone in my Place. The Blaft hath lopped my Branches away; and I tremble at the Wings of the North. Prince of the Warriors, Ofcur, my Son! fhall I fee thee no more !

Dermid and Ofcur were one: They reaped the Battle together. Their Friendship was ftrong as their Steel; and Death walked between them to the Field. They came on the Foe like two Rocks falling from the Brows of Ardven. Their Swords were ftained with the Blood of the Valiant: Warriors fainted at their Names. Who was a Match for Ofcur, but Dermid? and who for Dermid, but Ofcur?

They killed mighty Dargo in the Field; Darga before invincible. His Daughter was fair as the

Morn;

Morn; Mild as the Beam of Night. Her Eyes, like two Stars in a Shower: Her Breath, the Gale of Spring Her Breafts, as the new-fallen Snow floating on the moving Heath. The Warriors faw

her, and loved; Their Souls were fixed on the Maid. Each loved her, as his Fame; each must poflefs her or die. But her Soul was fixed on Ofcur; my Son was the Youth of her Love. She forgot the Blood of her Father; and loved the Hand that flew him.

Son of Ofcian, faid Dermid, I love; O Ofcur, I love this Maid. But her Soul cleaveth unto thee; and nothing can heal Dermid. Here pierce this Bofom, Ofcur; relieve me, my Friend, with thy Sword.

My Sword, Son of Morney, fhall never be stained with the Blood of Dermid.

Who then is worthy to flay me, O Ofcur, Son of Ofcian? Let not my Life pafs away unknown. Let none but Ofcur flay me. Send me with Honour to the Grave, and let my Death be renowned.

Dermid, make use of thy Sword; Son of Morney, weild thy Steel. 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 Streams of Branno. Blood tinged the filvery Stream, and curdled round the moffy Stones. Dermid the Graceful fell; fell, and smiled in Death.

And

And falleft thou, Son of Morney; falleft thou by Ofcur's Hand! Dermid, invincible in War, thus do [ fee thee fall!-He went, and returned to the Maid whom he loved? returned, but she perceived his Grief.

Why that Gloom, Son of Ofcian? What shades thy mighty Soul.

Though once renowned for the Bow, O Maid, I have loft my Fame. Fixed on a Tree by the Brook of the Hill, is the Shield of Gormer the Brave, whom in Battle I flew. I have wafted the Day in vain, nor could my Arrow pierce it.

Let me try, Son of Ofcian, the Skill of Dargo's Daughter. My Hands were taught the Bow: My Father delighted in my Skill.

She went. He ftood behind the Shield. Her Arrow flew and pierced his Breaft [p].

Bleffed be that Hand of Snow; and bleffed thy Bow of Yew! I fall refolved 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 Side of Dermid.

[p] Nothing was held by the ancient Highlanders more effential to their Glory, than to die by the Hand of fome Person 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 those early Times, Suicide was utterly unknown among that People, and no Traces of it are found in the old Poetry. Whence the Tranflator suspects the Account that follows of the Daughter of Dargo killing herself, to be the Interpolation of fome later Bard.

Ofcur!

Ofcur! I have the Blood, the Soul of the mighty Dargo. Well pleased I can meet Death. My Sorrow I can end thus.--She pierced her white Bosom with Steel. She fell; the trembled ; and dyed.

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 Sons of the Mountains feed, when Mid-day is all in Flames, and Silence is over the Hills.

B

FRAGMENT

VIII.

Y the Side of a Rock on the Hill, beneath the aged Trees, old Ofcian fat on the Mofs; the laft of the Race of Fingal. Sightlefs 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 Soul: 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 Son? Where are all my Race? Alas! in the Earth they lie. I feel their Tomb with my Hands. I hear the River below murmuring hoarfely over the Stones. What doft thou, O River, to me? Thou bringeft back the Memory of the past.

The Race of Fingal ftood on thy Banks, like a Wood in a fertile Soil. Keen were their Spears of Steel. Hardy was he who dared to encounter their

Rage.

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