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In the country of the Britons, between the Roman

walls, lived two Chiefs; Rathmor, who dwelt at Clutha, and Dunthalmo, lord of Teutha. The former was not more famed for his liberality, than the latter was infamous for his cruelty.

Dunthalmo, an account of some private feuds, murdered Rathmor; but spared his two sons, Calthon and Colmar, whom he educated in his own house. However, when grown up, fearing they intended to revenge the death of their father, he shut them up in two caves, with a design to take them off privately. Colmal, the daughter of Dunthalmo, who was secretly in love with Calthon, helped him to make his escape ; and, disguised in the habit of a young warrior, fled with him to Fingal. The king sent Ossian, with three hundred men, to rescue Colmar; but the youth is basely murdered by Dunthalmo. Ossian, shortly after, coming to battle with the tyrant, kills him, and totally defeats his army. Calthon marries his deliverer, and Ossian returns to Morven.


O THOU, who lonely 'midst our rocks dost dwell,
Thy voice is pleasant, and thy words excel!
In tuneful concert to the murm’ring stream,
Along the narrow valley comes thy theme;
And melts so sweetly in my ravish'd ear,
That, as ín times of yore, I grasp the spear :
I grasp, but feeble grown, would wield in vain,
For years forbid, and sighing, I refrain.
But cease thy songs, and now let Ossian sing ;
His hand to harmony awakes the string;
When brighten'd with the deeds of former days,
His raptur'd soul pours forth heroic lays.
Thus, after clouds, and deluges of rain,
Renew'd in lustre blazes out again;
The sun's bright orb, presenting to the view
Hills, dales, and forests, dropping still with dew.
The aged seer, while nature seems to laugh,
Moves slowly forth, supported on his staff,


And breathes the freshness of the ev’ning air,
The sun-beams glist’ning on his silver hair.

Among the numbers that adorn my hall,
May still be seen a buckler on the wall;
Which, though its bosses are no longer bright,
Is deep indented with the strokes of fight.,
The fierce Dunthalmo that in battle bore,
Till Ossian's furious spear his bosom tore;
As songs delight thy soul, I will proceed,
And tell the crimes that urg'd me to this deed.

In Clutha, Rathmor dwelt; a chief renown'd For hospitality the nation round! Both night and day, his ever crouded hall Stood always open, and admitted all. Bards rais’d the voice, while minstrels swept the string, And joy and music made the palace ring: Not friends alone, but strangers too caress’d, Found entertainment, and his bounty bless'd. Till dark Dunthalmo, mov'd by hate or pride, Disturb’d the feast, and Rathmor e'en defied; At which indignant, he th' intruder quell’d, , And ever after from his board expell’d. This but excited more the ruffian's spite ; Who entering with a murd'rous band by night The hall of Clutha, gen'rous Rathmor kill'd, Where to the stranger oft the shell was fill'd:

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