Lethmal, the gray-haired bard of Selma. He alone had remained on the coaft, with the daughter of Torthóma. "Son of the times of old!" fhe faid, "I hear the noife of death. Thy friends have met with Uthal and the chief is low! O that I had remained on the rock, inclosed with the tumbling waves! Then would my foul be fad, but his death would not reach my ear. Art thou fallen on thy heath, O fon of high Finthormo! Thou didst leave me on a rock, but my foul was full of thee. Son of high Finthormo! art thou fallen on thy heath ?"

SHE rofe pale in her tears. She faw the bloody fhield of Uthal. She faw it in Offian's hand. Her fteps were distracted on the heath. She flew. She found him. She fell. Her foul came forth in a figh. Her hair is spread on his face. My burfting tears defcend. A tomb arofe on the unhappy. My fong of woe was heard. 66 Reft, hapless children of youth! Reft at the noise of that moffy ftream! The virgins will fee your tomb, at the chace, and turn away their weeping eyes. Your fame will be in song. The voice of the harp will be heard in your praife. The daughters of Selma fhall hear it: your renown fhall be in other lands. Reft, children of youth, at the noise of the moffy stream."

Two

Two days we remained on the coaft. The heroes of Berrathon convened. We brought Larthmor to his halls. The feast of shells is fpread. The joy of the aged was great. He looked to the arms of his fathers. The arms which he left in his hall, when the pride of Uthal rofe. We were renowned before Larthmor. He bleffed the chiefs of Morven. He knew not that his fon was low, the ftately ftrength of Uthal! They had told, that he had retired to the woods, with the tears of grief. They had told it, but he was filent in the tomb of Rothma's heath.

66

On the fourth day we raised our fails, to the roar of the northern wind. Larthmor came to the coaft. His bards exalted the fong. The joy of the king was great, he looked to Rothma's gloomy heath. He faw the tomb of his fon. The memory of Uthal rose. "Who of my heroes," he said, lies, there? he seems to have been of the kings of men. Was he renowned in my halls, before the pride of Uthal rofe?" Ye are filent, fons of Berrathon! is the king of heroes low? My heart melts for thee, O Uthal! though thy hand was against thy father. O that I had remained in the cave! that my fon had dwelt in Finthormo! I might have heard the

tread

tread of his feet, when he went to the chace of the boar. I might have heard his voice on the blaft of my cave. Then would my foul be glad : but now darkness dwells in my halls."

SUCH were my deeds, fon of Alpin, when the arm of my youth was ftrong. Such the actions of Tofcar, the car-borne fon of Conloch. But Tofcar is on his flying cloud. I am alone at Lutha. My voice is like the laft found of the wind, when it forfakes the woods. But Offian fhall not be long alone. He fees the mift that shall receive his ghoft. He beholds the mift that shall form his robe, when he appears on his hills. The fons of feeble men fhall behold me, and admire the ftature of the chiefs of old. They fhall creep to their caves. They fhall look to the sky with fear: for my steps fhall be in the clouds. Darknefs fhall roll on my fide.

LEAD, fon of Alpin, lead the aged to his woods. The winds begin to rife. The dark wave of the lake refounds. Bends there not a

tree from Mora with its branches bare? It bends, fon of Alpin, in the ruffling blaft. My harp hangs on a blasted branch. The found of its ftrings is mournful. Does the wind touch thee, O harp, or is it fome paffing ghoft! It is the hand of Malvina! Bring me the harp,

* Offian speaks.

fon

fon of Alpin. Another fong fhall rife. My foul fhall depart in the found. My fathers fhall hear it in their airy hall. Their dim faces shall hang, with joy, from their clouds; and their hands receive their fon. The aged oak bends over the ftream. It fighs with all its mofs. The withered fern whiftles near, and mixes, as it waves, with Offian's hair.

"STRIKE the harp and raise the fong: be near, with all your wings, ye winds. Bear the mournful found away to Fingal's airy hall. Bear it to Fingal's hall, that he may hear the voice of his fon. The voice of him that praised the mighty!"

"THE blaft of north opens thy gates, O king. I behold thee fitting on mift, dimly, gleaming in all thine arms. Thy form now is not the terror of the valiant. It is like a watery cloud; when we see the stars behind it, with their weeping eyes. Thy fhield is the aged moon: thy fword a vapour half-kindled with fire. Dim and feeble is the chief, who travelled in brightness before! But thy fteps are on the winds of the

* This description of the power of Fingal over the winds and storms, and the image of his taking the fun, and hiding him in the clouds, do not correfpond with the preceding paragraph, where he is reprefented as a feeble ghoft, and no more the TERROR OF THE VALIANT; but it agrees with the notion of the times concerning the fouls of the deceafed, who, it was fuppofed, had the command of the winds and storms, but took no concern in the affairs of men.

defart.

defart. The ftorms are darkening in thy hand. Thou takeft the fun in thy wrath, and hidest him in thy clouds. The fons of little men are afraid. A thoufand fhowers defcend. But when thou comeft forth in thy mildness; the gale of the morning is near thy courfe. The fun laughs in his blue fields. The grey ftream winds in its vale. The bufhes fhake their green heads in the wind. The roes bound towards the defart." "THERE is a murmur in the heath! the ftormy winds abate! I hear the voice of Fingal. Long has it been abfent from mine ear! "Come,

Fingal has re away, like flames

Offian, come away," he says. ceived his fame. We paffed that had fhone for a season. Our departure was in renown. Though the plains of our battles. are dark and filent; our fame is in the four grey ftones. The voice of Offian has been heard. The harp has been ftrung in Selma. "Come Offian, come away," he fays, "come, fly with thy fathers on clouds." I come, I come, thou king of men! The life of Offian fails. I begin to vanish on Cona. My fteps are not feen in Selma. Befide the ftone of Mora I fhall fall afleep. The winds whiftling in my grey hair, fhall not awaken me. Depart on thy wings, O wind: thou canst not disturb the rest of the bard.

The