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justice, he ruled the tribes, who sunk, subdued, beneath his sword; abrupt rises Gormal in snow! The tempests roll dark on his sides, but calm, above, his vast forehead appears. Whiteissuing from the skirt of his storms, the troubled torrents pour down his sides. Joining, as they roar along, they bear the Torno, in foam, to the main.

Grey on the bank, and far from men, halfcovered, by ancient pines, from the wind, a lonely pile exalts its head, long shaken by the storms of the north. To this fled Sigurd, fierce in fight, from Harold, the leader of armies, when fate had brightened his spear with renown; when he conquered in that rude field, where Lulan's warriors fell in blood, or rose in terror on the waves of the main. Darkly sat the greyhaired chief; yet sorrow dwelt not in his soul. But when the warrior thought on the past, his proud heart heaved against his side: forth flew his sword from its place; he wounded Harold in all the winds.

One daughter, and only one, but bright in form, and mild of soul, the last beam of the setting line, remained to Sigurd of all his race. His son, in Lulan's battle slain, beheld not his father's flight from his foes. Nor finished seemed the ancient line! The splendid beauty

The mountains of Sevo.

J

of bright-eyed Fithon, covered still the fallen king with renown. Her arm was white like Gormal's snow; her bosom whiter than the foam of the main, when roll the waves beneath the wrath of the winds. Like two stars were her radiant eyes, like two stars that rise on the deep, when dark tumult embroils the night. Pleasant are their beams aloft, as stately they ascend the skies.

Nor Odin forgot, in aught, the maid. Her form scarce equalled her lofty mind. Awe moved around her stately steps. Heroes loved -but shrunk away in their fears. Yet midst the pride of all her charms, her heart was soft, and her soul was kind. She saw the mournful with tearful eyes. Transient darkness arose in her breast. Her joy was in the chase. Each morning, when doubtful light wandered dimly on Lulan's waves, she roused the resounding woods, to Gormal's head of snow. Nor moved the maid alone, &c.

THE SAME VERSIFIED.

WHERE fair-hair'd Harold, o'er Scandinia reign'd,
And held with justice, what his valour gain'd;

Sevo, in snow, his rugged forehead rears,
And, o'er the warfare of his storms, appears
Abrupt and vast.-White-wandering down his side,
A thousand torrents, gleaming as they glide,

Unite below; and, pouring through the plain,
Húrry the troubled Torno to the main.

Grey, on the bank, remote from human kind,'
By aged pines, half-sheltered from the wind,
A homely mansion rose, of antique form,
For ages batter'd by the polar storm.

To this fierce Sigurd fled, from Norway's lord,
When fortune settled, on the warrior's sword;
In that rude field, where Suecia's chiefs were slain,
Or forc'd to wander o'er the Bothnic main.
Dark was his life, yet undisturb'd with woes,
But when the memory of defeat arose

His proud heart struck his side; he graspt the spear,
And wounded Harold in the vacant air.

One daughter only, but of form divine, The last fair beam of the departing line, Remain'd of Sigurd's race. His warlike son Fell in the shock, which overturn'd the throne. Nor desolate the house! Fionia's charms Sustain'd the glory which they lost in arms. White was her arm, as Sevo's lofty snow, Her bosom fairer than the waves below, When heaving to the winds. Her radiant eyes, Like two bright stars, exulting as they rise O'er the dark tumult of a stormy night, And gladd'ning heaven with their majestic light. In nought is Odin to the maid unkind. Her form scarce equals her exalted mind; Awe leads her sacred steps where'er they move, And mankind worship, where they dare not love. But, mix'd with softness, was the virgin's pride, Her heart had feeling which her eyes deny'd. Her bright tears started at another's woes, While transient darkness on her soul arose.

The chase she lov'd; when morn, with doubtful beam Came dimly wandering o'er the Bothnic stream,

On Sevo's sounding sides she bent the bow,

And rous'd his forests to his head of snow.

Nor mov'd the maid alone; &c.

One of the chief improvements on this edition, is the care taken in the arrangement of the Poems, and the writer now resigns them for ever to their fate. That they have been well received by the Public, appears from an extensive sale: that they shall continue to be well received, he may venture to prophesy without the gift of that inspiration, to which poets lay claim. Through the medium of version upon version, they retain, in foreign languages, their native character of simplicity and energy. Genuine poetry, like gold, loses little, when properly transfused; but when a composition cannot bear the test of a literal version, it is a counterfeit which ought not to pass current. The operation must, however, be performed with skilful hands. A Translator, who cannot equal his original, is incapable of expressing its beauties.

London, Aug. 13, 1773.

CONTENTS

OF

THE FIRST VOLUME.

-

A Dissertation concerning the Era of Ossian

A Dissertation concerning the Poems of Ossian

A Critical Dissertation on the Poems of Ossian

Cath-Loda, Part First

1

23