the ground. They had forgot the war, for he, their fire, was feen no more!

"

But who," faid the foft-voiced Car ril," who come like bounding roes? Their ftature is like young trees in the valley, growing in a fhower! Soft and ruddy are their cheeks! Fearless fouls look forth from the eyes! Who but the sons of Ufnoth*, chief of ftreamy Etha? The people rife on every fide, like the strength of an half-extinguished fire, when the windst come, fudden, from the defert, on their ruftling wings. Sudden glows the dark brow of the hill; the paffing mariner lags, on his winds. The found of Caithbat's fhield was heard. The warriors

3* Ufnoth chief of Etha, a district on the western coaft of Scotland, had three fons, Nathos, Althos, and Ardan, by Sliffáma the fifter of Cuthullin. The three. brothers, when very young, were fent over to Ireland by their father, to learn the ufe of arms under their uncle, whofe military fame was very great in that kingdom. They had just arrived in Ulfter when the news of Cuthullin's death arrived. Nathos, the eldest of the three brothers, took the command of Cuthullin's army, and made head against Cairbar the chief of Atha, Cairbar having, at laft, murdered young king Cormac, at Temora, the army of Nathos fhifted fides, and the brothers were obliged to return into Ulfter, in order to pass over into Scotland. The fequel of their mournful story is related, at large, in the poem of Darthula.

+ Caithbait was grandfather to Cuthullin; and his fhield was made ufe of to alarm his pofterity to the battles of the family.

C 4

faw

faw Cuthullin* in Nathos.. So rolled his fparkling eyes! his fteps were fuch on heath! Battles are fought at Lego. The fword of Nathos prevails. Soon fhalt thou behold him in thy halls, king of Temora of groves

"Soon may I behold the chief !" replied the blue-eyed king. "But my foul is fad for Cuthullin. His voice was pleasant in mine ear. Often have we moved, on Dora, to the chase of the dark-brown hinds. His bow was unerring on the hills. He fpoke of mighty men, He told of the deeds of my fathers. I felt my rising joy. But fit thou at the feaft, O Carril! I have often heard thy voice. Sing in praise of Cuthullin. Sing of Nathos of Etha†!"

Day rofe on Temora, with all the beams of the east. Crathin came to the hall, the fon of old Gelláma . "I behold," he faid, ‡. "a cloud in the defert, king of Erin! a cloud it feemed at firft, but now a crowd of men! One ftrides before them in his ftrength. His red hair flies in wind. His fhield glitters to the beam of the caft. His fpear is in his hand." "Call him to the feaft of Temora," replied the brightening

*That is, they faw a manifeft likeness between the perfon of Nathos and Cuthullin.

+ Nathos the son of Usnoth. Geal-lamha, white-handed.

king. My hall is the house of strangers, fon of generous Gelláma! It is perhaps the chief of Etha, coming in all his renown. Hail, mighty* ftranger! art thou of the friends of Cormac ? But Carril, he is dark, and unlovely. He draws his fword. Is that the son of Usnoth, bard of the times of old?"

"It is not the fon of Ufnoth!" faid Carril. "It is Cairbar thy foe. Why comeft thou in thy arms to Temora ? chief of the gloomy brow. Let not thy fword rise against Cormac ! Whither doft thou turn thy speed?" He paffed on in darkness. He feized the hand of the king. Cormac forefaw his death; the rage of his eyes arofe. "Retire, thou chief of Atha! Nathos comes with war. Thou art bold in Cormac's hall, for his arm is weak." The fword entered the fide of the king. He fell in the halls of his fathers. His fair hair is in the duft. His blood is fmoaking round.

"Art thou fallen in thy halls †?" faid Carril. O fon of noble Artho! The fhield of Cuthullin was not near. Nor the fpear of thy father. Mournful are the mountains of Erin, for the chief of the people is low!

* From this expreffion, we understand, that Cairbar had entered the palace of Temora, in the midft of Cormac's fpeech.

† Althan speaks,

Bleft

Bleft by thy foul, O Cormac! Thou art. darkened in thy youth."

His words came to the ears of Cairbar. He closed us in the midft of darkness. He feared to ftretch his fword to the bards †, though his foul was dark. Long we pined: alone! At length the noble Cathmor came. He heard our voice from the cave.. turned the eye of his wrath on Cairbar..

He

Brother of Cathmor," he faid, "how long wilt thou pain my foul? Thy heart is a rock. Thy thoughts are dark and bloody!, But thou art the brother of Cathmor; and. Cathmor fhall fhine in thy war. But my foul is not like thine: thou feeble hand in fight! The light of my bofom is ftained with thy deeds. Bards will not fing of my renown: They may fay, "Cathmor was: brave, but he fought for gloomy Cairbar," They will pass over my tomb in filence., My fame fhall not be heard. Cairbar!

*

* That is, himself and Carril, as it afterwards ap

pears.

+ The perfons of the bards were fo facred, that even he, who had just murdered his fovereign, feared to kill them.

Cathmor appears the fame difinterested hero upon every occafion. His humanity and generofity were unparalleled in fhort, he had no fault, but too much attachment to so bad a brother, as Cairbar. His family connection with Cairbar prevails, as he expreffes it, over every other confideration, and makes him engage in a war, of which he does not approve.

loofe

loofe the bards. They are the fons of future times. Their voice fhall be heard in other years; after the kings of Temora have failed. We came forth at the words of the chief. We faw him in his ftrength. He was like thy youth, O Fingal! when thou firft didft lift the fpear. His face was like the plain of the fun, when it is bright. No darkness travelled over his brow. But he came with his thousands to aid the redhaired Cairbar. Now he comes to revenge his death, O king of woody Morven!"

"Let Cathmor come," replied the king. "I love a foe fo great. His foul is bright. His arm is ftrong. His battles are full of fame. But the little foul is a vapour that hovers round the marshy lake. It never rifes on the green hill, left the winds fhould meet it there. Its dwelling is in the cave, it fends forth the dart of death! Our young heroes, O warriors! are like the renown of our fathers. They fight in youth. They fall. Their names are in fong. Fingal is amid his darkening years. He must not fall, as an aged oak, acrofs a fecret ftream. Near it are the fteps of the hunter, as it' lies beneath the wind. "How is that tree, fallen?" he fays, and, whiftling, ftrides along. Raife the fong of joy, ye bards of Morven! Let our fouls forget the paft. The red ftars look on us from clouds, and

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