others hear of their fons; fhall I not hear of thee? The mofs is on thy four grey ftones. The mournful wind is there. The battle thall be

Thou shalt not pursue the When the warrior returns

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fought without thee. dark-brown hinds. from battles, and tells of other lands; I have feen a tomb, he will fay, by the roaring ftream, the dark dwelling of a chief. He fell by car-borne Ofcar, the firft of mortal men," Lperhaps, fhall hear his voice. A beam of joy will rife in my foul."

NIGHT Would have defcended in forrow, and morning returned in the fhadow of grief. Our chiefs would have food, like cold dropping rocks on Moi-lena, and have forgot the war; did not the king difperfe his grief, and raife his mighty voice. The chiefs, as new-wakened from dreams, lift up their heads around, dah

"How long on Moi-lena fhall we weep How long pour in Erin our tears? The mighty will not return. Ofcar fhall not rife in his ftrength. The valiant must fall in their day, and be no more known on their hills. Where are our fathers, O warriors! the chiefs of the times of old? They have fet like ftars that have fhone. We only hear the found of their praife. But they were renowned in their years: the terror of other times. Thus fhall we pass away, in the

2

day

day of our fall. Then let us be renowned when we may; and leave our fame behind us, like the laft beams of the fun, when he hides his red head in then weft. The traveller mourns his abfence, thinking of the flame of his beams. Ullin my aged bard! take thou the fhip of the king. Carry Ofcar to Selma of harps. Let the daughters of Morven weep. We must fight in Erin, for the race of fallen Cormac. The days of my years begin to fail. I feel the weakness of my arm. My fathers bend from their clouds, to receive their grey-hair'd fon. But, before I go hence, one beam of fame fhall rife. My days fhall end, as my years begun, in fame. My life fhall be one ftream of light to bards of other times!"

ULLIN rais'd his white fails. The wind of the fouth came forth. He bounded on the waves toward Selma. I remained in my grief, but my words were not heard. The feaft is fpread on Moi-lena. An hundred heroes reared the tomb of Cairbar. No fong is raised over the chief. His foul had been dark and bloody. The bards remembered the fall of Cormac ! what could they fay in Cairbar's praife?

NIGHT came rolling down. The light of an hundred oaks arofe. Fingal fat beneath a tree.

Old Althan* ftood in the midft. He told the tale of fallen Cormac. Althan the fon of Conachar, the friend of car-borne Cuthullin. He dwelt with Cormac in windy Temora, when Semo's fon fell at Lego's ftream. The tale of Althan was mournful. The tear was in his eye, when he spoke.

THE fetting fon was yellow on Dora I. Grey evening began to defcend. Temora's woods thook with the blaft of the unconftant wind. A cloud gathered in the weft. A red ftar looked from behind its edge. I ftood in the wood alone. I faw a ghoft on the darkening air! His ftride extended from hill to hill. His fhield was dim on his fide. It was the fon of Semo. I knew the warrior's face. But he paffed away in his blaft; and all was dark around! My foul was fad. I went to the hall of fhells. A thousand lights arofe. The hundred bards had ftrung the harp. Cormac flood in

* Althan, the fon of Conachar, was the chief bard of Arth king of Ireland. After the death of Arth, Althan attended his fon Cormac, and was prefent at his death. He had made his escape from Cairbar, by the means of Cathmor, and coming to Fingal, related, as here, the death of his master Cor

mac.

+ Althan fpeaks.

Doira, the woody fide of a mountain; it is here a hill in the neighbourhood of Temora.

the

the midft, like the morning ftar, when it rejoices on the eastern hill, and its young beams åre bathed in fhowers. Bright and filent is its progrefs aloft, but the cloud, that shall hide it, is near! The fword of Artho was in' the hand of the king. He looked with joy on its polished ftuds: thrice he attempted to draw it, and thrice he failed; his yellow locks are spread on his thoulders: his cheeks of youth are red. I mourned over the beam of youth, for he was foon to fet!"

"ALTHAN!" he faid, with a fmile, "didft thou behold my father? Heavy is the fword of the king; furely his arm was ftrong. O that I were like him in battle, when the rage of his wrath arofe! then would I have met, with Cuthullin, the car-borne fon of Cantéla! But years may come on, O Althan! and my arm bel ftrong. Haft thou heard of Semo's fon, the ruler of high Temora? He might have returned with his fame. He promifed to return to-night. My bards wait him with fongs. My feaft is spread in the hall of kings."

I HEARD Cormac in filence. My tears began to flow. I hid them with my aged locks. The king perceived my grief. "Son of Conachar!"

* Arth, or Artho, the father of Cormac king of Ireland.

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he faid, "is the fon of Semot low? Why bursts the figh in fecret? Why defcends the tear? Comes the car-borne Torlath? Comes the found of red-haired Cairbar? They come ho for be→ hold thy grief. Moffy Tura's chief is low! Shall I not rush to battle? But I cannot lift the fpear! O had mine arm the ftrength of Cuthullin, foon would Cairbar fly; the fame of my fathers would be renewed; and the deeds of other times!"

He took his bow. The tears flow down, from both his fparkling eyes. Grief faddens round. The bards bend forward, from their hundred harps. The lone blaft touched their trembling ftrings. The found is fad and low! A voice is heard at a diftance, as of one in grief. It was Carril of other times, who came from dark Slimora. He told of the fall of Cuthullin. He told of his mighty deeds. The people were Their arms lay on

fcattered round his tomb.

+ Cuthullin is called the king of Tura from a castle of that name on the coast of Ulfter, where he dwelt, before he undertook the management of the affairs of Ireland, in the minority of Cormac.

That prophetic found, mentioned in other poems, which the harps of the bards emitted before the death of a perfon worthy and renowned. It is here an omen of the death of Cormac, which, foon after, followed or 22 92

↑ Slimora, a hill in Connaught, near which Cuthullin was killed.

the