- the

“ None ever went sad from Fingal. Oscar! the “ lightning of my sword is against the strong in “ fight. Peaceful it lies by my side when war“ riors yield in war.” “ Trenmor,”* said the mouth of songs,

“ lived “ in the days of other years. He bounded over “ the waves of the north: companion of the “ storm! The high rocks of the land of Lochlin; “ its groves of murmuring sounds appeared to the “ hero through mist; he bound his white-bosom“ ed sails. Trenmor pursued the hoar that roar“ed through the woods of Gormal. Many had “ fled from its presence; but it rolled in death on

spear of Trenmor. Three chiefs, who be« held the deed, told of the mighty stranger. “They told that he stood, like a pillar of fire, in “ the bright arms of his valour. The king of « Lochlin prepared the feast. He called the “ “ blooming Trenmor. Three days he feasted at “ Gormal's windy towers, and received his choice “ in the combat. The land of Lochlin had no “ hero that yielded not to Trenmor. The shell " of joy went round with songs in praise of the

king of Morven. He that came over the waves, " the first of mighty men!"

Now when the fourth grey morn arose, the hero launched his ship. He walked along the silent shore, and called for the rushing wind: for loud

and distant he heard the blast murmuring behind the groves. Covered over with arms of steel, a son of the woody Gormal appeared. Red was his cheek, and fair his hair. His skin was like the snow of Morven. Mild rolled his blue and smiling eye, when he spoke to the king of swords.

“ Stay, Trenmor, stay, thou first of men, thou “ hast not conquered Lonval's son. My sword « has often met the brave. The wise shun the strength of

my

bow.” “ Thou fair-baired “ youth," Trenmor replied, "I will not fight with « Lonval's son.

Tbine arm is feeble, sun-beam " of youth! Retire to Gormal's dark-brown “ “ hinds.” “ But I will retire," replied the youth, “ with the sword of Trenmor; and exult in the “ sound of my fame. The virgins shall gather “ with smiles around him who conquered mighty “ Trenmor. They shall sigh with the sighs of “ love, and admire the length of thy spear; when “I shall carry it among thousands; when I lift “the glittering point to the sun."

“ Thou shalt never carry my spear," said the angry king of Morven. “ Thy mother shall find “ thee pale on the shore; and, looking over the “ dark-blue deep, see the sails of him that slew “ her son!” “I will not lift the spear,” replied the youth,“ my arm is not strong with years. “ But, with the feathered dart, I have learned to “pierce a distant foe. Throw down that heavy “ mail of steel, Trenmor is covered from death, “ I-first will lay my mail on earth. Throw now “thy dart, thou king of Morven!" He saw the heaving of her breast. It was the sister of the king. She had seen him in the hall: and loved his face of youth. The spear dropt from the hand of Trenmor : he bent his red cheek to the ground. She was to him a beam of light that meets the sons of the cave; when they revisit the fields of the sun, and bend their aching eyes!

“ Chief of the windy Morven,” begun the maid of the arms of snow, “ let me rest in thy bound* ing ship, far from the love of Corlo. For he, « like the thunder of the desert, is terrible to Ini" baca. He loves me in the gloom of pride. He “ shakes ten thousand spears!”—“ Rest thou in " peace," said the mighty Trenmor, " rest behind « the shield of my fathers. I will not fly from " the chief, though he shakes ten thousand spears." Three days he waited on the shore. He sent his horn abroad. He called Corlo to battle, from all his echoing hills. But Corlo came not to battle. The king of Lochlin descends from his hall. He feasted on the roaring shore. He gave the maid to Trenmor!

King of Lochlin,” said Fingal, “ thy blood “flows in the veins of thy foe. Our fathers met “ in battle, because they loved the strife of spears. “But often did they feast in the hall: and send “ round the joy of the shell. Let thy face brighten “ with gladness, and thine ear delight in the harp.

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0

« in war.

“ Dreadful as the storm of thine ocean, thou hast “ poured thy valour forth; thy voice has been 6 like the voice of thousands when they engage

Raise, to-morrow, raise thy white sails “ to the wind, thou brother of Agandecca! Bright

as the beam of noon, she comes on niy mourn“ ful soul. I have seen thy tears for the fair one. “ I spared thee in the halls of Starno; when my “ sword was red with slaughter; when my eye “ was full of tears for the maid. Or dost thou “ choose the fight? The combat which thy fathers

gave to Trenmor is thine! that thou mayest “ depart renowned, like the sun setting in the " west !”

“ King of the race of Morven !” said the chief of resounding Lochlin, “never will Swaran fight “ with thee, first of a thousand heroes! I have

seen thee in the halls of Starno: few were thy years beyond my own. When shall I, I said

to my soul, lift the spear like the noble Fingal? “ We have fought heretofore, O warrior, on the

side of the shaggy Malmor; after my waves “had carried me to thy halls, and the feast of a “ thousand shells was spread. Let the bards “send his name who overcame to future years, for “ noble was the strife of Malmor! But many

of “ the ships of Lochlin have lost their youths on “ Lena. Take these, thou king of Morven, and “ be the friend of Swaran! When thy sons shall

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come to Gormal, the feast of shells shall be spread, and the combat offered on the vale." “ Nor ship," replied the king, “shall Fingal

” “ take, nor land of many hills. The desert is

enough to me, with all its deer and woods. “ Rise on thy waves again, thou noble friend of

Agandecca! Spread thy white sails to the beam “ of the morning; return to the echoing hills of “ Gormal.”—“Blest be thy soul, thou king of “ shells,” said Swaran of the dark-brown shield. “ In peace thou art the gale of spring. In war " the mountain-storm. Take now my hand in “ friendship, king of echoing Selma! Let thy “ bards mourn those who fell. Let Erin give the

sons of Lochlin to earth. Raise high the mos“ sy stones of their fame; that the children of “ the north bereafter may behold the place where

their fathers fought. The hunter may say, “ when he leans on a mossy tomb, here Fingal " and Swaran fought, the heroes of other years. • Thus hereafter shall he say, and our fame shall « last for ever.” “ Swaran,” said the king of hills,

fame is greatest. We shall pass away like a dream. No sound will remain in our fields

Our tombs will be lost in the heath. “ The hunter shall not know the place of our rest. Our names

may
be heard in song.

What avails “ it when our strength had ceased ? 0 Ossian,

Carril, and Ullin! you know of heroes that are

- to-day

our

56 of war.