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“ Lubar's stream shall roll away! then shall the “ traveller come, and bend here, perhaps, in rest. * When the darkened moon is rolled over his
head, our shadowy forms may come, and, mix“ing with his dreams, remind him of this place. • But why turnest thou so dark away, son of * Borbar-duthul?"*
“ Not forgot, son of Fingal, shall we ascend
these winds. Our deeds are streams of light, “ before the eyes of bards. But darkness is rol“ led on Atha: the king is low, without his
song: " still there was a beam towards Cathmor from * his stormy soul: like the moon, in a cloud, « amidst the dark-red course of thunder.” “ Son of Erin,” I replied,
my wrath dwells s not in his earth.t My hatred flies, on eagle
wing, from the foe that is low. He shall hear " the song of bards. Cairbar shall rejoice on his 56 winds.”
Cathmor's swelling soul arose. He took the dagger from his side, and placed it gleaming in my hand. He placed it, in my hand, with sighs, and silent, strode away.
followed his departure. He dimly gleamed, like the form of a
Borbar-duthul, the surly warrior of the dark brown eyes. his name suited well with his character, we may easily conceive, from the story delivered concerning him by Malthos, towards the end of the sixth book. He was the brother of that Colculla, who is mentioned in the episode which begins the fourth book.
+ This reply abounds with the sentiments of a noble mind. Though, of all men living, he was the most injured by Cairbar, yet he lays aside his rage as the foe was low. How different is this from the behaviour of the heroes of other ancient poems ? Cynthius, aurum vellit.
ghost, which meets a traveller by night, on the dark-skirted heath. His words are dark like songs of old; with morning strides the unfinished shade away!
Who comes from Lubar's vale? from the skirts of the morning mist? The drops of heaven are on his head. His steps are in the paths of the sad. It is Carril of other times. He comes from Tura's silent cave. I behold it dark in the rock, through the thin folds of mist.
There, perhaps, Cuthullin sits, on the blast which bends its trees. Pleasant is the song of the morning from the bard of Erin!
“ The waves crowd away,” said Carril. “ They “ crowd away for fear. They hear the sound of “thy coming forth, Osun! Terrible is thy “beauty, son of heaven, when death is descending
on thy locks; when tliou rollest thy vapours “ before thee, over the blasted host. But pleasant “ is thy beam to the hunter, sitting by the rock in
a storm, when thou showest thyself from the
parted cloud, and brightenest his dewy locks: “ he looks down on the streamy vale, and beholds " the descent of roes! How long shalt thou rise, “ on war, and roll, a bloody shield, through hea
* The morning of the second day, from the opening of the poem
After the death of Cuthullin, Carril the son of Kinfena, his bard, retired to the cave of Tura, which was in the neighbourhood of Moi-lena, the scene of the poem of Temora. His casual appearance here enables Ossian to fulfil immediately the promise he had made to Cathmor, of causing the funeral song to be pronounced over the tomb of Cairbar. This book takes up only the space of a few hours.
“ ven? I see the deaths of heroes, dark wan“dering over thy face!"
Why wander the words of Carril ?” I said. “ Does the sun of heaven mourn? He is unstain“ ed in his course, ever rejoicing in his fire. Roll “ on, thou careless light. Thou too, perhaps, “ must fall. Thy darkening hour may sieze thee, “ struggling as thou rollest through thy sky. But
pleasant is the voice of the bard: pleasant to “ Ossian's soul! It is like the shower of the “ morning, when it comes through the rustling “ vale, on which the sun looks through mist, just
rising from his rocks. But this is no time, O “bard! to sit down, at the strife of song.
Fingal is in arms on the vale. Thou seest the “ flaming shield of the king. His face darkens “ between his locks. He beholds the wide rolling “ of Erin. Does not Carril behold that tomb, “ beside the roaring streamı ? Three stones lift “ their grey heads beneath a bending oak. A
king is lowly laid ! Give thou his soul to the “ wind.
He is the brother of Cathmor! Open “ his airy hall! Let thy song be a stream of joy • to Cairbar's darkened ghost!"
ARGUMENT.-MORNING coming on, Fingal, after a
speech to his people, devolves the command on Gaul, the son of Morni; it being the custom of the times, that the king should not engage, until the necessity of affairs required his superior valour and conduct. The king and Ossian retire to the rock of Cormul, which overlooked the field of battle. The bards sing the war-song. The general conflict is described. Gaul, the son of Morni, distinguishes himself; kills Turlathon, chief of Moruth, and other chiefs of lesser name. On the other hand, Foldath, who commanded the Irish army (for Cathmor, after the example of Fingal, kept himself from battle) fights gallantly; kills Connal, chief of Dun-lora, and ad. vances to engage Gaul himself. Gaul in the mean time, being wounded in the hand, by a random arrow, is covered by Filian, the son of Fingal, who performs prodigies of valour. Night comes on. The horn of Fingal recalls his army. The bards meet them, with a congratulatory song, in which the praises of Gaul and Fillan are particularly celebrated. The chiefs sit down at a feast: Fingal misses Comnal. The episode of Connal and Duth-caron is introduced: which throws further light on the ancient history of Ireland. Carril is dispatched to raise the tomb of Connal. The action of this book takes up the second day from the opening of the poem.
WHO Who is that at blue-streaming Lubar? Who, by the bending hill of roes? Tall, he leans on an oak torn from high, by nightly winds. Who but Comhal's son, brightening in the last of his fields? His grey hair is on the breeze. He half unsheaths the sword of Luno. His eyes are turned to Moi-lena, to the dark moving of foes. Dost thou hear the voice of the king ? It is like
the bursting of a stream in the desert, when it comes, between its echoing rocks, to the blasted field of the sun!
Wide-skirted comes down the foe! Sons of woody Selma, arise! Be ye like the rocks of our land, on whose brown sides are the rolling of streams. A beam of joy comes on my soul. I see the foe mighty before me. It is when he is feeble, that the sighs of Fingal are heard: lest death should come without renown, and darkness dwell on his tomb. Who shall lead the war, against the host of Alnecma ? It is only when danger grows,
sword shall shine. Such was the custom, heretofore, of Trepmor the ruler of winds! and thus descended to battle the blue. shielded Trathal !
The chiefs bend toward the king. Each darkly seems to claim the war. They tell, by halves, their mighty deeds. They turn their eyes on Erin. But far before the rest the son of Morni stands. Silent he stands, for who had not heard of the battles of Gaul ? They rose within his soul. His hand, in secret, seized the sword. The sword which he brought from Strumon, when the strength of Morni failed.* On his
Strumon, stream of the hill, the name of the seat of the family of Gaul, in the neighbourhood of Selma. During Gaul's expedition to Tromathan, mentioned in the poem of Oithona, Morni his father died. Morni ordered the sword of Strumon, (which had been preserved, in the family, as a relique, from the days of Colgach, the most renowned of his ancestors) to be laid by his side, in the tomb; at the same time, leaving it in charge to his son, not to take it from thence, till be was