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ARGUMENT.-CUTHULLIN ảnd Connal still remăn
on the hill. Fingal and Swarán meet; the combat is described. Swaran is overcome, bound and delivered over as a prisoner to the care of Ossian, and Gaul the son of Morni; Fingal, his younger sons, and Oscar, still pursue the enemy. The episode of Orla, a chief of Lochlin, who was mortally wounded in the battle, is introduced. Fingal, touched with the death of Orla, orders the pursuit to be discontinued ; and calling his sons together, he is informed that Ryno, the youngest of them, was slain. He laments his death, hears the story of Lamderg and Gelchossa, and returns towards the place where he had left Swaran, Carril, who had been sent by Cuthullin' to congratulate Fingal on his victory, comes in the mean time to Ossian. The conversation of the two poets closes the action of the fourth day.
ON Cromla's resounding side Connal spoke to the chief of the noble car. Why that gloom, són of Semo? Our friends are the mighty in fight. Renowned art thou, O warrior! many were the deaths of thy steel. Often has Bragela met, with blue-rolling eyes of joy: often has she met her hero returning in the midst of the valiant, when his sword was red with slaughter, when his foes were silent in the fields of the tomb. Pleasant to her ears were thy bards, when thy deeds arose in song.
But behold the king of Morven! He moves, below, like a pillar of fire. His strength is like the stream of Lubar, or the wind of the echoing Cromla, when the branchy forests of night are torn from all their rocks. Happy are thy people, O Fingal! thine arm shall finish their wars. Thou art the first in their dangers; the wisest in the days of their peace. Thou speakest, and thy thousands obey : armies tremble at the sound of thy steel. Happy are thy people, O Fingal! king of resounding Selma. Who is that so dark and ter. rible coming in the thunder of his course? who but Starno's son to meet the king of Morven? Behold the battle of the chiefs! it is the storm of the ocean, when two spirits meet far distant, and contend for the rolling of waves, The hunter hears the noise on his hill. He sees the high billows advancing to Ardven's shore?
Şuch, were the words of Connal when the heroes met in fight. There was the clang of arms! there every blow, like the hundred hammers of the furnace! Terrible is the battle of the kings : dreadful the look of their
Their dark-brown shields are cleft in twain. Their steel flies, broken, from their helms. They fling their weapons down. Each rushes to his hero's grasp: their sinewy arms bend round each other: they turn from side to side, and strain and stretch their large spreading limbs below. But when the pride of their strength arose, they shook the hill with their heels. Rocks tumble from theirplaces on high; thegreen-headed bushes are overturned. . At length the strength of Swaran fell; the king of the groves is bound. Thus have I seen ou Cona; but Cona I behold no
niore! Thus have I seen two dark hills removed from their place by the strength of the bursting stream. They turn from side to side in their fall: their tall oaks meet one another on high. Then they tumble together with all their rocks and trees. The streams are turned by their side. The red ruin is seen afar.
« Sons of distant Morven," said Fingal, "guard “ the king of Lochlin. He is strong as his thou" sand waves. His hand is taught to war.
His race is of the times of old. Gaul, thou first of “ my heroes; Ossian, king of songs, attend. He " is the friend of Agandecca; raise to joy his
But, Oscar, Fillan, and Ryno, ye chil“ dren of the race, pursue Lochlin over Lena, “that no vessel may hereafter bound on the dark“ rolling waves of Inistore.” They few sudden across the heath.
He slowly moved, like a cloud of thunder, when the sultry plain of sunimer is silent and dark. His sword is before him as a sun-beain; terrible as the streaming meteor of night. He came toward a chief of Lochlin. He spoke to the son of the wave.“ Who is that so dark and sad, at the rock of the
roaring stream ? He cannot bound over its “ course, How stately is the chief! His bossy “shield is on his side ; bis spear like the tree of «« the desert. Youth of the dark-red hair, art “ thou of the foes of Fingal !"
“I am a son of Lochlin," he cries, “strong is
my arm in war. My spouse is weeping at « home.
Orla shall never return !" “ Or fights " or yields the hero ?? said Fingal of the noble deeds; “ foes do not conqner in my presence : “my friends are renowned in the hall. Son of “ the wave follow me, partake the feast of my “ shells ; pursue the deer of my desert"; be thou “ the friend of Fingal." « No:" said the hero, “I assist the feeble. My strength is with the “ weak in arms. My sword has been always “ unmatched, 0 warrior ! let the king of Mor
ven yield!" “I never yielded, Orla ! Fingal "never yielded to man. Draw thy sword, and " choose thy foe. Many are my heroes!"
“Does then the king refuse the fight ?" said Orla of the dark brown shield." Fingal is a
“ match for Orla : and he alone of all his race!" “ But, king of Morven, if I shall fall, as one “ time the warrior must die, raise my tomb in the " midst: let it be the greatest on Lena. Send, " over the dark-blue wave, the sword of Orla to " the spouse of his love, that she may shew it to “ her son, with tears, to kindle his soul to war." “Son of the mournful tale," said Fingal, “why “ dost thou awaken my tears ? One day the war.
riors must die, and the children see their useless
arms in the hall. But, Orla, thy tomb shall “ rise. Thy white-bosomed spouse shall weep over thy sword.” They fought on the heath of Lena. Feeble
was the arm of Orla. The sword of Fingal descended, and cleft his shield in twain. It. fell and glittered on the ground, as the moon on the ruffled stream. “ King of Morven," said the hero, “ lift thy sword and pierce my breast. Wounded, s and faint from battle, my friends have left me “ here. The mournful tale shall come to my love “ on the banks of the streamy Lota, when she is “ alone in the wood, and the rustling blast in the “ leaves !”
“ No:" said the king of Morven,” “I will " never wound thee, Orla. On the banks of “ Lota let her see thee, escaped from the bands of “war. Let thy grey-haired father, who, per“ haps, is blind with age, let him hear the sound “ of thy voice, and brighten within his hall. With “ joy let the hero rise, and search for bis son with « his hands !" “ But never will be find him,
Fingal," said the youth of the streamy Lota. “ On Lena's heath I must die: foreign bards 1 shall talk of me. My broad belt covers my "wound of death. I give it to the wind !”
The dark blood poured from his side : he felt pale on the heath of Lena. Fingal bent over him as he died, and called his
chiefs.“ Oscar " and Fillan, my sons, raise high the memory of “ Orla. Here let the dark-haired hero rest, far “ from the spouse of bis love. Here let him rest “ in his narrow house, far from the sound of Lota. " The feeble will find his bow at home, but will