The fons of Erin faw it far diftant. They trembled in their fouls. They knew that the wrath of the king arose: and they forefaw their death. We first arrived. We fought. Erin's chiefs withstood our rage. But when the king came, in the found of his courfe, what heart of fteel could ftand! Erin fled over Moi-lena. Death purfued their flight. We faw Ofcar on his fhield. We faw his blood around. Silence darkened every face. Each turned his back and wept. The king ftrove to hide his tears. His grey beard whistled in the wind. He bends his head above the chief. His words are mixed with fighs.

"Art thou fallen, O Ofcar! in the midst of thy course? the heart of the aged beats over thee! He fees thy coming wars! The wars which ought to come he fees! They are cut off from thy fame! When shall joy dwell at Selma? When shall grief depart from Morven ? My fons fall by degrees : Fingal is the last of his race. My fame begins to pass away. Mine age will be without friends. I fhall fit a grey cloud in my hall. I fhall not hear

the return of a fon, in his founding arms. Weep, ye heroes of Morven ! never more fhall Ofcar rife!"

And they did weep, O Fingal! Dear was the hero to their fouls. He went out to battle, and the foes vanished. He returned, in peace, amidst their joy. No father mourned his fon flain in youth no brother his brother of love. They fell, without tears, for the chief of the people is low! Bran is howling at his feet: gloomy Luäth is fad, for he had often led them to the chace; to the bounding roe of the defart !

When * Bran was one of Fingal's dogs. Bran fignifies a mountainfiream

my

When Ofcar faw his friends around, his heav-ing breaft arose. "The groans," he faid, "of aged chiefs: The howling of my dogs: The fudden bursts of the fong of grief, have melted Ofcar's foul. My foul, that never melted before. It was like the steel of fword. Offian, carry me to my hills! Raise the stones of my renown. Place the horn of a deer: place my fword by my fide. The torrent hereafter may raise the earth: the hunter may find the fteel and fay, " This has been Ofcar's fword, the pride of other years !" "Falleft thou, fon of my fame ! fhall I never fee thee, Ofcar! When 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 fhall be fought without thee. Thou fhalt not purfue the dark-brown hinds. When the warrior returns 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 first of mortal men," I, perhaps, 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 ftood, like cold dropping rocks on Moi-lena, and have forgot the war; did not the king difperfe his grief, and raise his mighty voice. The chiefs, as new-wakened from dreams, lift up their heads around.

"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

hear the found of their praise. But they were renowned in their years: the terror of other times. Thus fhall we pafs away, in the day of our fall. Then let us be renowned when we may; and leave our fame behind us, like the last beams of the fun, when he hides his red-head in the west. The traveller mourns his abfence, thinking of the flame of his beams.. Ullin, my aged bard! take thou the ship 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 CorThe 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 shall rife. My days fhall end, as my years begun, in fame. My life fhall be one fream of light to bards of other times !”.

mac.

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 spread 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 Cona

char,

* Althan, the son 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 mafter Cor

mac.

char, 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 fun was yellow on Dora †-Grey evening began to defcend. Temora's woods fhook with the blaft of the unconftant wind. A cloud gathered in the weft. A red ftar looked: from behind its edge. I stood in the wood alone. I faw a ghost 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 ther harp. Cormac ftood in the midft, like the morning ftar, when it rejoices on the eastern hill and its young beams are 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 shoulders: 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,

Althan fpeaks.

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

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

Cuthullin, the car-borne fon of Cantela! But years may come on, O Althan! and my arm be ftrong. Haft thou heard of Semo's fon, the ruler of high Temora? He might have returned with his fame. He promised to return to-night. My bards wait him with fongs. My feaft is fpread in the hall of kings."

The

I heard Cormac in filence. My tears began to flow. I hid them with my aged locks. king perceived my grief. "Son of Conachar !" he faid, "is the fon of Semo* 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 ! for I behold 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 distance, 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 scattered round his tomb. Their arms lay on the ground. They

had

* Cuthullin is called the king of Tura from a castle of that name on the coaft 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.

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