had forgot the war, for he, their fire, was feer no more!

"But who," faid the foft-voiced Carril," who come like bounding roes? Their ftature is like young trees in the valley, growing in a fhower! Soft and ruddy are their cheeks! Fearless fouls look forth from their eyes! Who but the fons of Ufnoth*, chief of streamy Etha? The people rife on every file, like the ftrength of an half-extinguished fire, when the winds come, fudden, from the defart, on their raftling wings. Sudden glows the dark brow of the hill; the paffing mariner lags, on his winds. The found of Caithbat's + fhield was heard. The warriors faw Cuthullin in Nathos. So rolled his fparkling eyes! his fteps were fuch on heath! Battles are fought at Lego. The fword of Nathos prevails. Soon fhalt thou behold him in thy: halls, king of Temora of groves !"

"Soon may I behold the chief !" replied the blue-eyed king. "But my foul is fad for Cuthul

lin.

Ufnoth chief of Etha, a diftrict on the western coaft of Scotland, had three fons, Nathos, Althos, and Ardan, by Slisfáma the fifter of Cuthullin. The three brothers, when very young, were fent over to Ireland by their father, to learn the ufe of arms under their uncle, whofe military fame was very great in that kingdom. They had just arrived in Ulfter when the news of Cuthullin's death arrived. Nathos, the eldest of the three brothers, took the command of Cuthullin's army, and made head against Cairbar the chief of Atha. Cairbar having, at last, murdered young king Cormac, at Temora, the army of Nathos fhifted fides, and the brothers were obliged to return into Ulfter, in order to pafs over into Scotland. The fequel of their mournful story is related, at large, in the. poem of Dar-thula.

+ Caithbait was grand ther to Cuthullin; and his fhield was made ufe of to alarm his pofterity to the battles of the family.

That is, they faw a manifeft likeness between the perfon of Nathos and Cuthullin.

lin. His voice was pleasant in mine ear. Often have we moved, on Dora, to the chace of the dark brown hinds. His bow was unerring on the hills. He spoke of mighty men. He told of the deeds

of my fathers. I felt my rifing joy. But fit thou at the feaft, O Carril! I have often heard thy voice. Sing in praife of Cuthullin. Sing of Nathos of Etha* !"

the east.

Day rofe on Temora, with all the beams of Crathin came to the hall, the fon of old Gelláma +. "I behold," he faid, "a cloud in the defart, king of Erin! a cloud it seemed at firft, but now a crowd of men! One ftrides be-fore them in his ftrength. His red hair flies in wind. His fhield glitters to the beam of the eaft. His fpear is in his hand." "Call him to the feast of Temora," replied the brightening king. "My hall is the houfe of ftrangers, fon of generous Gelláma! It is perhaps the chief of Etha, coming in all his renown.. Hail, mighty + stranger! art thou of the friends of Cormac? But Carril, he is dark, and unlovely. He draws his fword.. Is that the son of Ufnoth, bard of the times of old ?"

"It is not the fon of Ufnoth!" faid Carril. "It is Cairbar thy foe. Why comest thou in thy arms to Temora? chief of the gloomy brow. Let not thy fword rife against Cormac! Whither doft thou turn thy fpeed?" He paffed on in darknefs. He seized the hand of the king. Cormac forefaw his death; the rage of his eyes arofe. "Retire, thou chief of Atha! Nathos comes with

war

Nathos the fon of Ufnoth..

† Geal-lamha, white-handed.

From this expreffion, we understand, that Cairbar had entered the palace of Temora, in the midst of Cormac's ipeech.

war. Thou art bold in Cormac's hall, for his arm is weak." The fword entered the fide of the king. He fell in the halls of his fathers. His fair hair is in the duft. His blood is fmoaking round.

"Art thou fallen in thy halls * ?” ̈ faid Cårril. "O fon of noble Artho! The fhield of Cuthullin was not near. Nor the spear of thy father. Mournful are the mountains of Erin, for the chief of the people is low ! Bleft be thy foul, O Cormac! Thou art darkened in thy youth."

His words came to the ears of Cairbar. He closed us in the midst of darkness. He feared to ftretch his fword to the bards ‡, though his foul was dark. Long we pined alone! At length, the noble Cathmor || came. He heard our voice from the cave. He turned the eye of his wrath on Cairbar.

"Brother of Cathmor," he faid, "how long: wilt thou pain my foul? Thy heart is a rock. Thy thoughts are dark and bloody! But thou art the brother of Cathmor; and Cathmor fhail fhine in thy war. But my foul is not like thine: thou feeble hand in fight! The light of my bofom is ftained with thy deeds. Bards will not fing of my renown: They may fay, "Cathmos was brave, but he fought for gloomy Cairbar." They will pafs over my tomb in. filence. My

*Althan fpeaks.

fame

That is, himself and Carril, as it afterwards appears. The perfons of the bards were fo facred, that even he; who had just murdered his fovereign, feared to kill them.

Cathmor appears the fame difinterested hero upon every occafion. His humanity and generofity were unparalleled : in fhort, he had no fault, but too much attachment to fo bad a brother as Cairbar. His family connection with Cairbar prevails, as he expresses it, over every other confideration, and makes him engage in a war, of which he does not ap prove.

fame fhall not be heard. Cairbar loose the bards. They are the fons of future times. Their voice fhall be heard in other years; after the kings of Temora have failed. We came forth at the words of the chief. We faw him in his ftrength. He was like thy youth, O Fingal ! when thou first didft lift the fpear. His face was

like the plain of the fun, when it is bright. No darkness travelled over his brow. But he came with his thousands to aid the red-haired Cairbar. Now he comes to revenge his death, O king of woody Morven !”

"Let Cathmor come," replied the king. "I love a foe fo great. His foul is bright. His arm is ftrong. His battles are full of fame. But the little foul is a vapour that hovers round the marfhy lake. It never rifes on the green hill, left the winds fhould meet it there. Its dwelling is in the cave, it fends forth the dart of death! Our young heroes, O warriors! are like the renown of our fathers. They fight in youth. They fall. Their names are in fong. Fingal is amid his darkening years. He muft not fall, as an aged oak, across a secret stream. Near it are the fteps of the hunter, as it lies beneath the wind. "How has that tree fallen ?" he says, and, whistling, ftrides along. Raise the song of joy, ye bards of Morven! Let our fouls forget the past. The red ftars look on us from clouds, and filently defcend.

Soon fhall the

grey beam of the morning rife, and fhew us the foes of Cormac. Fillan! my fon, take thou the fpear of the king. Go to Mora's dark-brown fide. Let thine eyes travel over the heath. Obferve the foes of Fingal: Obferve the course of generous Cathmor. I hear a diftant found, like falling rocks in the defart. But ftrike thou thy

fhield,

fhield, at times, that they may not come thro' night, and the fame of Morven cease. I begin to be alone, my fon. I dread the fall of my re

nown !"

The voice of bards arofe. The king leaned on the fhield of Trenmor. Sleep defcended on his eyes. His future battles arofe in his dreams. The hoft are fleeping around. Dark-haired Fillan obferves the foe. His fteps are on a diftant hill. We hear, at times, his clanging fhield.