ARGUMENT.

Address to the evening ftar. Apoftrophe to Fingal and his times. Minona fings before the king the fong of the unfortunate Colma; and the bards exhibit other fpecimens of their poetical talents; according to an annual custom established by the monarchs of the ancient Caledonians.

THE

SONGS of SELM A.

TAR of defcending night! fair is thy light in the weft! thou lifteft thy unfhorn head from thy cloud: thy fteps are ftately on thy hill. What doft thou behold in the plain? The ftormy winds are laid.

But

The murmur of the torrent comes from afar. Roaring waves climb the diftant rock. The flies of evening are on their feeble wings; the hum of their courfe is on the field. What doft thou behold, fair light? thou doft smile and depart. The waves come with joy around thee: they bathe thy lovely hair. Farewel, thou filent beam! Let the light of Offian's foul arife!

And it does arise in its ftrength! I behold my departed friends. Their gathering is on Lora, as in the days of other years. Fingal comes like a watry column of mist; his heroes are around: And fee the bards of song,' grey-haired Ullin! ftately Ryno!

Alpin*, with the tuneful voice! the foft complaint of Minona! How are ye changed, my friends, fince the days of Selma's feaft? when we contended, like gales of spring, as they fly along the hill, and bend by turns the feebly-whistling grass.

Minona † came forth in her beauty; with down-caft look and tearful eye. Her hair flew flowly on the blaft, that rushed unfrequent from the hill. The fouls of the heroes were fad when fhe raised the tuneful voice. Often had they seen the grave of Salgar, the dark dwelling of whitebofomed Colma ||. Colma left alone on the hill, with all her voice of fong! Salgar promised to come: but the night defcended around. Hear the voice of Colma, when fhe fat alone on the hill!

*Alpin is from the fame root with Albion, or rather Albin, the ancient name of Britain; Alp, high Island, or country. The prefent name of our island has its origin in the Celtic tongue; fo that those who derived it from any other, betrayed their ignorance of the ancient language of our country. Brait or Braid, exten five; and in, land.

+ Offian introduces Minona, not in the ideal scene in his own mind, which he had described; but at the annual feast of Selma, where the bards repeated their works before Fingal.

Sealg-'er, a hunter.

| Cul-math, a woman with fine hair.

6

COLMA.

COLMA.

It is night; I am alone, forlorn on the hill of ftorms. The wind is heard in the mountain. The torrent pours down the rock. No hut receives me from the rain; forlorn on the hill of winds!

Rife, moon! from behind thy clouds. Stars of the night arise! Lead me, fome light, to the place, where my love rests from the chafe alone! his bow near him, unftrung his dogs panting around him. But here I must fit alone, by the rock of the moffy stream. The ftream and the wind roar aloud. I hear not the voice of my love! Why delays my Salgar, why the chief of the hill, his promife? Here is the rock, and here the tree! here is the roaring ftream! Thou didst promise with night to be here. Ah! whither is my Salgar gone? With thee I would fly, from my father; with thee, from my brother of pride. Our race have long been foes; we are not foes, O Salgar!

Ceafe a little while, O wind! ftream, be thou filent a while! let my voice be heard around. Let my wanderer hear me ! Salgar! it is Colma who calls. Here is the tree, and the rock. Salgar, my love! I am here. Why delayeft thou thy coming?

Lo!

Lo! the calm moon comes forth. The flood is bright in the vale. The rocks are I fee him not on the

grey on the fteep.

brow. His dogs come not before him, with tidings of his near approach. Here I must fit alone!

Who lie on the heath beside me? Are

they my love and my brother? Speak to me, O my friends! To Colma they give no reply. Speak to me: I am alone! My foul is tormented with fears! Ah! they are dead! Their fwords are red from the fight. O my brother! my brother! why haft thou flain my Salgar? why, O Salgar! haft thou flain my brother? Dear were ye both to me! what fhall I fay in your praise? Thou wert fair on the hill among thousands! he was terrible in fight. Speak to me; hear my voice; hear me, fons of my love! They are filent; filent for ever! Cold, cold are their breasts of clay! Oh! from the rock on the hill; from the top of the windy fteep, speak, ye ghofts of the dead! fpeak, I will not be afraid! Whither are ye gone to reft? In what cave of the hill fhall I find the departed? No feeble voice is on the gale: no answer half-drowned in the ftorm!

I fit in my grief! I wait for morning in my tears! Rear the tomb, ye friends of Clofe it not till Colma come.

the dead.

My