Let his sword be before Cormac, like the beam of heaven. Let his counsel sound in Temora, in the day of danger!"

He rushed, in the sound of his arms, like the terrible spirit of Loda,* when he comes, in the roar of a thousand storms, and scatters battles from his eyes. He sits on a cloud over Lochlin's seas. His mighty hand is on his sword. Winds lift his flaming locks! The waining-moon half lights his dreadful face. His features blended in darkness arise to view. So terrible was Cuthullin in the day of his fame. Torlath fell by his hand. Lego's heroes mourned. They gather around the chief, like the clouds of the desert. A thousand swords rose at once; a thousand arrows flew but he stood like a rock in the midst of a roaring sea. They fell around. He strode in blood. Dark Slimora echoed wide. The sons of Ullin came. The battle spread over Lego. The chief of Erin overcame. He returned over the field with his fame. But pale he returned! The joy of his face was dark. He rolled his eyes in silence. The sword hung, unsheathed, in his hand. His spear bent at every step!

"Carril," said the chief in secret," the strength of Cuthullin fails. My days are with the years that are past. No morning of mine shall arise. They shall

* Loda, in the third book of Fingal, is mentioned as a place of worship in Scandinavia: by the spirit of Loda, the poet probably means Odin, the great deity of the northern nations. He is described here with all his terrors,

seek me at Temora, but I shall not be found.

Cormac will weep in his hall, and say, "Where is Erin's chief?" But my name is renowned! my fame in the song of bards. The youth will say in secret, "O let me die as Cuthullin died! Renown clothed him like a robe. The light of his fame is great. Draw the arrow from my side. Lay Cuthullin beneath that oak. Place the shield of Caithbat near, that they may behold me amidst the arms of my fathers!"

He

"And is the son of Semo fallen?" said Carril with a sigh. "Mournful are Tura's walls. Sorrow dwells at Dunscai. Thy spouse is left alone in her youth. The son * of thy love is alone! He shall come to Bragela, and ask her why she weeps? shall lift his eyes to the wall, and see his father's sword. "Whose sword is that?" he will say. The soul of his mother is sad. Who is that, like the hart of the desert, in the murmur, of his course? His eyes look wildly round in search of his friend. Connal son of Colgar, where hast thou been, when the mighty fell? Did the seas of Cogorma roll around thee? Was the wind of the south in thy sails? The mighty have fallen in battle, and thou wast not there.

* Conloch, who was afterwards very famous for his great exploits in Ireland. He was so remarkable for his dexterity in handling the javelin, that when a good marksman is described, it has passed into a proverb, in the north of Scotland, He is unerring as the arm of Conloch.

Let none tell it in Selma, nor in Morven's woody land. Fingal will be sad, and the sons of the desert mourn!"

By the dark rolling waves of Lego they raised the hero's tomb. Luath,* at a distance, lies. The song of bards rose over the dead.

"Blest + be thy soul, son of Semo! Thou wert mighty in battle. Thy strength was like the strength of a stream: thy speed like the eagle's wing. Thy path in battle was terrible: the steps of death were behind thy sword. Blest be thy soul, son of Semo, car-borne chief of Dunscai! Thou hast not fallen by the sword of the mighty, neither was thy blood on the spear of the brave. The arrow came, like the sting of death in a blast: nor did the feeble hand, which drew the bow perceive it. Peace to thy soul, in thy cave, chief of the isle of mist!"

"The mighty are dispersed at Temora: there is none in Cormac's hall. The king mourns in his youth. He does not behold thy return. The sound of thy shield is ceased: his foes are gathering round. Soft be thy rest in thy cave, chief of Erin's wars! Bragela will not hope for thy return, or see thy sails in

It was of old, the custom to bury the favourite dog near the master, This was not peculiar to the ancient Scots, for we find it practised by many other nations in their ages of heroism. There is a stone still shewn at Dunscai in the isle of Sky, to which Cuthullin commonly bound his dog Luath, The stone goes by his name to this day.

This is the song of the bards over Cuthullin's tomb. Every stanza closes with some remarkable title of the hero, which was always the custom in funeral elegies.

ocean's foam. Her steps are not on the shore: nor her ear open to the voice of thy rowers. She sits in

the hall of shells. She sees the arms of him that is

no more. Thine eyes are full of tears, daughter of r-borne Sorglan! Blest be thy soul in death, O chief of shady Tura!"

car

THE

BATTLE OF LORA:

A POEM.

ARGUMENT.

Fingal, on his return from Ireland, after he had expelled Swa. ran from that kingdom, made a feast to all his heroes; he forgot to invite Ma-ronnan and Aldo, two chiefs, who had not been along with him in his expedition. They resented his neglect; and went over to Erragon king of Sora, a country of Scandinavia, the declared enemy of Fingal. The valour of Aldo soon gained him a great reputation in Sora and Lorma the beautiful wife of Erragon fell in love with him. He found means to escape with her, and to come to Fingal, who resided then in Selma on the western coast. Erragon invaded Scotland, and was slain in battle by Gaul the son of Morni, after he had rejected terms of peace offered him by Fingal. In this war Aldo fell, in a single combat, by the hands of his rival Erragon, and the unfortunate Lormo afterwards died of grief.

SON of the distant land, who dwellest in the secret cell! do I hear the sound of thy grove? or is it thy voice of songs? The torrent was loud in my ear; but I heard a tuneful voice. Dost thou praise the chiefs of thy land: or the spirits * of the wind? But, lonely dweller of rocks! look thou on that heathy plain. Thou seest green tombs, with

* Alluding to the religious hymns of the Culdees.