Nor Odin forgot, in aught, the maid. Her form scarce equalled her lofty mind. Awe moved around her stately steps. Heroes loved-but shrunk away in their fears. Yet, midst the pride of all her charms, her heart was soft and her soul was kind. She saw the mournful with tearful eyes. Transient darkness arose in her breast. Her joy was in the chase. Each morning, when doubtful light wandered dimly on Lulan's waves, she roused the resounding woods, to Gormal's head of snow. Nor moved the maid alone, &c.

THE SAME VERSIFIED.

Where fair-hair'd Harold o'er Scandinia reign'd,
And held with justice what his valour gain'd,
Sevo, in snow, his rugged forehead rears,
And, o'er the warfare of his storms, appears
Abrupt and vast.-White-wandering down his side
A thousand torrents, gleaming as they glide,
Unite below, and, pouring through the plain,
Hurry the troubled Torno to the main.

Grey, on the bank, remote from human kind,
By aged pines half shelter'd from the wind,
A homely mansion rose, of antique form,
For ages batter'd by the polar storm.

To this fierce Sigurd fled, from Norway's lord,
When fortune settled on the warrior's sword,
In that rude field, where Suecia's chiefs were slain,
Or forced to wander o'er the Bothnic main.
Dark was his life, yet undisturb'd with woes.
But when the memory of defeat arose

His proud heart struck his side; he graspt the spear,
And wounded Harold in the vacant air.

One daughter only, but of form divine,
The last fair beam of the departing line,
Remain'd of Sigurd's race. His warlike son
Fell in the shock which overturn'd the throne.

Nor desolate the house! Fionia's charms
Sustain❜d the glory which they lost in arms,
White was her arm, as Sevo's lofty snow,
Her bosom fairer than the waves below,
When heaving to the winds. Her radiant eyes
Like two bright stars, exulting as they rise,
O'er the dark tumult of a stormy night,
And gladd'ning heav'n with their majestic light.
In nought is Odin to the maid unkind:
Her form scarce equals her exalted mind;
Awe leads her sacred steps where'er they move,
And mankind worship where they dare not love.
But mix'd with softness was the virgin's pride:
Her heart had feelings, which her eyes deny'd.
Her bright tears started at another's woes,
While transient darkness on her soul arose.

The chase she lov'd; when morn, with doubtful beam Came dimly wandering o'er the Bothnic stream,

On Sevo's sounding sides, she bent the bow,
And rous'd his forests to his head of snow.

Nor mov'd the maid alone, &c.

One of the chief improvements, on this edition, is the care taken in arranging the Poems, in the order of time; so as to form a kind of regular history of the age to which they relate. The Writer has now resigned them for ever to their fate. That they have been well received by the Public, appears from an extensive sale; that they shall continue to be well received, he may venture to prophesy without the gift of that inspiration to which poets lay claim. Through the medium of version upon version, they retain, in foreign languages, their native character of simpli

city and energy. Genuine poetry, like gold, loses little, when properly transfused; but when a composition cannot bear the test of a literal version, it is a counterfeit which ought not to pass current. The operation must, however, be performed with skilful hands. A Translator, who cannot equal his original, is incapable of expressing its beauties.

LONDON, Aug. 15, 1773.

Α

PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE.

As Swift has, with some reason, affirmed that all sublunary happiness consists in being well deceived, it may possibly be the creed of many, that it had been wise, if, after Dr. Blair's ingenious and elegant dissertation on "the venerable Ossian," all doubts respecting what we have been taught to call his works had for ever ceased; since there appears cause to believe, that numbers who listened with delight to “the voice of Cona,” would have been happy, if, seeing their own good, they had been content with these Poems, accompanied by Dr. Blair's judgment, and sought to know no more. There are men, however, whose ardent love of truth rises on all occasions paramount to every other consideration; and though the first step in search of it should dissolve the charm, and turn a fruitful Eden into a barren wild, they would pursue it. For these, and for the idly curious in literary problems, added to the wish of making this new edition of "The Poems of Ossian" as well informed as the hour would allow, we have here thought it proper to insert some account of a renewal of the controversy re lating to the genuineness of this rich treasure of poetical excellence.

Nearly half a century has elapsed since the publication of the poems ascribed by Mr. Macpherson to Ossian, which poems he then professed to have collected in the original Gaelic during a tour through the Western Highlands and Isles; but a doubt of their authenticity never