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youth; and I have bent the bow. Let me meet "this Rothmar, with the sons of Croma: let me "meet him, O my father! I feel my burning soul !' And thou shalt meet him,' I said, ' son of the sightless Crothar! But let others advance before "thee, that I may hear the tread of thy feet at thy "return; for my eyes behold thee not, fair-hair'd Fovar-gormo!' He went, he met the foe; he fell. "Rothmar advances to Croma. He who slew my 66 son is near, with all his pointed spears."

This is no time to fill the shell, I replied, and took my spear! My people saw the fire of my eyes; they all arose around. Through night we strode along the heath. Grey morning rose in the east. A green narrow vale appeared before us; nor wanting was its winding stream. The dark host of Rothmar are on its banks, with all their glittering arms. We fought along the vale. They fled. Rothmar sunk beneath my sword! Day had not descended in the west, when I brought his arms to Crothar. The aged hero felt them with his hands; and joy brightened over all his thoughts.

The people gather to the hall. The shells of the feast are heard. Ten harps are strung; five bards advanced, and sing, by turns*, the praise of Ossian; they poured forth their burning souls, and

* Those extempore compositions were in great repute among sueeeeding bards. The pieces extant of that kind show more of the good ear than of the poetical genius of their authors. The translator has only met with one poem of this sort, which he thinks worthy of being preserved. It is a thousand years later than Ossian, but the author seems to have observed his manner, and adopted some of his

the string answered to their voice. The joy of Croma was great: for peace returned to the land. The night came on with silence: the morning re

expressions. The story of it is this: Five bards, passing the night in the house of a chief, who was a poet himself, went severally to make their observations on, and returned with an extempore description of night. The night happened to be one in October, as appears from the poem, and in the north of Scotland it has all that variety which the bards ascribe to it in their descriptions.

First bard. Night is dull and dark. The clouds rest on the hills. No star with green trembling beam; no moon looks from the sky. I hear the blast in the wood; but I hear it distant far. The stream of the valley murmurs; but its murmur is sullen and sad. From the tree at the grave of the dead the long-howling owl is heard. I see a dim form on the plain! It is a ghost! it fades, it flies. Some funeral shall pass this way: the meteor marks the path.

The distant dog is howling from the hut of the hill. The stag lies on the mountain moss: the hind is at his side. She hears the wind in his branchy horns. She starts, but lies again.

The roe is in the cleft of the rock; the heath-cock's head is beneath his wing. No beast, no bird is abroad, but the owl and the howling fox. She on a leafless tree; he in a cloud on the hill.

Dark, panting, trembling, sad, the traveller has lost his way. Through shrubs, through thorns, he goes, along the gurgling rill. He fears the rock and the fen. He fears the ghost of night. The old tree groans to the blast, the falling branch resounds. The wind drives the withered burs, clung together, along the grass. It is the light tread of a ghost! He trembles amidst the night.

Dark, dusky, howling, is night, cloudy, windy, and full of ghosts! The dead are abroad! my friends, receive me from the night.

Second bard. The wind is up. The shower descends. The spirit of the mountain shrieks. Woods fall from high. Windows flap. The growing river roars. The traveller attempts the ford. Hark! that shriek! he dies! The storm drives the horse from the hill, the goat, the lowing cow. They tremble as drives the shower, beside the mouldering bank.

The hunter starts from sleep, in his lonely hut; he wakes the fire decayed. His wet dogs smoke around him. He fills the chinks with

heath.

booth.

Loud roar two mountain streams

which meet beside his

Sad on the side of a hill the wandering shepherd sits. resounds above him. The stream roars down the rock. for the rising moon to guide him to his home.

The tree

He waits

turned with joy. No foe came in darkness, with his glittering spear. The joy of Croma was great for the gloomy Rothmar had fallen!

I raised my voice for Fovar-gormo, when they

Ghosts ride on the storm to-night. Sweet is their voice between the squalls of wind. Their songs are of other worlds. The rain is past. The dry wind blows. Streams roar and windows flap. Cold drops fall from the roof. I see the starry sky. But the shower gathers again. The west is gloomy and dark. Night is stormy and dismal; receive me, my friends, from night.

Third bard. The wind still sounds between the hills; and whistles. through the grass of the rock. The firs fall from their place. The turfy hut is torn. The clouds, divided, fly over the sky, and show the burning stars. The meteor, token of death! flies sparkling through the gloom. It rests on the hill. I see the withered fern, the dark-browed rock, the fallen oak. Who is that in his shroud beneath the tree, by the stream?

The waves dark-tumble on the lake, and lash its rocky sides. The boat is brimful in the cove; the oars on the rocking tide. A maid sits sad be side the rock, and eyes the rolling stream. Her lover promised to come. She saw his boat, when it was light, on the lake. Is this his broken boat on the shore? Are these his groans on the wind?

Hark! the hail rattles around. The flaky snow descends. The tops of the hills are white. The stormy winds abate. Various is the night, and cold; receive me, my friends, from night.

Fourth bard. Night is calm and fair; blue, starry, settled is night.. The winds, with the clouds, are gone. They sink behind the hill. The moon is up on the mountain. Trees glister; streams shine on the rock. Bright rolls the settled lake; bright the stream of the vale.. I see the trees overturned; the shocks of corn on the plain. The wakeful hind rebuilds the shocks, and whistles on the distant field.

Calm, settled, fair is night! Who comes from the place of the dead? That form with the robe of snow; white arms, and dark brown hair! It is the daughter of the chief of the people: she that lately fell! Come, let us view thee, O maid! thou that hast been the delight of heroes! The blast drives the phantom away; white,. without form, it ascends the hill,

The breezes drive the blue mist, slowly, over the narrow vale. It rises on the hill, and joins its head to heaven. Night is settled, calm, blue, starry, bright, without the moon. Receive me not, my friends, for lovely is the night.

Fifth bard. Night is calm, but dreary. The moon is in a cloud in the west. Slow moves the pale beam along the shaded hill. The distant wave is heard. The torrent murmurs on the rock. The

laid the chief in earth. The aged Crothar was there, but his sigh was not heard. He searched for the wound of his son, and found it in his breast. Joy rose in the face of the aged. He came and spoke to Ossian. "King of spears!" he said, "my

son has not fallen without his fame. The young "warrior did not fly; but met death as he went "forward in his strength. Happy are they who "die in youth, when their renown is heard! The "feeble will not behold them in the hall; or smile "at their trembling hands. Their memory shall

cock is heard from the booth. More than half the night is past.
The housewife, grouping in the gloom, rekindles the settled fire.
The hunter thinks that day approaches, and calls his bounding dogs.
He ascends the hill, and whistles on his way.
A blast removes the
Much of the night

cloud. He sees the starry plough of the north.
is to pass. He nods by the mossy roek.

Hark! the whirlwind is in the wood! A low murmur in the vale! It is the mighty army of the dead returning from the air.

The moon rests behind the hill. The beam is still on that lofty rock. Long are the shadows of the trees. Now it is dark over all. Night is dreary, silent, and dark; receive me, my friends, from night.

The Chief. Let clouds rest on the hills: spirits fly, and travellers fear. Let the winds of the woods arise, the sounding storms descend. Roar streams and windows flap, and green-winged meteors fly! rise the pale moon from behind her hills, or enclose her head in clouds! night is alike to me, blue, stormy, or gloomy the sky. Night flies before the beam, when it is poured on the hill. The young day returns from his clouds, but we return no more.

Where are our chiefs of old? The fields of their battles are silent. main. We shall also be forgot. This sons shall not behold the ruins in grass. "Where stood the walls of our fathers?" Raise the song and strike the harp; send round the shells of joy. Suspend a hundred tapers on high. Youths and maids begin the dance. Let some grey bard be near me to tell the deeds of other times; of kings renowned in our land, of chiefs we behold no more. Thus let the night pass until morning shall appear in our halls. Then let the bow be at hand, the dogs, the youths of the chase. We shall ascend the hill with day; and awake the deer.

Where our kings of mighty name?
Scarce their mossy tombs re-
lofty house shall fall. Our
They shall ask of the aged,

"be honoured in song; the young tear of the virgin will fall. But the aged wither away, by

degrees; the fame of their youth, while yet they "live, is all forgot. They fall in secret. The sigh "of their son is not heard. Joy is around their "tomb; the stone of their fame is placed without "a tear. Happy are they who die in youth, "when their renown is around them!"