people all Scotland with his own hands," and make these sons of the north "illegitimate," but we may observe that from the inclination of the Baron's opinion, added to the internal evidence of his poems, there appears at least as much reason to believe their author to have been a native of Ireland as of Scotland. The success with which Macpherson's endeavours had been rewarded, induced the Baron to inquire whether any more of this kind of poetry could be obtained. His search he confesses would have proved fruitless, had he expected to find complete pieces; "for certainly," says he, "none such exist. But," he adds," in seeking with assiduity and care, I found, by the help of my friends, several fragments of old traditionary songs, which were very sublime, and particularly remarkable for their simplicity and elegance." p. iv.

"From these fragments," continues Baron de Harold, "I have composed the following poems. They are all founded on tradition; but the dress they now appear in is mine. It will appear singular to some, that Ossian, at times, especially in the songs of Comfort, seems rather to be an Hibernian than a Scotchman, and that some of these poems formally contradict passages of great importance in those handed to the public by Mr. Macpherson, especially that very remarkable one of Evir-allen, where the description of her marriage with Ossian is essentially different in all its parts from that given in the former poems." p. v.

We refer the reader to the opening of the fourth book of Fingal, which treats of Ossian's courtship of Evir-allen. The Evir-allen of Baron de Harold is in these words :

scalloped shell with silver, if I should bring him one from the Highlands, and to swear it was the identical shell out of which Fingal used to drink."-A gentleman!

EVIR-ALLEN:

A POEM.

Thou fairest of the maids of Morven, young beam of streamy Lutha, come to the help of the aged, come to the help of the distressed. Thy soul is open to pity. Friendship glows in thy tender breast. Ah come and sooth away my wo. Thy words are music to my soul.

Bring me my once lov'd harp. It hangs long neglected in my hall. The stream of years has borne me away in its course, and roll'd away all my bliss. Dim and faded are my eyes; thin strewed with hairs my head. Weak is that nervous arm once the terror of foes. Scarce can I grasp my staff, the prop of my trembling limbs. Lead me to yonder craggy steep. The murmur of the falling streams; the whistling winds rushing thro' the woods of my hills; the welcome rays of the bounteous sun, will soon awake the voice of song in my breast. The thoughts of former years glide over my soul like swift shooting meteors o'er Ardven's gloomy vales.

Come ye friends of my youth, ye soft sounding voices of Cona, bend from your gold-ting'd clouds, and join me in my song. A mighty blaze is kindled in my soul. I hear a powerful voice. It says, "Seize thy beam of glory, O bard! for thou shalt soon depart. Soon shall the light of song be faded. Soon thy tuneful voice forgotten."-Yes, I obey, O powerful voice, for thou art pleasing to mine ear.

O Evir-allen! thou boast of Erin's maids, thy thoughts come streaming on my soul. Hear, O Malvina! a tale of my youth, the actions of my former days.

Peace reign'd over Morven's hills. The shell of joy resounded in our halls. Round the blaze of the oak sported in festive dance the maids of Morven. They shone like the radiant bow of heaven, when the fiery rays of

the setting sun brighten its varied sides. They wooed me to their love, but my heart was silent, cold. Indifference, like a brazen shield, cover'd my frozen heart.

Fingal saw, he smil'd and mildly spoke: "My son, the down of youth grows on thy cheek. Thy arm has wielded the spear of war. Foes have felt thy force. Morven's maids are fair, but fairer are the daughter's of Erin. Go to that happy isle; to Branno's grass-cover'd fields. The daughter of my friend deserves thy love. Majestic beauty flows around her as a robe, and innocence as a precious veil heighten's her youthful charms. Go take thy arms, and win the lovely fair."

Straight I obey'd. A chosen band follow'd my steps. We mounted the dark-bosomed ship of the king, spread its white sails to the winds, and plough'd thro' the foam of ocean. Pleasant shone the fire-eyed Ull-Erin.* With joyful songs we cut the liquid way. The moon, regent of the silent night, gleamed majestic in the blue vault of heaven, and seemed pleased to bathe her side in the trembling wave. My soul was full of my father's words. A thousand thoughts divided my wavering mind.

Soon as the early beam of morn appeared, we saw the green-skirted sides of Erin advancing in the bosom of the White broke the tumbling surges on the coast.

sea.

Deep in Larmor's woody bay we drove our keel to the shore, and gained the lofty beach. I inquired after the generous Branno. A son of Erin led us to his halls, to the banks of the sounding Lego. He said, "Many warlike youths are assembled to gain the dark-haired maid, the beauteous Evir-allen. Branno will give her to the brave. The conqueror shall bear away the fair. Erin's chiefs dispute the maid, for she is destined for the strong in arms. These words inflamed my breast, and roused courage in my heart. I clad my limbs in steel. I grasped a shining

*The guiding star to Ireland.

spear in my hand. Branno saw our approach. He sent the grey-haired Snivan to invite us to his feast, and know the intent of our course. He came with the solemn steps of age, and gravely spoke the words of the chief.

"Whence are these arms of steel? If friends ye come, Branno invites ye to his halls; for this day the lovely Evir-allen shall bless the warrior's arms whose lance shall shine victorious in the combat of valour."

"O venerable bard," I said, "peace guides my steps to Branno. My arm is young, and few are my deeds in war,but valour inflames my soul: I am of the race of the brave."

The bard departed. We followed the steps of age, and soon arrived to Branno's halls.

The hero came to meet us. Manly serenity adorned his brow. His open front shewed the kindness of his heart. "Welcome," he said, ye sons of strangers; welcome to Branno's friendly halls, partake his shell of joy. Share in the combat of spears. Not unworthy is the prize of valour, the lovely dark-haired maid of Erin ; but strong must be that warrior's hand that conquers Erin's chiefs; matchless his strength in fight."

"Chief," I replied," the light of my father's deeds blazes in my soul. Though young, I seek my beam of glory foremost in the ranks of foes. Warrior I can fall, but I shall fall with renown."

Happy is thy father, O generous youth! more happy the maid of thy love. Thy glory shall surround her with praise; thy valour raise her charms. O were my Evirallen thy spouse, my years would pass away in joy. Pleas ed I would descend into the grave: contented see the end of my days."

The feast was spread; stately and slow came Evir-allen. A snow-white veil covered her blushing face. Her large blue eyes were bent on earth. Dignity flowed round her graceful steps. A shining tear fell glittering on

her cheek. She appeared lovely as the mountain flower when the ruddy beams of the rising sun gleam on its dewcovered sides. Decent she sate. High beat my fluttering heart. Swift through my veins flew my thrilling blood. An unusual weight oppressed my breast. I stood, darkened, in my place. The image of the maid wandered over my troubled soul.

"Shall

The sprightly harp's melodious voice arose from the strings of the bards. My soul melted away in the sounds, for my heart, like a stream, flowed gently away in song. Murmurs soon broke upon our joy. Half unsheathed daggers gleamed. Many a voice was heard abrupt. the son of the strangers be preferred? Soon shall he be rolled away, like mist, by the rushing breath of the tempest. Sedate I rose, for I despis'd the boaster's threats. The fair one's eye followed my departure. I heard a smothered sigh burst from her breast.

The horn's harsh sound summoned us to the doubtful strife of spears. Lothmar, fierce hunter of the woody Galmal, first opposed his might. He vainly insulted my youth, but my sword cleft his brazen shield, and cut his ashen lance in twain. Straight I withheld my descending blade. Lothmar retired confused.

Then rose the red-haired strength of Sulin. Fierce rolled his deep-sunk eye. His shaggy brows stood erect. His face was contracted with scorn. Thrice his spear pierced my buckler. Thrice his sword struck on my helm. Swift flashes gleamed from our circling blades. The pride of my rage arose. Furious I rushed on the chief, and stretched his bulk on the plain. Groaning he fell to earth. Lego's shores re-echoed from his fall.

Then advanced Cormac, graceful in glittering arms. No fairer youth was seen on Erin's grassy hills. His age was equal to mine: his port majestic; his stature tall and slender, like the young shooting poplar in Lutha's streamy