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« hid, and the grass grow rank on thy grave. The “ sons of the feeble shall pass along. They shall * not know where the mighty lie.

• Ossian and Fillan, sons of my strength! « Gaul, chief of the blue steel of war! let us as« cend the hill to the cave of Tura. Let us find " the chief of the battles of Erin. Are these the “ walls of Tura? grey and lonely they rise on the “ heath. The chief of shells is sad, and the halls * are silent and lonely. Come, let us find Cuthal“ lip, and give him all our joy. But is that Cu“ thullin, O Fillan, or a pillar of smoke on the • heath? The wind of Cromla is on my eyes. I “ distinguish not my friend."

“ Fingal !" replied the youth," it is the son of * Semo! Gloomy and sad is the hero! bis hand « is on his sword. Hail to the son of battle, * breaker of the shields!” “Hail to thee," replied Cuthullin, “ hail to all the sons of Morven! De

lightful is thy presence, O Fingal! it is the sun on Cromla; when the hunter mourns his ab

scence for a season, and sees him between the “ clouds. Thy sons are like stars that attend thy

course. They give light in the night. It is * not thus thou hast seen me, O Fingal! return

ing from the wars of thy land: when the kings “ of the world* bad fled, and joy returned to

* This is the only passage in the poem wherein the wars of Fingal against the Romans are alluded to: the Roman emperor is distinguished in old oomposition by the title of king of the world. VOL. II,

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“ the hill of hinds!”—“Many are thy words, “ Cuthullin,” said Connan* of small renowu.

Thy words are many, son of Semo, but “ where are thy deeds in arms? Why did we come,

over ocean, to aid thy feeble sword? Thou "filyest to thy cave of grief, and Connan fights “thy battles. Resign to me these arms of light. “ Yield them, thou chief of Erin.”

.“ No hero," replied the chief, “ever sought the arms of Cu“ thullin ! and had a thousand heroes sought “ them, it were in vain, thou gloomy youth! I “ fled not to the cave of grief, till Erin failed at « her streams.”

“ Youth of the feeble arm," said Fingal, “ Connan, cease thy words! Cuthullin is renown“ ed in battle: terrible over the world. Often “ have I heard thy fame, thou stormy chief of « Inis-fail. Spread now thy white sails for the 66 isle of mist. See Bragela leaning on her rock. “ Her tender eye is in tears, the winds lift her “ long hair from her heaving breast. She listens to the breeze of night, to hear the voice of thy ! rowers;t to hear the song of the sea: the sound “ of thy distant harp.

Long shall she listen in vain. Cuthullin shall

* Connan was of the family of Morni. He is mentioned in several other poems, and always appears with the same character. The poet passed him over in silence till now, and his behaviour here deserves no better usuge.

+ The practice of singing when they row is universal among the inhabitants of the north-west coast of Scotland and the istes. It des ceives time, and inspirits the rowers.

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never return. How can I behold Bragela, to “ raise the sigh of her breast? Fingal, I was

always victorious, in battles of other spears." “ And hereafter thou shalt be victorious,” said Fingal of generous shells. “ The fame of Cuthul* lin shall grow, like the branchy tree of Cromla. “Many battles await thee, O chief! Many shall "be the wounds of thy hand! Bring bither, Os. car, the deer! Prepare the feast of shells. Let our souls rejoice after danger, and our friends delight in our presence.” We sat.

We feasted. We sung. The soul of Cuthullin rose. The strength of his arm returned. Gladness brightened along his face. Ullin gave

the

song ; Carril raised the voice. I joined the bards, and sung of battles of the spear. Battles! where I often fought. Now I fight no more! The fame of my former deeds is ceased. I sit forlorn at the tombs of

my

friends. Thus the night passed away in song.

We brought back the morning with joy. Fingal arose on the heath, and shook his glittering spear. He moved first toward the plains of Lena. We followed in all our arms.

“ Spread the sail,” said the king, “ seize the “ winds as they pour from Lena.” We rose on the wave with

songs.

We rushed, with joy, throngh the foam of the deep.

LATHMON:

A POEM.

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