His brother came to his dreams, balf-seen from his low-hung cloud. Joy rose darkly in his face. He had heard the song of Carril.* A blast sustained his dark-skirted cloud; which he seized in the bosom of night, as he rose, with his fame, towards his airy hall. Half-mixed with the noise of the stream, he poured his feeble words.

to

Joy meet the soul of Cathmor. His voice was "heard on Moi-lena. The bard gave his song "Cairbar. He travels on the wind. My form " is in my father's hall, like the gliding of a ter“rible light, which darts across the desert, in a "stormy night. No bard shall be wanting at thy

in that country is related in the seventh book. He was the ancestor of Cathmor; and is here called Larthon of Lumon, from a high hill of that name in Inis-huna, the ancient seat of the Fir-bolg. The character of Cathmor is preserved. He had mentioned, in the first book, the aversion of that chief to praise, and we find him here lying at the side of a stream, that the noise of it might drown the voice of Fonar, who, according to the custom of the times, sung his eulogium in his evening-song. Though other chiefs, as well as Cathmor, might be averse to hear their own praise, we find it the universal policy of the times, to allow the bards to be as extravagant as they pleased in their encomiums on the leaders of armies, in the presence of their people. The vulgar, who had no great ability to judge for themselves, received the characters of their princes entirely upon the faith of their bards.

* Carril, the son of Kinfena, by the orders of Ossian, sung the fune ral elegy at the tomb of Cairbar. See the second book towards the end. In all these poems, the visits of ghosts, to their living friends, are short, and their language obscure, both which circumstances tend to throw a solemn gloom on these supernatural scenes. Towards the latter end of the speech of the ghost of Cairbar, he foretels the death of Cathmor, by enumerating those signals, which according to the opinion of the times, preceded the death of a person renowned. It was thought that the ghosts of deceased bards sung, for three nights preceding the death (near the place where his tomb was to be raised) round an unsubstantial figure which represented the body of the person who was to die.

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tomb, when thou art lowly laid. The sons of song love the valiant. Cathmor, thy name is a "pleasant gale. The mournful sounds arise! "On Lubar's field there is a voice! Louder still,

ye shadowy ghosts! The dead were full of fame! "Shrilly swells the feeble sound. The rougher "blast alone is heard! Ah! soon is Cathmor "low!" Rolled into himself he flew, wide on the bosom of winds. The old oak felt his departure, and shook its whistling head. Cathmor starts from rest. He takes his deathful spear. around. He sees but dark

He lifts his eyes

skirted night.

"It was the voice of the king," he said. "But now his form is Unmarked is your

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gone.

path in the air, ye children of the night. Often "like a reflected beam, are ye seen in the desert "wild: but ye retire in your blasts, before our "steps approach. Go then, ye feeble race!

Knowledge with you there is none! Your joys "are weak, and like the dreams of our rest, or "the light-winged thought, that flies across the "soul. Shall Cathmor soon be low? Darkly "laid in his narrow house? Where no morning "comes, with her half-opened eyes? Away, "thou shade! to fight is mine! All further

thought away! I rush forth, on eagle's wings,

*The soliloquy of Cathmor suits the magnanimity of his character. Though staggered at first with the prediction of Cairbar's ghost, he soon comforts himself with the agreeable prospect of his future renown; and, like Achilles, prefers a short and glorious life, to an obscure length of years in retirement and ease.

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In the lonely vale

"to seize my beam of fame. "of streams, abides the narrow* soul. Years "roll on, seasons return, but he is still unknown. "In a blast comes cloudy death, and lays his grey head low. His ghost is folded in the va"pour of the fenny field. Its course is never on "hills, nor mossy vales of wind. So shall not "Cathmor depart. No boy in the field was he, "who only marks the bed of roes, upon the "echoing hills. My issuing forth was with kings. "My joy in dreadful plains; where broken hosts 66 are rolled away, like seas before the wind."

1

So spoke the king of Alnecma, brightening in his rising soul. Valour, like a pleasant flame is gleaming within his breast. Stately is his stride on the heath! The beam of east is poured around.

* An indolent and unwarlike life was held in extreme contempt. Whatever a philosopher may say, in praise of quiet and retirement, I am far from thinking, but they weaken and debase the human mind. When the faculties of the soul are not exerted, they loose their vigour, and low and circumscribed notions take the place of noble and enlarged ideas. Action, on the contrary, and the vicissitudes of fortune which attend it, call forth by turns, all the powers of the mind, and, by exercising, strengthen them. Hence it is, that in great and ⚫pulent states, when property and indolence are secured to individuals, we seldom meet with that strength of mind, which is so common in a nation, not far advanced in civilization. It is a curious, but just observation, that great kingdoms seldom produce great characters, which must be altogether attributed to that indolence, and dissipation which are the inseparable companions of too much property and security. Rome, it is certain, had more real great men within it, when its power was confined within the narrow bounds of Latium, than when its dominion extended over all the known world; and one petty state of the Saxon heptarchy had, perhaps, as much genuine spirit in it, as the two British kingdoms united. As a state, we are much more powerful than our ancestors, but we would lose by comparing individuals with them.

He saw his grey host on the field, wide-spreading their ridges in light. He rejoiced, like a spirit of heaven, whose steps come forth on the seas, when he beholds them peaceful round, and all the winds are laid. But soon he awakes the waves, and rolls them large to some echoing shore.

On the rushy bank of a stream, slept the daughter of Inis-huna. The helmet had fallen from her head. Her dreams were in the lands of her fathers. There morning is on the field. Grey streams leap down from the rocks. The breezes, in shadowy waves, fly over the rushy fields. There is the sound that prepares for the chase. There the moving of warriors from the hall. But tall above the rest is seen the hero of streamy Atha. He bends his eye of love on Sulmalla, from his stately steps. She turns, with pride, her face away, and careless bends the bow.

Such were the dreams of the maid, when Cathmor of Atha came. He saw her fair face before him, in the midst of her wandering locks. He knew the maid of Lumion.

What should CathHis tears come down. "This is no time,

mor do? His sighs arise. But straight he turns away. "king of Atha, to awake thy secret soul. The "battle is rolled before thee, like a troubled "stream."

*

He struck that warning boss, wherein dwelt

* In order to understand this passage, it is necessary to look to the description of Cathmor's shield in the seventh book. This shield had seven principal bosses, the sound of each of which, when struck with

Erin rose around him, like the
Sulmalla started from

the voice of war. sound of eagle-wing.

sleep, in her disordered locks. She seized the helmet from earth. She trembled in her place. "Why should they know in Erin of the daughter "of Inis-huna?" She remembered the race of

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*

kings. The pride of her soul arose ! Her steps "are behind a rock, by the blue-winding stream "of a vale: where dwelt the dark-brown hind "ere yet the war arose. Thither came the voice "of Cathmor, at times, to Sul-malla's ear. Her "soul is darkly sad. She pours her words on "wind.

"The dreams of Inis-huna departed. They are dispersed from my soul. I hear not the "chase in my land. I am concealed in the skirt ❝ of war. I look forth from my cloud. No "beam appears to light my path. I behold my "warrior low; for the broad-shielded king is

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near, he that overcomes in danger, Fingal from "Selma of spears! Spirit of departed Conmor! are thy steps on the bosom of winds? Comest thou, at times, to other lands, father of sad "Sul-malla? Thou dost come! I have heard thy voice at night; while yet I rose on the wave to Erin of the streams. The ghost of

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a spear, conveyed a particular order from the king to his tribes. The sound of one of them, as here, was the signal for the army to assemble. *This was not the valley of Lona to which Sul-malla afterwards retired.