stream, nor wood are they! I hear the clang of "arms! their strife is in the bosom of that mist. "Such is the contending of spirits in a nightly "cloud, when they strive for the wintry wings of "winds, and the rolling of the foam-covered " waves."

I rushed along. The grey mist rose. Tall, gleaming, they stood at Lubar. Cathmor leaned against a rock. His half-fallen shield received the stream, that leapt from the moss above. Towards him is the stride of Fingal: he saw the hero's blood. His sword fell slowly to his side.

He spoke, amidst his darkening joy.

"Yields the race of Borbar-duthul?

Or still

"does he lift the spear? Not unheard is thy

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name at Atha, in the green dwelling of stran66 gers. It has come, like the breeze of his de"sert, to the ear of Fingal. Come to my hill of "feasts: the mighty fail, at times. No fire am "I to low-laid foes: I rejoice not over the fall "of the brave. To close* the wound is mine:

combat is left to the imagination of the reader. Poets have almost universally failed in their descriptions of this sort. Not all the strength of Homer could sustain, with dignity, the minutiae of a single combat. The throwing of a spear, and the braying of a shield, as some of our ●wn poets most elegantly express it, convey no magnificent, though they are striking ideas. Our imagination stretches beyond, and consequently, despises, the description. It were, therefore, well for some poets, in my opinion, (though it is, perhaps, somewhat singular,) to have, sometimes, thrown mist over their single combats.

* Fingal is very much celebrated, in tradition, for his knowledge in the virtues of herbs. The Irish poems, concerning him, often represent him curing the wounds which his chiefs received in battle. They fable, concerning him, that he was in possession of a cup, containing the essence of herbs, which instantaneously healed wounds. The

BOOK VIII. "I have known the herbs of the hills. I seized "their fair heads, on high, as they waved by their "secret streams. Thou art dark and silent, king "of Atha of strangers!"

"By Atha of the stream," he said, "there rises

a mossy rock. On its head is the wandering of "boughs, within the course of winds. Dark, in "its face, is a cave, with its own loud rill. There "have I heard the tread of strangers,* when they

passed to my hall of shells. Joy rose, like a "flame, on my soul: I blest the echoing rock. "Here be my dwelling, in darkness; in my grassy "vale. From this I shall mount the breeze, that "pursues my thistle's beard; or look down, on "blue-winding Atha, from its wandering mist."

"Why speaks the king of the tomb? Ossian! "the warrior has failed! Joy meet thy soul, like "a stream, Cathmor, friend of strangers! My I hear the call of years; they take my

son, knowledge of curing the wounded, was, till of late, universal among the highlanders. We hear of no other disorder, which required the skill of physic. The wholesomeness of the climate, and an active life, spent in hunting, excluded diseases.

Cathmor reflects with pleasure, even in his last moments, on the relief he had afforded to strangers. The very tread of their feet was pleasant in his ear. His hospitality was not passed unnoticed by the bards; for, with them it became a proverb, when they described the hospitable disposition of a hero, that he was like Cathmor of Atha, the friend of strangers. It will seem strange, that, in all the Irish poems, there is no mention made of Cathmor. This must be attributed to the revolutions and domestic confusions which happened in that island, and utterly cut off all the real traditions concerning so ancient a period. All that we have related of the state of Ireland before the fifth century is of late invention, and the work of ill-informed senachies and injudicious bards.

spear as they pass along. Why does not Fingal, they seem to say, rest within his hall? Dost "thou always delight in blood? In the tears of "the sad? No: ye dark-rolling years, Fingal

delights not in blood. Tears are wintry streams "that waste away my soul. But, when I lie "down to rest, then comes the mighty voice of It awakes me in my hall, and calls forth "all my steel. It shall call it forth no more; "Ossian, take thon thy father's spear. Lift it, " in battle, when the proud arise.

"war.

"My fathers, Ossian, trace my steps; my "deeds are pleasant to their eyes. Wherever I "come forth to battle, on my field, are their "columns of mist. But mine arm rescued the "feeble! the haughty found my rage was fire. "Never over the fallen did mine eye rejoice. For

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this,* my fathers shall meet me, at the gates of "their airy halls, tall with robes of light, with "mildly kindled eyes. But, to the proud in

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arms, they are darkened moons in heaven, which "send the fire of night red-wandering over their "face.

* The Celtic nations had some idea of rewards, and perhaps of punishments, after death. Those who behaved, in life, with bravery and virtue, were received, with joy, to the airy halls of their fathers; but the dark in soul, to use the expression of the poet, were spurned away from the habitation of heroes, to wander on all the winds. Another opinion, which prevailed in those times, tended not a little to make individuals emulous to excel one another in martial achievements. It was thought, that, in the hall of clouds, every one had a seat, raised above others, in proportion as he excelled them, in valour when he lived.

"Father of heroes, Trenmor, dweller of eddy"ing winds! I give thy spear to Ossian, let thine "eye rejoice. Thee have I seen, at times, bright "from between thy clouds; so appear to my son, "when he is to lift the spear: then shall he re"member thy mighty deeds, though thou art now "but a blast."

"He gave the spear to my hand, and raised, at once, a stone on high, to speak to future times, with its grey head of moss. Beneath he placed a sword* in earth, and one bright boss from his shield. Dark in thought, a while, he bends: his words, at length, came forth.

"When thou, O stone, shalt moulder down, "and lose thee, in the moss of years, then shall "the traveller come, and whistling pass away. "Thou know'st not, feeble man, that fame once "shone on Moi-lena. Here Fingal resigned his

spear, after the last of his fields. Pass away, "thou empty shade! in thy voice there is no re66 nown. Thou dwellest by some peaceful stream; yet a few years, and thou art gone. No one "remembers thee, thou dweller of thick mist! "But Fingal shall be clothed with fame, a beam "of light to other times; for he went forth, in "echoing steel, to save the weak in arms."

*There are some stones still to be seen in the north, which were erected as memorials of some remarkable transactions between the ancient chiefs. There are generally found, beneath them, some pieces of arms, and a bit of half-burnt wood. The cause of placing the last there is not mentioned in tradition.

Brightening in his fame, the king strode to Lubar's sounding oak, where it bent, from its rock, over the bright-tumbling stream. Beneath it is a narrow plain, and the sound of the fount of the rock. Here the standard of Morven poured its wreaths on the wind, to mark the way of Feradartho, from his secret vale. Bright from his parted west, the sun of heaven looked abroad. The hero saw his people, and heard their shouts of joy. In broken ridges round, they glittered to the beam. The king rejoiced, as a hunter in his own green vale, when, after the storm is rolled away, he sees the gleaming sides of the rocks. The green thorn shakes its head in their face; from their top look forward the roes.

Grey,+ at his mossy cave, is bent the aged form of Clonmal. The eyes of the bard had failed. He leaned forward on his staff. Bright in her locks, before him, Sul-malla listened to the tale: the tale of the kings of Atha, in the days of old. The noise of battle had ceased in his ear: he stopt, and raised the secret sigh. The spirits of

* The erecting of his standard on the bank of Lubar, was the signal which Fingal, in the beginning of the book, promised to give to the chief's, who went to conduct Ferad-artho to the army, should he himself prevail in battle. This standard here is called the sun-beam. The reason of this appellation, I gave in my notes on the poem entitled Fingal.

The scene is changed to the valley of Lona, whither Sul-malla had been sent, by Cathmor, before the battle. Clonmal, an aged bard, or rather druid, as he seems here to be endued with a prescience of events, had long dwelt there in a cave. This scene is calculated to throw a melancholy gloom over the mind.