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Remind him of the kings of Erin the stately forms of old. Let not the fallen be for“got, they were mighty in the field. Let Carril “pour his song, that the kings may rejoice in “ their mist. To-morrow I spread my sails to “ Selma's shaded walls; where streamy Duthula “ winds through the seats of roes.”
ARGUMENT.-Conlath was the youngest of Morni's sons,
and brother to the celebrated Gaul. He was in love with Cuthóna the daughter of Rumar, when Toscar the son of Kinfena, accompanied by Fercuth his friend, arrived, from Ireland, at Mora, where Conlath dwelt. He was hospitably received, and, according to the custom of the times, feasted three days with Conlath. On the forth he set sail, and coasting the island of waves, one of the Hebrides, he saw Cuthóna hunting, fell in love with her, and carried her away by force, in his ship. He was forced, by stress of weather, into I-thona, a desert isle. In the mean time Conlath, hearing of the rape, sailed after him, and found him on the point of sailing for the coast of Ireland. They fought; and they and their followers fellby mutual wounds. Cuthóna did not long survive, for she died of grief the third day after. Fingal, hearing of their unfortunate (leath, sent Stormal the son of Moran to bury them, but forgot to send a bard to sing the funeral song over their tombs. The ghost of Conlath comes, long after, to Ossian, to intreat him to transmit to posterity, his and Cuthóna's fame. For it was the opinion of the times, that the souls of the deceased were not happy, till their elegies ücre composed by a bard.
DID not Ossian bear a voice? or is it the sound of days that are no more? Often does the memory
of former times come, like the evening sun, on my soul. The noise of the chase is renewed. In thought, I lift the spear. But Ossian did hear a voice! Who art thou, son of night? The children of the feeble are asleep. The midnight wind is in my hall. Perhaps it is the shield of Fingal that echoes to the blast. It hangs in Ossian's hall. He feels it sometimes with his bands. Yes! I hear thee, my friend! Long has thy voice been absent from mine ear! What brings thee, on thy cloud, to Ossian, son of generous Morni? Are the friends of the aged near thee? Where is Oscar, son of fame? He was often near thee, O Conlath, when the sound of battle arose.
Ghost of Conlath. Sleeps the sweet voice of Cona, in the midst of his rustling hall? Sleeps Ossian in his ball, and his friends without their fanie? The sea rolls round dark I-thona.* Our tombs are not seen in our isle. How long shall our fame be unheard, son of resounding Selma?
Ossian. O that mine eyes could behold thee! Thon sittest, dim on thy cloud! Art thou like
* I-tbona, island of waves, one of the uninhabited western işles.