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falls! The steel pierced his forehead, and divided his red hair behind. He lay, like a shattered rock, which Cromla shakes from its shaggy side; when the green-vallied Erin shakes its mountains, from sea to sea!

But never more shall Oscar rise! He leans on his bossy shield. His spear is in his terrible hand. Erin's sons stand distant and dark. Their shouts arise, like crowded streams. Moi-lena echoes wide. Fingal heard the sound. He took the spear of Selma. His steps are before us on the heath. He spoke the words of woe. I hear the noise of war. Young Oscar is alone. Rise, sons of Morven : join the hero's sword!"

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Ossian rushed along the heath. Fillan bounded over Moi-lena. Fingal strode in his strength. The light of his shield is terrible. The sons of Erin saw it far distant. They trembled in their souls. They knew that the wrath of the king arose: and they foresaw their death. We first arrived. We fought. Erin's chiefs withstood our rage. But when the king came, in the sound of his course, what heart of steel could stand? Erin fled over Moi-lena. Death pur

Oscar, in consequence of his threats, began to lay waste Ireland; but as he returned with the spoil into Ulster, through the narrow pass of Gabhra ⚫ (Caoil ghlen Ghbhra) he was met by Cairbar, and a battle ensued, in which both the heroes fell by mutual wounds. The bard gives a very curious list of the followers of Oscar, as they marched to battle. They appear to have been five hundred in number, commanded, as the poet expresses it, by five heroes of the blood of kings. This poem mentions Fingal, as arriv. ing from Scotland, before Oscar died of his wounds.

sued their flight. We saw Oscar on his shield. We saw his blood around. Silence darkened every face. Each turned his back and wept. The king strove to hide his tears. His grey beard whistled in the wind. He bends his head above the chief. His words are mixed with sighs.

“Art thou fallen, O Oscar! in the midst of thy course? the heart of the aged beats over thee! He sees thy coming wars! The wars which ought to come he sees! They are cut off from thy fame? When shall joy dwell at Selma? When shall grief depart from Morven? My sons fall by degrees: Fingal is the last of his race. My fame begins to pass away. Mine age will be without friends. I shall sit a grey cloud in my hall. I shall not hear the return of a son, in his sounding arms. Weep, ye heroes of Morven! never more shall Oscar rise!"

And they did weep, O Fingal! Dear was the hero to their souls. He went out to battle, and the foes vanished. He returned, in peace, amidst their joy. No father mourned his son slain in youth: no brother his brother of love. They fell, without tears, for the chief of the people is low! Bran* is howling at for he had often led

his feet: gloomy Luath is sad, them to the chace; to the bounding roe of the desert!

When Oscar saw his friends around, his heaving breast arose. "The groans," he said, " of aged

Bran was one of Fingal's dogs. Bran signifies a mountain stream,

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chiefs: the howling of my dogs: the sudden bursts of
the song of grief, have melted Oscar's soul. My soul,
that never melted before. It was like the steel of my
sword. Ossian, carry me to my hills! Raise the stones
of my renown. Place the horn of a deer: place my
sword by my side. The torrent hereafter may raise
the earth the hunter may find the steel and say,
"This has been Oscar's sword, the pride of other
years!" "Fallest thou, son of my fame! shall I never
see thee, Oscar! When others hear of their sons, shall
I not hear of thee? The moss is on thy four grey
stones. The mournful wind is there. The battle shall
be fought without thee. Thou shalt not pursue the
dark-brown hinds. When the warrior returns from
battles, and tells of other lands; "I have seen a tomb,"
he will say, "by the roaring stream, the dark dwell-
ing of a chief. He fell by car-borne Oscar, the first
of mortal men." I, perhaps, shall hear his voice. A
beam of joy will rise in my
soul."

Night would have descended in sorrow, and morning returned in the shadow of grief. Our chiefs would have stood, like cold dropping rocks on Moi-lena, and have forgot the war; did not the king disperse his grief, and raise his mighty voice. The chiefs, as newwakened from dreams, lift up their heads around.

"How long on Moi-lena shall we weep? How long pour in Erin our tears? The mighty will not return. Oscar shall not rise in his strength. The

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