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tales of other times! The chiefs gathered from all their hills, and heard the lovely sound. They raised the voice of Cona ;* the first among a thousand bards! but age is now on my tongue; my soul has failed : hear, at times, the ghosts of bards, and learn their pleasant song.


memory fails on my mind. I hear the call of years; they say, as they pass along, Why dues Ossian sing ?

Soon shall he lie in the narrow house, and no bard shall raise his fame! dark-brown years; ye bring no joy on your course! Let the tomb open to Ossian, for his strength has failed. The sons of song are gone to rest. My voice remains, like a blast, that roars, lonely, on a sea-surrounded rock, after the winds are laid. The dark moss whisthent there; the distant mariner sees the waving trees!

Roll on, ye

asian is sometimes poetically called “the voice of C sa





Cuth allin (general of the Irish tribes, in the minority of Cormac,

kir.g of Ireland) sitting alone beneath a tree, at the gate of Tura, a castle of Ulster (the other chiefs having gone on a hunting party to Cromla, a neighboring hill,) is informed of the landing of Swaran, king of Lochlin, by Moran, the son of Fithil, one of his scouts. He convenes the chiefs; a council is held, and disputes run high about giving battle to the enemy. Connel, the petty king of Togorma, and an intimate friend of Cuthullin, was for retreating, wl Fingal, king of those Caledonians who inhabited the northwest coast of Scotland, whose aid had been previously solicited, should arrive ; but Calmar, the son of Matha, lord of Lara, a country in Connaught, was for engaging the enemy immediately. Cuthullin, of himself willing to fight, went into the opinion of Calmar. Marching towards the enemy, he missed three of his bravest heroes, Fergus, Duchômar, and Cathba. Fergus arriving, tells Cuthullin of the death of the two other chiets: which introduces the affecting episode of Morna, the daughter of Cormac. The army of Cuthullin is descried at a distance by Swaran, who sent the son of Arno to observe the motions of the enemy, while he himself ranged his forces in order of battle. The son of Amo returning to Swaran, describes to him Cnthullin's chariot, and the terrible appearance of that hero. The armies engage, but night coming on, leaves the victory undecided. Cuthullin, according to the hospitality of the times, sends to Swaran a formal invitation to a feast, by his bard Carril, the son of Kintena. Swaran refuses to come. "Carril relates to Cuthullin the story of Grudar and Brassolis. A party, by Connal's advice, is sent to observe the enemy; which closes the action of the first day.

CUTHULLIN sat by Tura's wall; by the tree of the rastling sound. His spear leaned against the rock. His shield lay on the grass by his side.

Amid his thoughts of mighty Cair bar, a hero slain by the chief in war; the scout of ocean comes, Moran the son of Fithil ! “ Arise,” said the youth, “Cuthullin, arise.

I see the ships of the north! Many, chief of men, are the foe. Many the heroes of the sea-borne Swaran !"“ Moran !" replied the blue-eyed chief, “thou ever tremblest, son of Fithil! Thy fears have increased the foe. It is Fingal, king of deserts, with aid to green Erin of streams." "I beheld their chief,” says Moran, “tall as a glittering rock. His spear is a blasted pine. His shield the rising moon! He sat on the shore ! like a cloud of mist on the silent hill! Many, chief of heroes ! I said, many are our hands of war. Well art thou named, the mighty man; but many mighty men are seen from Tura's windy walls.

“He spoke, like a wave on a rock, · Who in this land appears like me ? Heroes stand not in my presence : they fall to earth from my hand. Who can meet Swaran in fight? Who but Fingal, king of Sel. ma of storms? Once we wrestled on Malmor; our heels overturned the woods. Rocks fell from their place; rivulets, changing their course, fled murmuring from our side. Three days we renewed the strife; heroes stood at a distance and trembled. On the fourth, Fingal says, that the king of the ocean fell ! but Swaran says he stood! Let dark Cuthullin yield to him, that is strong as the storms of his land !'

“No!” replied the blue-eyed chief, “ I never yield to mortal man! Dark Cuthullin shall be great üs dead! Go, son of Fithil, take my spear. Strike the sounding shield of Semo. It hangs at Tura's rustling gate. The sound of peace is not its voice! My heroes shall hear and obey.” He went. He struck the bossy shield. The hills, the rocks reply. The sound spreads along the wood: deer start by the lake of roes. Curach leaps from the snunding rock! and Connal of

the bloody spear! Crugal's breast of snow beats high. The son of Favi leaves the dark brown hind. It is the shield of war, said Ronnart; the spear of Cuthullin, said Lugar! Son of the sea, put on thy arnis ! Cal. mar, lift thy sounding steel! Puno! dreadful hero, arise! Cairbar, from thy red tree of Cromla! Bend thy knee, O Eth! descend from the streams of Lena Caolt, stretch thy side as thou movest along the whist. ling heath of Mora : thy side that is white as the foam of the troubled sea, when the dark winds pour it on rocky Cuthon.

Now I behold the chiefs, in the pride of their former deeds! Their souls are kindled at the battles of old; at the actions of other times. Their eyes are flames of fire. They roll in search of the foes of the land. Their mighty hands are on their swords. Lightning pours from their sides of steel. They come like streams from the mountains; each rushes roaring from the hill. Bright are the chiefs of battle, in the armor of their fathers. Gloomy and dark, their heroes follow like the gathering of the rainy clouds behind the red meteors of heaven. The sounds of crashing arms ascend. The gray dogs howl between. Unequal bursts the song of battle. Rocking Cromla echoes round. On Lena's dusky heath they stand, like mist that shades the hills of autumn ; when broken and dark it settles high, and lifts its head to heaven.

“Hail,” said Cuthullin, “sons of the narrow vales ! hail, hunters of the deer! Another sport is drawing near : it is like the dark rolling of that wave on the Coast! Or shall we fight, ye sons of war! or yield green Erin to Lochlin ? O Connal! speak, thou first of men ! thou breaker of the shields ! thou hast often fought with Lochlin : wilt thou lift thy father's spear ?"

“Cuthullin !" calm the chief replied, “ the spear of Connal is keen. It delights to shine in battle, to inix

with the blood of thousands. But though my hand is bent on fight, my heart is for the peace of Erin.* Be. hold, thou first in Cormac's war, the sable feet of Swaran. His masts are many on our coasts, like reeds on the lake of Lego. His ships are forests clothed with mists, when the trees yield by turns to the squally wind. Many are his chiefs in battle. Connal is for peace! Fingal would shun his arm, the first of mor. tal men! Fingal who scatters the mighty, as stormy winds the echoing Cona ; and night settles with all her clouds on the hill !"

· Fly, thou man of peace !” said Colmar, “ Aly,” said the son of Matha; “go, Connal, to thy silent hills, where the spear never brightens in war! Pursue the dark-brown deer of Cromla : stop with thine arrows the bounding roes of Lena. But blue-eyed son of Semo, Cuthullin, ruler of the field, scatter thou the sons of Lochlin !ť roar through the ranks of their pride. Let no vessel of the kingdom of snow bound on the dark-rolling waves of Inistore.f Rise, ye dark winds of Erin, rise! roar, whirlwinds of Lara of hinds ! Amid the tempest let me die, torn, in a cloud, by angry ghosts of men; amid the tempest let Calmar die, if ever chase was sport to him, so much as the battle of shields !

“ Calmar!” Connal slow replied, “I never fled, young son of Matha ! I was swift with my friends in fight; but small is the fame of Connal! The battle was won in my presence! the valiant overcame! But, son of Semo, hear iny voice, regard the ancient throne of Cormac. Give wealth and half the land for peace, till Fingal shall arrive on our coast. Or, if war be the

* Erin, a name of Ireland; for “ear,” or “iar," west, and "in" an island.

The Gaelic name of a Scandinavian general. * The Orkney islands.

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