the green-skirted sides of Erin advancing in the bosom of the sea. White broke the tumbling surges on the

coast.

Deep in Larmor's woody bay we drove our keel to the shore, and gained the lofty beach. I inquired after the generous Branno. A son of Erin led us to his halls, to the banks of the sounding Lego. He said. Many warlike youths are assembled to gain the darkhaired maid, the beauteous Evir-allen. Branno will give her to the brave. The conqueror shall bear away the fair. Erin's chiefs dispute the maid, for she is destined for the strong in arms."

These words inflamed my breast, and roused courage in my heart. I clad my limbs in steel. I grasped a shining spear in my hand. Branno saw our approach. He sent the gray-haired Snivan to invite us to his feast, and know the intent of our course. He came with the solemn steps of age, and gravely spoke the words of the chief.

"Whence are these arms of steel? If friends ye come, Branno invites you to his halls; for this day the lovely Evir-allen shall bless the warrior's arms whose lance shall shine victorious in the combat of valor."

“O venerable bard!" I said, "peace guides my steps to Branno. My arm is young, and few are my deeds in war, but valor inflames my soul; I am of the race of the brave."

The bard departed. We followed the steps of age, and soon arrived to Branno's halls.

The hero came to meet us. Manly serenity adorned his brow. His open front showed the kindness of his heart. "Welcome," he said, "ye sons of stran gers; welcome to Branno's friendly halls; partake his shell of joy. Share in the combat of spears. Not unworthy is the prize of volor the lovely dark-haired

maid of Erin; but strong must be that warrio: s hand that conquers Erin's chiefs; matchless his strength in fight."

"Chief," I replied, "the light of my father's deeds blazes in my soul. Though young, I seek my beam of glory foremost in the ranks of foes. Warrior, I can fall, but I shall fall with renown."

"Happy is thy father, O generous youth! more happy the maid of thy love. Thy glory shall surround her with praise; thy valor raise her charms. O were my Evir-allen thy spouse, my years would pass away in joy. Pleased I would descend into the grave: contented see the end of my days."

The feast was spread: stately and slow came Evirallen. A snow-white veil covered her blushing face. Her large blue eyes were bent on earth. Dignity flowed round her graceful steps. A shining tear fell glittering on her cheek. She appeared lovely as the mountain flower when the ruddy beams of the rising sun gleam on its dew-covered sides. Decent she sate. High beat my fluttering heart. Swift through my veins flew my thrilling blood. An unusual weight oppressed my breast. I stood, darkened in my place. The image of the maid wandered over my troubled soul.

The sprightly harp's melodious voice arose from the string of the bards. My soul melted away in the sounds, for my heart, like a stream, flowed gently away in song. Murmurs soon broke upon our joy. Half-unsheathed daggers gleamed. Many a voice was heard abrupt. "Shall the son of the strangers be preferred? Soon shall he be rolled away, like mis by the rushing breath of the tempest." Sedate I rose, for I despised the boaster's threats. The fair one's eye followed my departure. I heard a smothered sigh burst from her breast.

The horn's harsh sound summoned us to the doubtful strife of spears. Lothmar, fierce hunter of the woody Galmal, first opposed his might. He vainly insulted my youth, but my sword cleft his brazen shield, and cut his ashen lance in twain. Straight 1 with held my descending blade. Lothmar retired confused Then rose the red-haired strength of Sulin. Fierce rolled his deep-sunk eye. His shaggy brows stood erect. His face was contracted with scorn. Thrice his spear pierced my buckler. Thrice his sword struck on my helm. Swift flashes gleamed from our circling blades. The pride of my rage arose. Furious I rushed on the chief, and stretched his bulk on the plain. Groaning he fell to earth. Lego's shores re-echoed from his fall.

Then advanced Cormac, graceful in glittering arms. No fairer youth was seen on Erin's grassy hills. His age was equal to mine; his port majestic; his stature tall and slender, like the young shooting poplar in Lutha's streamy vales; but sorrow sate upon his brow; languor reigned on his cheek. My heart inclined to the youth. My sword oft avoided to wound; often sought to save his days: but he rushed eager on death. He fell. Blood gushed from his panting breast. Tears flowed streaming from mine eyes. I stretched forth my hand to the chief. I proffered gentle words of peace. Faintly he seized my hand. "Stranger," he said, "I willingly die, for my days were oppressed with Evir-allen rejected my love. She slighted my tender suit. Thou alone deservest the maid, for pity reigns in thy soul, and thou art generous and brave. Cell her, I forgive her scorn. Tell her, I descend ith joy into the grave; but raise the stone of my aise. Let the maid throw a flower on my tomb, nd mingle one tear with my dust; this is my sole reuest This she can grant to mv shade.”

wo.

I would have spoken, but broken sighs issuing from my breast, interrupted my faltering words. I threw my spear aside. I clasped the youth in my arms: but, alas! his soul was already departed to the cloudy mansions of his fathers.

Then thrice I raised my voice, and called the chiefs to combat. Thrice I brandished my spear, and wielded my glittering sword. No warrior appeared. They dreaded the force of my arm, and yielded the blueeyed maid.

Three days I remained in Branno's halls. On the fourth he led me to the chambers of the fair. She came forth attended by her maids, graceful in lovely majesty, like the moon, when all the stars confess her sway, and retire respectful and abashed. I laid my sword at her feet. Words of love flowed faltering from my tongue. Gently she gave her hand. Joy seized my enraptured soul. Branno was touched at the sight. He closed me in his aged arms.

"O wert thou," said he, "the son of my friend, the son of the mighty Fingal, then were my happiness complete!"

"I am, I am the son of thy friend," I replied, "Ossian, the son of Fingal;" then sunk upon his aged breast. Our flowing tears mingled together. We remained long clasped in each other's arms.

Such was my youth, O Malvina! but alas! I am now forlorn. Darkness covers my soul. Yet the light of song beams at times on my mind. It solaces awhile my wo. Bards, prepare my tomb. Lay me by the fair Evir-allen. When the revolving years bring back the mild season of spring to our hills, sing the praise of Cona's bard, of Ossian, the friend of the distressed.

The difference, in many material circumstances, be tween these two descriptions of, as it would seem, the

same thing, must be very apparent. "I will submit," says the baron, "the solution of this problem to the public." We shall follow his example.

The Honorable Henry Grattan, to whom the baron dedicates his work, has said, that the poems which it contains are calculated to inspire "valor, wisdom, and virtue." It is true, that they are adorned with numerous beauties both of poetry and morality. They are still farther distinguished and illumined by noble allusions to the Omnipotent, which cannot fail to strike the reader as a particular in which they remarkably vary from those of Mr. Macpherson. "In his," says our author, "there is no mention of the Divinity. In these, the chief characteristic is the many solemn descriptions of the Almighty Being, which give a degree of elevation to them unattainable by any other method. It is worthy of observation how the bard gains in sublimity by his magnificent display of the power, bounty, eternity, and justice of God: and every reader must rejoice to find the venerable old warrior occupied in descriptions so worthy his great and comprehensive genius, and to see him freed from the imputation of atheism, with which he had been branded by many sagacious and impartial men." P. vi.

We could willingly transcribe more of these poems, but we have arready quoted enough to show the style of them, and can spare space for no additions. "Lamor, a poem," is, the baron thinks, of a more ancient date than that of Ossian, and "the model, perhaps, of his compositions." Another, called "Sitric," king of Dublin, which throws some light on the history of those times, he places in the ninth century. What faith, however, is to be put in the genuineness of the "Frag

*If Mr. Laing should choose to take the trouble of passing them hrough his alembic, they may easily be disposed of. For instance, 'Larnel, or the Song of despair :"