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 fell by mutual wounds. Cuthóna did not long survive, for she died of grief the third day after. Fingal, hearing of their unfortunate death, 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 were composed by a bard, DID not Ossian hear 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 hall, and his friends without their fame? The sea rolls round dark I-thona.* tombs are not seen in our isle. How long shall our fame be unheard, son of resounding Selma? Our Ossian. O that mine eyes could behold thee! Thou sittest, dim on thy cloud! Art thou like * I-thona, island of waves, one of the uninhabited western işles. the mist of Lano? An half extinguished meteor of fire? Of what are the skirts of thy robe? Of what is thine airy bow? He is gone on his blast like the shade of a wandering cloud. Come from thy wall, O harp! Let me hear thy sound. Let the light of memory arise on I-thona. Let me behold again my friends! And Ossian does behold his friends on the dark-blue isle. The cave of Thona appears, with its mossy rocks and bending trees. A stream roars at its mouth. Toscar bends over its course. Fercuth is sad by his side. Cuthóna* sits at a distance and weeps. Does the wind of the waves deceive me? Or do I hear them speak. Toscar. The night was stormy. hills the groaning oaks came down. darkly-tumbled beneath the blast. From their The roaring The sea waves climbed against our rocks. The lightning came often and showed the blasted fern. Fer An cuth! I saw the ghost who embroiled the night.t Silent he stood, on that bank. His robe of mist flew on the wind. I could behold his tears. aged man he seemed, and full of thought! Fercuth. It was thy father, O Toscar. forsees some death among his race. He Such was his appearance on Cromla, before the great Ma * Cuthōna the daughter of Rumar, whom Toscar had carried away by force. It was long thought in the north of Scotland, that storms were raised by the ghosts of the deceased. This notion is still entertained by the vulgar; for they think that whirlwinds, and sudden squalls of wind, are occasioned by spirits, who transport themselves, in that manner, from one place to another. ronnan* fell. Erin of hills of grass! how plea- sant are thy vales? Soft is the streams. The sun is on thy fields. sound of the harp in Seláma.+ Lovely the cry of the hunter on Cromla. But we are in dark I-thona, surrounded by the storm. The billows lift their white heads above our rocks. We tremble amidst the night. Toscar. Whither is the soul of battle fled. Fercuth with locks of age? I have seen thee undaunted in danger: thine eyes burning with joy in the fight. Whither is the soul of battle fled? Our fathers never feared. Go; view the settling sea; the stormy wind is laid. The billows still tremble on the deep. They seem to fear the blast. Go; view the settling sea. Morning is grey on our rocks. The sun will look soon from his east; in all his pride of light! I lifted up my sails with joy, before the halls of generous Con lath. My course was by a desert isle: where Cuthona pursued the deer. I saw her, like that beam of the sun that issues from the cloud. Her hair was on her heaving breast. She, bending forward, drew the bow. Her white arm seemed, behind her, like the snow of Cromla. Come to my soul, I said, huntress of the desert isle! But she wastes her time in tears. She thinks of the * Ma-ronnan was the brother of Toscar. + Selamath, beautiful to behold, the name of Toscar's residence on the coast of Ulster, near the mountain Cromla. |