WHY weeps the daughter of Starno, faid Fingal, with a figh? Why is thy face fo pale, thou daughter of the clouds? She departed on the wind of Lena; and left him in the midst of the night. She mourned the fons of her people that were to fall by Fingal's hand.

THE hero ftarted from reft, and ftill beheld her in his foul.The found of Ofcar's fteps approached. The king faw the grey shield on his fide. For the faint beam of the morning came over the waters of Ullin.

WHAT do the foes in their fear? faid the rifing king of Morven. Or fly they through ocean's foam, or wait they the battle of fteel? But why fhould Eingal afk? I hear their voice on the early wind.---Fly over Lena's heath, O Ofcar, and awake our friends to battle.

THE king ftood by the ftone of Lubar; and thrice raised his terrible voice. The deer started from the fountains of Cromla; and all the rocks fhook on their hills. Like the noife of a hundred mountain-ftreams, that burft, and roar, and foam like the clouds that gather to a tempeft on the blue face of the fky; fo met the fons of the defart, round the terrible voice of Fingal. For pleasant was the voice of the king of Morven to the warriors of his land: often had

:

he

he led them to battle, and returned with the fpoils of the foe.

COME to battle, faid the king, ye children of the ftorm. Come to the death of thousands. Comhal's fon will fee the fight. My fword

shall wave on that hill, and be the shield of my people. But never may you need it, warriors; while the fon of Morni fights, the chief of mighty men.--He fhall lead my battle; that his fame may rife in the song. -O ye ghofts of heroes dead! ye riders of the form of Cromla! receive my falling people with joy, and bring them to your. hills.---And may the blaft of Lena carry them over my feas, that they may come to my filent dreams, and delight my foul in reft..

FILLAN and Ofcar, of the dark-brown hair! fair Ryno, with the pointed steel! advance with valour to the fight; and behold the fon of Morni. Let your fwords be like his in the ftrife and behold the deeds of his hands. Protect the friends of your father: and remember the chiefs of old. My children, I fhall fee you yet, though here

ye

fhould fall in Erin. Soon fhall our cold, pale ghofts meet in a cloud, and fly over the hills of Cona.

Now like a dark and ftormy cloud, edged round with the red lightning of heaven, and

flying

9

flying weftward from the morning's beam, the king of hills removed. Terrible is the light of his armour, and two fpears are in his hand. His gray hair falls on the wind.

He often looks back on the war. Three bards attend the fon of fame, to carry his words to the heroes.--High on Cromla's fide he fat, waving the lightning of his fword, and as he waved we moved. Joy rofe in Ofcar's face. His cheek is red. His eye sheds tears. The fword is a beam of fire in his hand. He came, and fmiling, spoke to Offian. O ruler of the fight of steel! my father, hear thy fon. Retire with Morven's mighty chief; and give me Offian's fame. And if here I fall, my king, remember that breast of fnow, that lonely fun-beam of my love, the white-handed daughter of Tofcar. For with red cheek from the rock, and bending over the ftream, her foft hair flies about her bofom as fhe pours the figh for Ofcar. Tell her I am on my hills a lightly-bounding fon of the wind; that hereafter, in a cloud, I may meet the lovely maid of Toscar.

RAISE, Ofcar, rather raise my tomb. I will not yield the fight to thee. For firft and bloodieft in the war my arm shall teach thee how to fight. But, remember, my fon, to place this fword, this bow, and the horn of my

deer,

deer, within that dark and narrow houfe, whofe mark is one gray ftone. Ofcar, I have no love to leave to the care of my fon; for graceful Evirallin is no more, the lovely daughter of Branno.

SUCH were our words, when Gaul's loud voice came growing on the wind. He waved on high the fword of his father, and rushed to death and wounds.

As waves white-bubbling over the deep come fwelling, roaring on; as rocks of ooze meet roaring waves: fo foes attacked and fought. Man met with man, and fteel with fteel. Shields found; men fall. ; men fall. As a hundred hammers on the son of the furnace, fo rofe, so rung their fwords.

GAUL rushed on like a whirlwind in Ardven. The deftruction of heroes is on his fword. Swaran was like the fire of the defart in the echoing heath of Gormal. How can I give to the fong the death of many fpears? My fword rofe high, and flamed in the ftrife of blood. And, Ofcar, terrible wert thou, my beft, my greatest fon! I rejoiced in my fecret foul, when his fword flamed over the flain. They fled amain through Lena's heath and we pursued and flew. As ftones that bound from rock to rock; as axes in echoing woods; as thunder

4

rolls

rolls from hill to hill in difmal broken peals; fo blow fucceeded to blow, and death to death, from the hand of Ofcar* and mine.

BUT Swaran clofed round Morni's fon, as the ftrength of the tide of Iniftore. The king half-rofe from his hill at the fight, and halfaffumed the fpear. Go, Ullin, go, my aged bard, begun the king of Morven. Remind the mighty Gaul of battle; remind him of his fathers. Support the yielding fight with fong; for fong enlivens war. Tall Ullin went, with fteps of age, and spoke to the king of fwords.

SON of the chief of generous fteeds! highተ bounding king of fpears. Strong arm in every perilous toil. Hard heart that never yields. Chief of the pointed arms of death. Cut down the foe; let no white fail bound round dark

* Offian never fails to give a fine character of his beloved fon. His fpeech to his father is that of a hero; it contains the fubmiffion due to a parent, and the warmth that becomes a young warrior. There is a propriety in dwelling here on the actions of Ofcar, as the beautiful Malvina, to whom the book is addreffed, was in love with that hero.

The war-fong of Ullin varies from the rest of the pcem in the verfification. It runs down like a torrent; and confifts almoft intirely of epithets. The cuftom of encouraging men in battle with extempore rhymes, has been carried down almost to our own times. Several of the'e war-fongs are extant, but the most of them are only a group of epithets, without beauty or harmony, utterly deftitute of poetical merit.

Iniftore.