of mine fhall rife, my fon, upon thy foul of fire!

He funk behind his rock, ámidft the found of Carril's fong.-Brightening, in my growing foul, I took the fpear of. Temora *. I faw, along Moi-lena, the wild tumbling of battle, the ftrife of death, in gleaming rows, disjoined and broken round. Fillan is a beam of fires from wing to wing is his.wafteful courfe. The ridges of war melt before him. They are rolled, in smoak, from the fields.

Now is the coming: forth of Cathmor, in the armour of kings! Dark-rolled the eagle's wing

The fpear of Temora was that which Ofcar had received, in a prefent, from Cormac, the fon of Artho, king of Ireland. It was of it that Cairbar made the pretext for quarrelling with Ofcar, at the feaft, in the first book. After the death of Ofcar we find it always in the hands of Offian. It is faid, in another poem, that it was preferved, as à relique,' at Temora, from the days of Conar, the son of Trenmor, the firft king of Ireland.

†The appearance of Cathmor is magnificent: his unconcerned gait, and the effect which his very voice has upon his flying army, are circumftances calculated to raise our ideas of his fuperior merit and valour. Offian is very impartial with regard to his enemies: this however, cannot be faid of other poets of great eminence and unquef tioned merit. Milton, of the first clafs of poets, is undoubtedly the moft irreprehenfible in this refpect; for we always pity or admire his Devil, but feldem deteft him,

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even

wing above his helmet of fire. Unconcerned are his fteps, as if they were to the chace of Atha. He raifed, at times, his dreadful voice; Erin, abashed, gathered round.Their fouls returned back, like a ftream: they wondered at the fteps of their fear: for he rofe, like the Beam of the morning on a haunted heath: the traveller looks back, with bending eye, on the field of dreadful forms.

-SUDDEN, from the rock of: Moi-lena, are Sul-malla's trembling fteps. An oak took the fpear from her hand; half-bent the loofed the lance but then are her eyes on the king, from amidst her wandering locks.-No friendly ftrife is before thee: no light contending of bows, as when the youth of Cluba came forth beneath the eye of Conmor.

even tho' he is the arch enemy of our fpecies. Mankind generally take fides with the unfortunate and daring. It is from this difpofition that many readers, tho' otherwise good chriftians, have almoft wifhed fuccefs to Satan, in his, defperate and daring voyage from hell, through the regions of chaos and night.

Clu-ba, winding bay; an arm of the sea in Inis-huna, or the western coaft of South-Britain. It was in this bay that Cathmor was wind-bound when Sul-malla came, in the difguife of a young warrior, to accompany him in his voyage to Ireland. Conmor, the father of Sul-malla, as we learn from her foliloquy, at the clofe of the fourth, book, was dead before the departure of his daughter.

As

As the rock of Runo, which takes the paffing clouds for its robe, feems growing, in gathered darkness, over the freamy heath; so seemed the chief of Atha taller, as gathered his people round.As different blasts fly over the sea, each behind its dark-blue wave, fo Cathmor's words, on every fide, poured his warriors forth.-Nor filent on his hitt is Fillan; he mixed his words with his echoing. shield. An eagle he seemed, with founding wings, calling the wind to his rock, when he fees the coming forth of the roes, on Lutha's * rushy field.♫

Now they bent forward in battle: death's hundred voices röfe, for the kings, on either fidey were like fires on the fouls of the people.-I bounded along: high rocks and trees rushed talb between the war and me.But I heard the noise of foel, between my clanging arms. Rifing gleaming, on the hill, I beheld the backward Ateps of höfts: their backward steps, on either fide, and wildly-looking eyes. The chiefs were metin 'dreadful fight the two blue-fhielded kings. Tall and dark, thro' gleams of steel, are

Lutha was the name of a valley in Morven, in the days of Offian. There dwelt Tofcar the fon of Conloch, the father of Malvina, who, upon that account, is often called the maid of Lutha. Lutha fignifies Swift Aream.

feen the friving heroes.-I rushed.-My fears for Fillan flew, burning across my foul.

I CAME; nor Cathmor fled; nor yet advan ced: he fidelong ftalked along. An icy rock, cold, tall he feemed. I called forth all my fteel.

Silent awhile we ftrode, on either fide of a rushing stream: then, fudden turning, all at once, we raised our pointed fpears. We raised our fpears, but night came down. It is dark and filent around, but where the diftant steps of hofts are founding over the heath.

I CAME to the place where Fillan* fought. Nor voice, nor found is there. A broken helmét lay on earth; a buckler cleft in twain. Where, Fillan, where art thou, young chief of echoing Morven? He heard me leaning against a rock, which bent its grey head over the fream. He heard; but fullen, dark he food. At length I faw the chief.

"

WHY ftandeft thou, robed in darkness, fon

of woody Selma? Bright is thy path, my brother, in this dark-brown field. Long has been

The fcenery of the place where Fillan fought, and the fituation of that hero, are picturefque and affecting. The diftrefs, which fucceeds, is heightened by Offian's being ignorant, for fome time, that his brother was wounded. This kind of fufpence is frequent in Offian's poems. The more unexpected a thing is, the greater impreffion it makes on the mind when it comes.

thy

thy ftrife in battle. Now the horn of Fingal is heard. Afcend to the cloud of thy father, to his hill of feafts. In the evening mift he fits, and hears the voice of Carril's harp. Carry joy to the aged, young breaker of the shields.

CAN the vanquished carry joy? Offian, no fhield is mine. It lies broken on the field. The eagle-wing of my helmet is torn. It is when foes fly before them that fathers delight in their fons. But their fighs burft forth, in fecret, when their young warriors yield.-No Fillan will not behold the king. Why should the hero mourn?

SON of blue-eyed Clatho, why doft thou awake my foul? Wert thou not a burning fire before him; and fhall he not rejoice? Such fame belonged not to Offian; yet was the 'king ftill a fun to me. He looked on my steps, with joy fhadows never rofe on his face.Afcend, O Fillan, to Mora: his feaft is fpread in the folds of mift.

OSSIAN, give me that broken fhield: thefe feathers that are rolled in the wind. Place them near to Fillan, that lefs of his fame may fall. Offian, I begin to fail.-Lay me in that hollow rock. Raife no ftone above: left one should afk about my fame. I am fallen in the first of my fields; fallen without renown. Let thy

voice