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BENEATH the fpear of Cathmor, awaked that voice which awakes the bards. They came, dark-winding, from every fide; each, with the found of his harp. Before them rejoiced the king, as the traveller, in the day of the fun; when he hears, far-rolling around, the murmur of moffy ftreams; ftreams that burft, in the defert, from the rock of roes.
WHY, faid Fonar, hear we the voice of the king, in the season of his reft? Were the dim forms of thy fathers bending in thy dreams? Perhaps they stand on that cloud, and wait for Fonar's fong; often they come to the fields where their fons are to lift the fpear.-Or fhall our voice arife for him who lifts the fpear no more; he that confumed the field, from Moma of the groves?
NOT forgot is that cloud in war, bard of other times. High fhall his tomb rife, on Moilena, the dwelling of renown. But, now, roll back my foul to the times of my fathers: to the years when firft they rofe, on Inis-huna's waves. Nor alone pleafant to Cathmor is the remembrance of wood-covered Lumon.-Lu
his defcription of the Irifh giants betrays his want of judgment.
mon the land of ftreams, the dwelling of whitebofomed maids.
LUMON of foamy ftreams, thou risest on Fonar's foul! Thy fun is on thy fide, on the rocks of thy bending trees. The dun roe is feen from thy furze; the deer lifts his branchy head; for he fees, at times, the hound, on the half-covered heath. Slow, on the vale, are the fteps of maids; the white-armed daughters of the bow: they lift their blue eyes to the hill, from amidst their wandering locks.-Not there is the ftride of Larthon, chief of Inis-huna. He mounts the wave on his own dark oak, in Cluba's ridgy bay. That oak which he cut from Lumon, to bound along the fea. The maids turn their eyes away, left the king should be lowly-laid; for never had they seen a ship, dark rider of the wave!
Now he dares to call the winds, and to mix with the mift of ocean, Blue Inis-fail rofe, in
* Lumon, as I have remarked in a preceding note, was a hill, in Inis-huna, near the refidence of Sul-malla. This episode has an immediate connection with what is faid of Larthon, in the defcription of Cathmor's fhield. We have there hinted to us only Larthon's firft voyage to Ireland; here his ftory is related, at large, and a curious defcription of his invention of fhip-building. This concife, but expreffive, episode has been much admired in the original. Its brevity is remarkably fuited to the hurry of the occafion.
fmoak; but dark-fkirted night came down. The fons of Bolga feared. The fiery haired Ton-théna rofe. Culbin's bay received the ship, in the bofom of its echoing woods. There, iffued a ftream, from Duthuma's horrid cave; where fpirits gleamed, at times, with their halffinished forms.
DREAMS defcended on Larthon: he faw feven
fpirits of his fathers. He heard their halfformed words, and dimly beheld the times to come. He beheld the kings of Atha, the fons of future days. They led their hofts, along the field, like ridges of mift, which winds pour, in autumn, over Atha of the groves.
LARTHON raifed the hall of Samla *, to the foft found of the harp. He went forth to the roes of Erin, to their wonted ftreams. Nor did he forget green-headed Lumon; he often bound ed over his feas, to where white-handed Flathal looked from the hill of roes. Lumon of the foamy ftreams, thou rifeft on Fonar's foul.
THE beam awaked in the eaft. The mifty heads of the mountains rofe. Valleys fhew, on every fide, the grey-winding of their ftreams. His hoft heard the fhield of Cathmor: at once
* Samla, apparitions, fo called from the vifion of Larthon, concerning his pofterity.
Flathal, beavenly, exquifitely beautiful. She was the wife of Larthon.
they rofe around; like a crowded fea, when first it feels the wings of the wind. The waves know not whither to roll; they lift their troubled heads.
SAD and flow retired
Sul-malla to Lona and often turned;
of the ftreams. She went her blue eyes rolled in tears. But when the came to the rock, that darkly covered Lona's vale: The looked, from her bursting foul, on the king; and funk, at once, behind.
*SON of Alpin, ftrike the ftring. Is there ought of joy in the harp? Pour it then, on the foul of Offian: it is folded in mift.-I hear thee, O bard, in my night. But ceafe the lightlytrembling found. The joy of grief belongs to Offian, amidst his dark-brown years.
GREEN thorn of the hill of ghofts, that fhakeft thy head to nightly winds! I hear no found in thee; is there no fpirit's windy fkirt now ruftling in thy leaves? Often are the fteps of the dead, in the dark-eddying blafts; when the moon, a dun fhield, from the eaft, is rolled along the sky.
*The original of this lyric ode is one of the most beautiful paffages of the poem. The harmony and variety of its verfification prove, that the knowledge of mufic was confiderably advanced in the days of Offian. See the fpecimen of the original..
ULLIN, Carril and Ryno, voices of the days of old! Let me hear you, in the darkness of Selma, and awake the foul of songs.—I hear you not, ye children of mufic, in what hall of the clouds is your reft? Do you touch the fhadowy harp, robed with morning mist, where the fun comes founding forth from his greenheaded waves?