ruftling wings.--- The found of Caithbat's * fhield was heard. The heroes faw Cuchullin † in Nathos. So rolled his fparkling eyes: his Ateps were fuch on heath.Battles are fought at Lego: the fword of Nathos prevails. Soon fhalt thou behold him in thy halls, king of Temora of Groves!

AND foon may I behold the chief! replied the blue-eyed king. But my foul is fad for Cuchullin; his voice was pleasant in mine ear. ---Often have we moved, on Dora, to the chace of the dark-brown hinds: his bow was unerring on the mountains.---He fpoke of mighty men. He told of the deeds of my fathers; and I felt my joy.---But fit thou at the feast, O bard, I have often heard thy voice. Sing in the praife of Cuchullin; and of that mighty ftranger .

DAY rofe on woody Temora, with all the beams of the east. Trathin came to the hall, the fon of old Gelláma ||.---I behold, he faid,

Y

dark cloud in the defart, king of Innisfail ! a

*Caithbait was grandfather to Cuchullin; and his fhield was made use of to alarm his pofterity to the battles of the family.

+ That is, they faw a manifeft likeness between the perfon of Nathos and Cuchullin.

Nathos the fon of Ufnoth.
Geal-lamha, white-handed.

cloud

cloud it feemed at firft, but now a croud of men. One ftrides before them in his ftrength; his red hair flies in wind. His fhield glitters to the beam of the east. His fpear is in his hand. CALL him to the feaft of Temora, replied the king of Erin. My hall is the house of strangers, fon of the generous Gelláma !---Perhaps it is the chief of Etha, coming in the sound of his renown.---Hail, mighty * ftranger, art thou of the friends of Cormac ?---But Carril, he is dark, and unlovely; and he draws his sword. Is that the son of Ufnoth, bard of the times of old?

Ir is not the fon of Ufnoth, faid Carril, but the chief of Atha.-Why comeft thou in thy arms to Temora, Cairbar of the gloomy brow? Let not thy fword rise against Cormac ! Whither doft thou turn thy speed?

HE paffed on in his darkness, and feized the hand of the king. Cormac forefaw his death, and the rage of his eyes arofe.---Retire, thou gloomy chief of Atha: Nathos comes with batfle.---Thou art bold in Cormaç's hall, for his arm is weak.---The fword entered the fide, of the king he fell in the halls of his fathers. His

*From this expreffion, we understand, that Cairbar had entered the palace of Temora, in the midft of Cormac's Speech.

fair hair is in the duft. His blood is fmoking round.

AND art thou fallen in thy halls *, O fon of noble Artho? The fhield of Cuchullin was not near. Nor the fpear of thy father. Mournful are the mountains of Erin, for the chief of the people is low!Bleft be thy foul, O Cormac ! thou art darkned in thy youth.

He

My words came to the ears of Cairbar, and he clofed us in the midft of darkness. feared to stretch his fword to the bards, though his foul was dark. Long had we pined alone : at length, the noble Cathmor || came.---He heard our voice from the cave; he turned the eye of his wrath on Cairbar.

CHIEF of Atha! he faid, how long wilt thou pain my foul? Thy heart is like the rock of the

Althan fpeaks.

+ That is, himself and Carril, as it afterwards appears.

The perfons of the bards were fo facred, that even he, who had just murdered his fovereign, feared to kill them.

| Cathmor appears the fame difinterested hero upon every occafion. His humanity and generofity were unparalleled in fhort, he had no fault, but too much attachment to fo bad a brother as Cairbar. His family con nection with Cairbar prevails, as he expreffes it, over every other confideration, and makes him engage in a war, of which he did not approve.

4

defart

defart; and thy thoughts are dark.---But thou art the brother of Cathmor, and he will fight thy battles. But Cathmor's foul is not like thine, thou feeble hand of war! The light of my bofom is ftained with thy deeds: the bards will not fing of my renown. They may fay, "Cathmor was brave, but he fought for gloomy Cairbar." They will pafs over my tomb in filence: my fame shall not be heard.---Cairbar! loose the bards: they are the fons of other times. Their voice shall be heard in other years; after the kings of Temora have failed.

WE came forth at the words of the chief. We faw him in his ftrength. He was like thy youth, O Fingal, when thou firft didft lift the fpear.---His face was like the plain of the fun, when it is bright: no darkness travelled over his brow. But he came with his thoufands to Ullin; to aid the red-haired Cairbar: and now he comes to revenge his death, O king of woody Morven.

AND let him come, replied the king; I love a foe like Cathmor. His foul is great; his arm is ftrong, his battles are full of fame.-But the little foul is a vapour that hovers round the marshy lake it never rifes on the green hill, left the winds ihould meet it there: its dwelling is in the cave, it fends forth the dart of death.

OUR young heroes, O warriors, are like the renown of our fathers.---They fight in youth; they fall: their names are in the fong. Fingal is amidst his darkening years. He must not fall, as an aged oak, across a fecret ftream. Near it are the fteps of the hunter, as it lies beneath the wind. "How has that tree fallen ?" He, whiftling, ftrides along.

RAISE the fong of joy, ye bards of Morven, that our fouls may forget the paft.---The red ftars look on us from the clouds, and filently descend. Soon shall the grey beam of the morning rife, and fhew us the foes of Cormac.Fillan! take the fpear of the king; go to Mora's dark-brown fide. Let thine eyes travel over Obferve the the heath, like flames of fire.

foes of Fingal, and the courfe of generous Cathmor. I hear a distant found, like the falling of rocks in the defart.But ftrike thou thy fhield, at times, that they may not come through night, and the fame of Morven ceafe. ---I begin to be alone, my fon, and I dread the fall of my renown.

THE Voice of the bards arofe. The king leaned on the fhield of Trenmor.---Sleep defcended on his eyes; his future battles rofe in his dreams. The hoft are fleeping around. Dark-haired Fillan obferved the foe. His fteps are on a diftant hill: we hear, at times, his clanging fhield.

TEMOR A.