nowned, when thou art lowly-laid?—————At once he dropt the gleaming lance. Growing before me feemed the form. He ftretched his hand in night; and spoke the words of kings.

FRIEND of the fpirit of heroes, do I meet. thee thus in fhades? I have withed for thy stately steps in Atha, in the days of feafts.--Why should my fpear now arife? The fun muft behold us, Offian; when we bend, gleaming, in the ftrife. Future warriors fhall mark the place: and, fhuddering, think of other years. They fhall mark it, like the haunt of ghofts, pleafant and dreadful to the foul.

AND hall it be forgot, I faid, where we meet in peace? Is the remembrance of battles always pleasant to the foul? Do not we behold, with joy, the place where our fathers feafted? But our eyes are full of tears, on the field of their wars.---This ftone fhall rife, with all its mofs, and speak to other years. "Here Cathmor and Offian met! the warriors met in peace!"---When thou, O ftone, fhalt fail; and Lubar's ftream roll quite away! then shall the traveller come, and bend here, perhaps, in reft. When the darkened moon is rolled over his head, our fhadowy forms may come, and, mixing with his dreams, remind him of this place.

E 3

place. But why turneft thou fo dark away, fon of Borbar-duthul*?

Nor forgot, fon of Fingal, fhall we afcend thefe winds. Our deeds are ftreams of light, before the eyes of bards. But darknefs is rolled on Atha the king is low, without his fong: fill there was a beam towards Cathmor from his ftormy foul; like the moon, in a cloud, amidst the dark-red courfe of thunder.

Son of Erin, I replied, my wrath dwells not, in his house. My hatred flies, on eaglewing, from the foe that is low.---He fhall hear the fong of bards; Cairbar fhall rejoice on his wind.

CATHMOR'S fwelling foul arofe: he took the dagger from his fide; and placed it gleaming in my hand. He placed it, in my hand, with

Borbar-duthul, the furly warrior of the dark-brown eyes. That his name fuited well with his character, we may eafily conceive, from the ftory delivered concerning him, by Malthos, toward the end of the fixth book. He was the brother of that Colculla, who is mentioned in the epifode which begins the fourth book.

The grave, often poetically called a houfe. This reply of Offian abounds with the most exalted sentiments of a noble mind. Tho', of all men living, he was the moft injured by Cairbar, yet he lays afide his rage as the foe was low. How different is this from the behaviour of the heroes of other ancient poems-Cynthius aurem vellit.

fighs, and, filent, ftrode away.-Mine eyes followed his departure. He dimly gleamed, like the form of a ghoft, which meets a traveller, by night, on the dark-fkirted heath. His words are dark like fongs of old: with morning ftrides the unfinished fhade away.

WHO comes from Lubar's vale? From the folds of the morning mift? The drops of heaven are on his head. His fteps are in the paths of the fad. It is Carril of other times. He comes from Tura's filent cave. I behold it dark in the rock, thro' the thin folds of mist.

The morning of the second day, from the opening of the poem, comes on.-After the death of Cuchullin, Carril, the fon of Kinfena, his bard, retired to the cave of Tura, which was in the neighbourhood of Moi-lena, the scene of the poem of Temora. His cafual appearance here enables Offian to fulfil immediately the promise he had made to Cathmor, of caufing the funeral fong to be pronounced over the tomb of Cairbar. The whole of this paffage, together with the addrefs of Carril to the fun, is a lyric measure, and was, undoubtedly, intended as a relief to the mind, after the long narrative which preceded it. Tho' the lyric pieces, fcattered through the poems of Offian, are certainly very beautiful in the original, yet they must appear much to disadvantage, ftripped of numbers, and the harmony of thime. In the recitative or narrative part of the poem, the original is rather a measured fort of profe, than any regular verfification; but it has all that variety of cadences, which fuit the different ideas, and paffions of the fpeakers.This book takes up only the space of a few hours..

There, perhaps, Cuchullin fits, on the blaft which bends its trees. Pleafant is the fong of the morning from the bard of Erin!

THE waves crowd away for fear: they hear the found of thy coming forth, O fun!Terrible is thy beauty, fon of heaven, when death is folded in thy locks; when thou rolleft thy vapors before thee, over the blafted hoft. But pleasant is thy beam to the hunter, fitting by the rock in a form, when thou lookeft from thy parted cloud, and brighteneft his dewy locks; he looks down on the ftreamy vale, and beholds the defcent of roes.-How long fhalt thou rife on war, and roll, a bloody fhield, thro' heaven? I fee the deaths of heroes darkwandering over thy face!Why wander the words of Carril! does the fon of heaven mourn! he is unstained in his course, ever rejoicing in his fire. Roll on, thou carelefs light; thou too, perhaps, muft fall. Thy dun robe * may feize thee, ftruggling, in thy fky.

PLEASANT is the voice of the fong, O Carril, to Offian's foul! It is like the fhower of the morning, when it comes through the ruftling vale, on which the fun looks thro' mist, juft

By the dun robe of the fun, is probably meant an eclipfe.

rifing from his rocks.

But this is no time,

O bard, to fit down, at the ftrife of fong. Fingal is in arms on the vale. Thou feeft the flaming fhield of the king. His face darkens between his locks. He beholds the wide rolling of Erin.

DOES not Carril behold that tomb, befide the roaring ftream? Three ftones lift their grey heads, beneath a bending oak. A king is lowly laid give thou his foul to the wind. He is the brother of Cathmor! open his airy hall.--Let thy fong be a ftream of joy to Cairbar's darkened ghoft.

TEMORA: