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on the plain like scattered mift, fled the people of Ullin*.
THEN rofe the fword of Duth-caron, and the steel of broad-fhielded Connal. They fhaded their flying friends, like two rocks with their heads of pine.---Night came down on Duth-ula filent ftrode the chiefs over the field. A mountain-ftream roared across the path, nor could Duth-caron bound over its courfe. Why ftands my father? faid Connal. I hear the rushing foe.
FLY, Connal, he faid; thy father's ftrength begins to fail.-I come wounded from battle; here let me reft in night." But thou shalt not remain alone, faid Connal's burfting figh. My fhield is an eagle's wing to cover the king of Dun-lora." He bends dark above the chief: the mighty Duth-caron dies.
DAY rofe, and night returned. No lonely bard appeared, deep-mufing on the heath: and could Connal leave the tomb of his father, till he should receive his fame ?-He bent the bow against the roes of Duth-ula; he fpread the
The inhabitants of Ullin or Ulfter, who were of the race of the Caledonians, feem, alone, to have been the firm friends to the fucceffion in the family of Conar. The. Firbolg were only subject to them by constraint, and embraced every opportunity to throw off their yoke.
lonely feaft.-Seven nights he laid his head on the tomb, and faw his father in his dreams. He faw him rolled dark, in a blaft, like the vapor of reedy Lego.At length the steps of Colgan came, the bard of high Temora.
Colgan, the fon of Cathmul, was the principal bard of Cormac Mac-Conar, king of Ireland. Part of an old poem, on the loves of Fingal and Ros-crána, is ftill preferved, and goes under the name of this Colgan; but whether it is of his compofition, or the production of a latter age, I fhall not pretend to determine. Be that as it will, it appears, from the obsolete phrases which it contains, to be very ancient; and its poetical merit may perhaps excufe me, for laying a tranflation of it before the reader. What remains of the poem is a dialogue in a lyric measure, between Fingal and Ros-crána, the daughter of Cormac. She begins with a foliloquy, which is overheard by Fingal.
"By night, came a dream to Ros-crána! I feel my beating foul. No vifion of the forms of the dead, came to the blue eyes of Erin. But, rifing from the wave of the north, I beheld him bright in his locks. I beheld the fon of the king. My beating foul is high. I laid my head down in night; again afcended the form. Why delayeft thou thy coming, young rider of ftreamy waves! But, there, far-diftant, he comes; where feas roll their green ridges in mift! Young dweller of my foul; why doft thou delay
It was the foft voice of Moi-lena! the pleasant breeze of the valley of roes! But why doft thou hide thee in
Duth-caron received his fame, and brightened, as he rofe on the wind.
PLEASANT to the ear, faid Fingal, is the praise of the kings of men; when their bows are ftrong in battle; when they foften at the fight of the fad.---Thus let my name be renowned,
fhades? Young love of heroes rife.-Are not thy fteps covered with light? In thy groves thou appeareft, Ros-crána, like the fun in the gathering of clouds. Why doft thou hide thee in fhades? Young love of heroes rife.
My fluttering foul is high!-Let me turn from the steps of the king. He has heard my fecret voice, and fhall my blue eyes roll, in his prefence?-Roe of the hill of mofs, toward thy dwelling I move. Meet me, ye breezes of Mora, as I move thro' the valley of winds.-But why fhould he afcend his ocean?-Son of heroes, my foul is thine! My steps fhall not move to the defart: the light of Ros-crána is here.
It was the light tread of a ghost, the fair dweller of eddying winds. Why deceivest thou me, with thy voice? Here let me rest in shades.--Shouldst thou ftretch thy white arm, from thy grove, thou fun-beam of Cormac of Erin!
He is gone! and my blue eyes are dim; faint-rollings in all my tears. But, there, I behold him, alone; king of Morven, my foul is thine. Ah me! what clanging of armour!-Oblc-ulla of Atha is near !"
Fingal, as we learn from the episode, with which the fourth book begins, undertook an expedition into Ireland, to aid Cormac Mac-conar againft the infurrections
ed, when bards fhall lighten my rifing foul. Carril, fon of Kinfena; take the bards and raise a tomb. To night let Connal dwell, within his narrow houfe: let not the foul of the valiant wander on the winds.---Faint glimmers the moon on Moi-lena, thro' the broad-headed groves of the hill: raife ftones, beneath its beams, to all the fallen in war.---Tho' no chiefs were they, yet their hands were strong in fight. They were my rock in danger: the mountain from which I spread my eagle-wings.---Thence am I renowned: Carril forget not the low.
LOUD, at once, from the hundred bards, rofe the fong of the tomb. Carril ftrode before them, they are the murmur of ftreams behind him. Silence dwells in the vales of Moi-lena, where each, with its own dark ftream, is winding between the hills. I heard the voice of the bards, leffening, as they moved along. I leaned forward from my fhield; and felt the
of the Fir-bolg. It was then he faw, fell in love with, and married Ros-crána, the daughter of Cormac.—— Some traditions give this poem to Offian; but, from feveral circumstances, I conclude it to be an imitation, but a very happy one, of the manner of that poet.-The elegance of the fentiment, and beauty of the imagery, however, refer the compofition of it to an æra of remote antiquity; for the nearer we approach to our own times, the lefs beautiful are the compofitions of the bards.
kindling of my foul.
Half-formed the words of my fong, burst forth upon the wind. So hears a tree, on the vale, the voice of fpring around: it pours its green leaves to the fun, and fhakes its lonely head. The hum of the mountain bee is near it; the hunter fees it, with joy, from the blafted heath.
YOUNG Fillan, at a distance stood. His helmet lay glittering on the ground. His dark hair is loose to the blaft: a beam of light is Clatho's fon. He heard the words of the king, with joy; and leaned forward on his spear.
My fon, faid car-borne Fingal ; I faw thy deeds, and my foul was glad. The fame of our fathers, I faid, burfts from its gathered cloud. ---Thou art brave, fon of Clatho; but headlong in the ftrife. So did not Fingal advance, tho' he never feared a foe.---Let thy people be a ridge behind; they are thy ftrength in the field.---Then fhalt thou be long renowned, and behold the tombs of thy fathers. The memory of the paft returns, my deeds in other years when firft I defcended from ocean on the green-valleyed ifle.---We bend towards the voice of the king. The moon looks abroad from her cloud. The grey-fkirted mift is near, the dwelling of the ghofts.