banner, strength and victory may attend thee. The king of Laighinn and his bands to us have drawn near.Fix the edge of the spear in the ground, and let it support my white ribs ; and if the foe shall discern me standing on my feet, farther they shall not venture to advance. O Fergus, tell us thy tale, and falsely do not deal with us: how many dauntless chiefs of war that fell in the conflict of Cairbre? The fair and beautiful Oscar is no more, who performed deeds of valor in slaying the foe: nor Colla, the son of Caoilte: nor the chiefs of the Fingalians, from Albin. How did Oscar slaughter heads? King of the Fingalians, hard it is for me to relate how many Oscar, of the strong limbs, had slain in the battle? Lift me off with you now, O Fingalians; never had you lifted me up before; carry me to Fingal's sacred hill, that you may strip me of my armor! On the shore of the north, was heard the tumult of armies, and the clanging of arms. Nimbly up skipped our heroes, when Oscar was found dead. Maid unhappy to us; twice a lie thou hadst told us; they are the ships of my grandfather coming to our aid, thou hast seen? Fingal we all saluted; although he had not saluted us; but went to the sacred hill of tears, where Oscar, of the sharp arms, lay dead? Art thou, my son, in a worse state, than on the day of Beinneadan's battle, when the cranes could swim through thy skin, and my hand had healed thee? My remedy is not ordained, and Oscar shall never be healed. Cairbre thrusted the spear of seven points, between my kidneys and my navel. I thrusted the spear of nine points into his forehead; and had my fists reached his skin, no physician could ever cure him? Is thy state more dangerous, my son, than on the day of the battle of Dundealgan? The geese could have swam through thy skin, and it was my hand that cured thee. My cure, the fates have not decreed; and my soundness shall be restored no more: the deep wound of the spear, in my right side, no physician can cure. Then it was that Fingal retired to the sacred hill above us; from his eyes the tears streamed down in torrents, so he turned his back, and thus exclaimed: My own love, and the love of my love, son of my son, mild and fair. My heart leaps quick as the ouzle; never more shall Oscar arise. O! that I had fallen in thy stead, in the furious unkind battle of Cairbre; and thou, O Oscar, hadst lived to advance the front of the Fingalians east and west. It was not like even the Fingalians, that the heart of flesh in thy breast was: but like a heart of the stones of the river covered with steel.

The mournful howlings of the dogs by my side, and the groanings of the old heroes: the bewailing of the people alternately, is what sadly torments my heart.

Away we lifted the fair Oscar on the shoulders, by the tallest spears; and him with serious and deliberate carriage we did bear, until we came to Fingal's sacred hill. A woman could not lament for her son; a man could not lament for his valiant brother with a deeper grief, than every one about the hall: and all of us lamenting for Oscar. It is the death of Oscar that grieves my heart. Oscar, first of Albin's race, without thee, great is our want. Where was ever seen in thy time one hero so hardy as thee behind a sword? Trembling and gloom never departed from Fingal, from that day to the day of his death. Though I should say it, the third part of a man's food he would not relish nor desire.

THE VIRGIN, OR NYMPH.

NOBLE Ossian, son of Fingal, sitting upon a joyful hill; great warlike hero, without dismay, I see grief on thy mind. The cause of my grief to thee, O Patrick, I would unfold; if thou art willing to hear it. It is that, I remember when the Fingalians sat on this sacred hill, in harmony of one mind. Upon this hill, as one man we were, Patrick, of the noble liberal sentiments? I saw once the Fingalian family cheerful, great, vigorous, and joyful. Upon this hill were the Fingalians spending the time with mirth, according to our pleasure.

When we saw a young maid on the plain, coming toward us, and she alone. A courteous virgin, of the most beautiful form; of the fairest and reddest cheek; whiter than the beamrays of the sun was the upper part of her breast, under her handsome shift. Two clear mild eyes were in her head; with beautiful robes she was clothed; bands of gold were round her neck; and a chain of gold under her precious jewels. From that family of Fingal in Albin, we all upon her fixed our hearts in love; none of us loving his own wife, but all our love centered in the virgin.

She sought the protection of Oscar, the son of the generous Ossian; and of Caoilte, chief of the clan of Retha. I claim your aid, generous Fingalians, whether sons of kings, or high powerful chiefs.

Who is in pursuit of thee, said they, maid of the most beau tiful form? In pursuit of me, fair hero of the noblest race of Fingalians, is the great Iolunn, warlike and quick; the son of the king of Spain. I much fear, liberal Fingalians, that you shall be slain and destroyed by the tall, strong, warlike hero: his arms are sharp pointed and strong.

Up rose the four sons of Fingal - Carrul, and red-haired Raoine, Faolan, and young Feargus; and with their high and mighty voice thus began: Where did ever that man travel, east or west, or in the four quarters of the globe, the brains of whose head we would not see before we would suffer him to take thee off with him, O nymph! Clean branch, white palmed, sweet voiced, noble virgin of the pleasant, delightful, blue eyes, sit thou here under our protection. Though bold be thy pursuer, the tall hero shall not take thee off, great and valiant as thou deemest him.

O Ossian, of the profound dark sayings, at what distance was the tall hero from you? or did the smoke of ire appear in his face in the pursuit of the nymph? We saw the tall proud hero coming to a haven from the ocean, and drawing his ship on shore; and with dire inclination coming towards us. He was a tall, white-palmed, bold hero; with fierce, wild, terrible foreign spears, and with furious rage, like a firebrand, coming forwards to the Fingalians. A great, victorious, deadly sword, for dreadful massacre, the valiant hero had; a shield of gold, of the largest form, was in the warrior's left hand. His mail was high, long, and superb: his strong breastplate spotted and puissant: his helmet hardy, and fettered above the steady face of the hero. Vestments of silk clothed him, bound by ornaments of satin: his two spears, from their bottom of hardest steel, rising up, like strong pointed bristles, upon his shoulders. Like a man without judgment, he skirmished forward, and did not salute Fingal or the Fingalians. Of Fingal's heroes three hundred fell by him, and also the nymph. The four sons of Fingal he bound, and nine nines of their followers, of the great, warlike, magnanimous race, the children of Baoisge, offspring of Trenmor: he threatened the sons of Morna, and the race of Morven from Selma's tower.

When the generous Oscar heard that the sons of Baoisge had met with abusive contempt, he took his arms in his prosperous hands, and no longer listened to the miserable tale. My son turned to him upon the heath: Oscar, full of heroic

rage, combated the fierce champion of direful mind. Iolunn turned to my son, who strenuously fought against the great boned, wounding, nimble, quick-handed, high-leaping hero. As a torrent of a river in a valley, the destruction of their blood was so violent: as firebrands from the hearth, such was the din of the bloody heroes. Oscar made a clean manly stroke towards the brave hero of undaunted heart, and by that stroke of his steel severed from the body the head of the king of Spain. Ulin, and all our bards, sung the lament of grief on the sloping side of the mountain: the victory and fame of Oscar was sung; and to him was given the right hand of the seven armies. The funeral of a king's son we gave to Iolunn, of the fiercest mind; and every one of the Fingalians lamented, with tears, the death of the maid.

Upon this sacred hill is his grave-stone, Patrick: it is a true tale: the maid's stone is on the other side. Good and great were they all in their time; every one of them was a valuable jewel. Peace be to their souls together; and may blessing attend you, Ossian.

wave.

ADDRESS TO THE RISING SUN.

O THOU that rollest above, round as the full-orbed hard shield of the mighty! whence is thy unsullied beam? whence, O Sun! thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth in the strength of thy beauty; the stars hide their motions from our view; the moon darkens in the sky, concealing herself in the eastern Thou art on thy journey alone; who will presume to attend thy course? The oaks fall on the high precipice; the stony heap and the hoary cliff sink under age: Ocean ebbs and flows again; the moon herself is lost in the sky: Thou alone triumphest in the undecaying joys of thy light. When tempests darken round the world, with angry thunders, and sharp-edged lightnings, thou lookest in thy beauty from the storm, smiling amidst the disorder of the sky. But to me thy light is vain, whether thou spreadest thy gold-yellow curls on the face of the eastern cloud (banishing night from every place, except from the eye of the bard that never shall see thy light); or when thou tremblest in the west, at the dusky doors of the Ocean. (But thus aged, feeble, and gray, thou shalt yet be alone; thy progress in the sky shall be slow, and thou shalt be

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blind like me on the hill. Dark as the changeful moon, shall be thy wandering in the heavens; thou shalt not hear the awakening voice of the Morning, like the heroes that rise no more. The hunter shall survey the plain, but shall not behold thy coming form. Sad he will return, his tears pouring forth: My favorite hound! the sun has forsaken us!") - Perhaps thou art like me, at times strong, feeble at times; our years descending from the sky, and hastening together towards their end. Rejoice, O Sun! as thou advancest in the vigor of thy youth. Age is sad and unlovely: it is like the useless moon in the sky, gliding through a dark cloud on the field, when the gray mist is by the side of the stony heaps; the blast of the north is on the plain; the traveler is languid and slow. (The light of the night will then rejoice, when the Son of brightness has departed.)

ADDRESS TO THE SETTING SUN.

HAST thou left thy blue course in the sky, blameless Sun of the gold-yellow locks? the doors of Night open before thee; and the pavilion of thy repose is in the west. The billows crowd slowly around to view thy bright cheeks: they lift their heads in fear, when they behold thee so lovely in thy sleep, and shrink away with awe from thy sides. Sleep thou on in thy cave, O Sun; and let thy return again be with joy.

[As a beam of the wintry Sun, swift-gliding over the plain of Leno, so are the days of Fingal's race, like the Sun gleaming by fits through the shower. The dark gray clouds of the sky have descended, and snatched the cheering beam from the hunter: the leafless branches of the wood are mourning, and the tender herbs of the mountain droop in sadness. But the Sun will yet revisit the fair grove, whose boughs shall bloom anew; and the trees of the young summer shall look up smiling, to the son of the sky.]

MOR-GLAN AND MIN-ONN.

WHO is this that descendeth from the mist, and poureth forth his wounds on the wind? Oh! deep is that wound in his breast, and dim is yonder deer by his side! Yonder is the ghost of the fair Mor-glan, the king of Lia'-glas of many streams; he came