Morn; Mild as the Beam of Night. Her Eyes, like two Stars in a Shower: Her Breath, the Gale of Spring Her Breafts, as the new-fallen Snow floating on the moving Heath. The Warriors faw her, and loved; Their Souls were fixed on the Maid. Each loved her, as his Fame; each must poffefs her or die. But her Soul was fixed on Ofcur; my Son was the Youth of her Love. She forgot the Blood of her Father; and loved the Hand that flew him.

Son of Ofcian, faid Dermid, I love ; O Ofcur, I love this Maid. But her Soul cleaveth unto thee; and nothing can heal Dermid. Here pierce this Bofom, Ofcur; relieve me, my Friend, with thy Sword.

My Sword, Son of Morney, fhall never be stained with the Blood of Dermid.

Who then is worthy to flay me, O Ofcur, Son of Ofcian? Let not my Life pafs away unknown. Let none but Ofcur slay me. Send me with Honour to the Grave, and let my Death be renowned.

Dermid, make use of thy Sword; Son of Morney, weild thy Steel. Would that I fell with thee! that my Death came from the Hand of Dermid !

They fought by the Brook of the Mountain, by the Streams of Branno. Blood tinged the filvery Stream, and curdled round the mofly Stones. Dermid the Graceful fell; fell, and smiled in Death.

And

And falleft thou, Son of Morney; falleft thou by Ofur's Hand! Dermid, invincible in War, thus do I fee thee fall!-He went, and returned to the Maid whom he loved? returned, but the perceived his Grief.

Why that Gloom, Son of Ojcian? What shades thy mighty Soul.

Though once renowned for the Bow, O Maid, I have loft my Fame. Fixed on a Tree by the Brook of the Hill, is the Shield of Gormer the Brave, whom in Battle I flew. I have wafted the Day in vain, nor could my Arrow pierce it.

Let me try, Son of Ofcian, the Skill of Dargo's Daughter. My Hands were taught the Bow: My Father delighted in my Skill.

She went. He ftood behind the Shield. Her Arrow flew and pierced his Breaft [p].

Bleffed be that Hand of Snow; and bleffed thy Bow of Yew! I fall refolved on Death: And who but the Daughter of Dargo was worthy to flay me; Lay me in the Earth, my Fair-one; lay me by the Side of Dermid.

[p] Nothing was held by the ancient Highlanders more effential to their Glory, than to die by the Hand of fome Perfon worthy or reowned. This was the Occafion of Ofcur's contriving to be flain by his Mistress, now that he was weary of Life. In thofe early Times, Suicide was utterly unknown among that People, and no Traces of it are found in the old Poetry. Whence the Tranflator fufpects the Account that follows of the Daughter of Dargo killing herfelf, to be the Interpolation of fome later Bard.

Ofcur!

Ofcur! I have the Blood, the Soul of the mighty Dargo. Well pleafed I can meet Death. My Sorrow I can end thus.--She pierced her white Bosom with Steel. She fell; fhe trembled ; and dyed.

By the Brook of the Hill their Graves are laid; a Birch's unequal Shade covers their Tomb. Often on their green earthen Tombs the branchy Sons of the Mountains feed, when Mid-day is all in Flames, and Silence is over the Hills.

BY

FRAGMENT

VIII.

Y the Side of a Rock on the Hill, beneath the aged Trees, old Ofcian fat on the Mofs; the laft of the Race of Fingal. Sightlefs are his aged Eyes; his Beard is waving in the Wind. Dull through the leaflefs Trees he heard the Voice of the North. Sorrow revived in his Soul: He began, and lamented the Dead,

How haft thou fallen like an Oak, with all thy Branches round thee! Where is Fingal the King? Where is Ofcur my Son? Where are all my Race? Alas! in the Earth they lie. I feel their Tomb with my Hands. I hear the River below murmuring hoarfely over the Stones. What doft thou, O River, to me? Thou bringest back the Memory of the past.

The Race of Fingal ftood on thy Banks, like a Wood in a fertile Soil. Keen were their Spears of Steel. Hardy was he who dared to encounter their

Rage.

Rage. Fillan the Great was there. Thou, Oscur, wert there, my Son! Fingal himself was there, ftrong in the grey Locks of Years. Full rose his finewy Limbs; and wide his Shoulders spread. The unhappy met with his Arm, when the Pride of his Wrath arose.

The Son of Morny came; Gaul, the talleft of Men. He stood on the Hill like an Oak; his Voice was like the Streams of the Hill. Why reigneth alone, he cries, the Son of the mighty Corval? Fingal is not strong to fave: He is no Support for the People. I am ftrong as a Storm in the Ocean; as a Whirlwind on the Hill. Yield, Son of Corval; Fingal, yield to me. He came like a Rock from the Hill, refounding in his Arms.

Ofeur food forth to meet him; my Son would meet the Foe. But Fingal came in his Strength, and smiled at the Vaunter's Boaft. They threw their Arms round each other; they ftruggled on the Plain. The Earth is ploughed with their Heels. Their Bones crack as the Boat on the Ocean, when it leaps from Wave to Wave. Long did they toil; founding Plain; as

with Night, they fell on the two Oaks, with they Branches mingled, fall crashing from the Hill. The tall Son of Morny is bound; the aged overcame.

Fair with her Locks of Gold, her smooth Neck, and her Breasts of Snow; fair as the Spirits of the Hill when at filent Noon they glide along the Heath; fair as the Rain-bow of Heaven; came Minvane the

Maid. Fingal! fhe foftly faith, loose me my Brother Gaul. Loose me the Hope of my Race, the Terror of all but Fingal. Can I, replies the King, can I deny the lovely Daughter of the Hill? Take thy Brother, O Minvane, thou fairer than the Snow of the North.

Such Fingal! were thy Words; but thy Words I hear no more. Sightless I fit by thy Tomb. I hear the Wind in the Wood; but no more I hear my Friends. The Cry of the Hunter is over. The Voice of War is ceafed.

T

FRAGMENT IX.

HOU afkeft, fair Daughter of the Ifles! whofe Memory is preserved in these Tombs? The Memory of Ronnan the bold, and Connan the Chief of Men; and of her, the fairest of Maids, Rivine the lovely and the good. The Wing of Time is laden with Care. Every Moment hath Woes of its own. Why feek we our Grief from afar? Or give

our Tears to thofe of other Times? But thou commandeft, and I obey, O fair Daughter of the Ifles!

Conar was mighty in War. Caul was the Friend of Strangers. His Gates were open to all; Midnight darkened not on his barred Door. Both lived upon the Sons of the Mountains. Their Bow was the Support of the Poor.

Connan