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 muft 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 Ofeur, 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 Morny, shall never be stained with the Blood of Dermid,

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

Dermid, make use of thy Sword; Son of Merny, wield 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 crudled round the mofly Stones. Dermid the Graceful fell; fell, and smiled in Death.

And

And falleft thou, Son of Morny; falleft thou by Ofeur'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 perceivedhis Grief.

Why that Gloom, Son of Ofcian? 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 Gormur 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 Breast [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 essential to their Glory, than to die by the Hand of fome Perfon worthy or renowned. This was the Occafion of Ofcur's contriving to be flain by his Miftrefs, now that he was weary of Life. In those 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 herself, to be the Interpolation of fome later Bard.

Ofcur!

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

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 Mountain feed, when Mid-day is all in Flames, and Silence is over all 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. Sightless 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 Tombs 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 paft.

The Race of Fingal flood 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.

Fillan

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

The Son of Morny came; Gaul, the tallest 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 ftrong 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.

Ofcur ftood 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 struggled 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; with Night, they fell on the founding Plain; as two Oaks, with their 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 Breafts 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.

5

Maid. Fingal! She foftly faith, loose me my Brother Gaul. Loofe 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 ceased.

TH

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 faireft of Maids, Rivine the lovely and the Good. The Wing of Time is laden with Care. Every Moment hath Woes of its own. Why seek 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 Isles!

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