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with Fingal, “ yields not to mortal man.”.......... The extract which I shall take from Ossian, is the episode of Orla. I have chosen it because there is no passage of which the reader can better judge, when seperated from the whole.

“ Who is that, like a cloud, at the rock of the roaring stream? He cannot bound over its course; yet stately is the chief! his bossy shield is on his side ; and his spear, like the tree of the desert. Youth of the dark brown hair art thou of Fingal's foes?” “ I am a son of Lochlin,” he cries « and strong is mine arm in war. My spouse is weeping at home; but Orla will never return." “ Or fights or yields the hero," said Fingal of the noble deeds...“ foes do not conquer in my presence : but my friends are renowned in the hall. Son of the wave follow me; partake of the feast of my . shells ; pursue the deer of my desert; and be the friend of Fingal.” “ No,” said the hero “ I assist the feeble; my strength shall remain with the weak in arms. My sword has been always unmatched, O warrior; let the king of Morven yield.” “ I never yielded Qrla, Fingal never yielded to man.

Draw thy sword and chuse thy foe. Many are my heroes.” “ And does the king refuse the combat," said Orla with the dark brown hair? “ Fingal is a match for Orla, and he alone of all his race. But king of Morven, if I shall fall, (as one day the ware rior must die,) raise my tomb in the midst, and let it be the greatest on Lena. And send over the darka blue wave, the sword of Orla to the spouse of his love; that she may shew it to her son with tears, to kindle his soul to war.” ( Son of the mournful tale,” said Fingal "why dost thou awaken my tears? one day the warriors must die, and the children see their useless arms in the hall. But Orla thy tomb shall rise, and thy white bosomed spouse, weep over thy sword.” They fought on the heath of Lena, but feeble was the arm of Orla. The sword of Fingal descended and cleft his shield in twain. It fell, and glittered on the ground, as the moon on the stream of night. “ King of Morven,” said the hero, “ lift thy sword and pierce my breast. Wounded and faint from battle my friends have left me here. The mournful tale shall come to my love on the streamy Loda; when she is alone in

the wood; and the rustling blast in the leaves.". « No;" said the king of Morven, “I will never wound thee Orla. On the banks of Loda, let her see thee escaped from the hands of war. Let thy gray-haired father, who perhaps is blind with age, hear the sound of thy voice in the hall. With joy let the hero rise and search for his son with his hands.” “ But never will he find him, Fingal,” said the youth of the streamy Loda, “ on Lena's heath I shall die ; and foreign bards will talk of me. My broad belt covers my wound of death. And now I give it to the wind.” “ The dark-blood poured from his side, he fell pale on the heath of Lena. Fingal bends over him as he dies."


This extract, as the preceding, is both pathetic. and grand. It is one of the poems held in remembrance in its original language, by many in the north of Scotland, and is considered by them as uncommonly beautiful and affecting. The heroism and generosity of Fingal are finely contrasted with the fortitude of Orla, in misfortune. Fingal ap

appears in all the glory of victory and in all the amiableness of humanity. Orla, sinking under a mortal wound while the thoughts of his spouse and the banks of Loda rushed upon his heart.... still rises superior to his situation, and dies while Fingal bends over him in admiration. :

The Germans have obtained an high literary character among the nations of Europe.... In the various departments of Science, in the diversified walks of Poesy they have produced several writers of eminence. In the roll of Genius, Gesner, Klopstock, Goethe, Wieland, Herder, Schiller and the author of Alf von Deulmen claim a distinguished place. Very few writers have possessed talents more versatile than those of Wieland. With the inquisitive Philosopher he has searched into the depths of science. In the gravity of Fiction he has travelled through the shades of mystery and of terror; and in indulgence to the spirit of Gaiety and Love he has wantoned on the wings of the most sportive fancy. His “ Oberon” is a performance which discovers, in an eminent degree, the powers of Invention, and the elegance and fascination of narrative and description. Some portions of it should be condemned as licentious. It has been translated into English verse by Sotheby, who in the music of his numbers, in the variety and chasteness of his diction, and in the richness of his Imagery, is not excelled by any poet now living in England. From Oberon I have introduced among these illustrations the two following verses. They exhibit a picture which for boldness of conception and vivid colouring I have never seen surpassed. The Satan of Milton is not a sublimer Portrait.


Plain on his noble aspect shone confest, Grandeur beneath a cowl that mildly gleam'd; His eye a smile on all creation beam'd. And tho' the touch of time had gently prest His neck, soft bow'd beneath the weight of years, Sublimely rais’d to heaven his brow appears, The shrine of peace; and like a sun-gilt height, Where never earthly mist obscur'd the light, Above the stormy world its tranquil summit rears.

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