But the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. The sons of Lochlin slept; their dreams were of blood. They lift the spear, in thought, and Fingal flies. Not so the host of Morven. To watch was the post of Orla. Calmar stood by his side. Their spears were in their hands. Fingal called his chiefs: they stood around, The king was in the midst. Gray were his locks, but strong was the arm of the king. Age withered not his powers. Sons of Morven,' said the hero, 'to-morrow we meet the foe; but where is Cuthullin, the shield of Erin? He rests in the halls of Tura; he knows not of our coming. Who will speed through Lochlin to the hero, and call the chief to arms. The path is by the swords of foes, but many are my heroes. They are thunderbolts of war. Speak, ye chiefs! Who will arise?'

Son of Trenmor! mine be the deed,' said darkhaired Orla, and mine alone. What is death to me? I love the sleep of the mighty: but little is the danger. The sons of Lochlin dream. I will seek car-borne Cuthullin. If I fall, raise the song of bards; and lay me by the stream of Lubar,'And shalt thou fall alone?' said fair-haired Calmar. "Wilt thou leave thy friend afar? Chief of Oithona! not feeble is my arm in fight. Could I see thee die, and not lift the spear? No, Orla! ours has been the chase of the roebuck, and the feast of shells; ours be the path of danger. Ours has been the cave of Oithona; ours be the narrow dwelling on the banks of Lubar.' Calmar,' said the chief of Oithona, 'why should thy yellow locks be darkened in the dust of Erin? Let me fall alone. My father dwells in his hall of air: he will rejoice in his boy; but the blueeyed Mora spreads the feast for her son in Morven. She listens to the steps of the hunter on the heath, and thinks it is the tread of Calmar. Let her not say,

"Calmar has fallen by the steel of Lochlin: he died with gloomy Orla; the chief of the dark brow." Why should tears dim the azure eye of Mora? Why should her voice curse Orla, the destroyer of Calmar? Live, Calmar. Live to raise my stone of moss; live to revenge me in the blood of Lochlin. Join the song of bards above my grave. Sweet will be the song of death to Orla, from the voice of Calmar. My ghost shall smile on the notes of praise.' 'Orla!' said the son of Mora, could I raise the song of death to my friend? Could I give his fame to the winds? No, my heart would speak in sighs; faint and broken are the sounds of sorrow. Orla! our souls shall hear the song together. One cloud shall be ours on high; the bards will mingle the names of Orla and Calmar.'

They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their steps are to the host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak dim twinkles through the night. The northern star points the path to Tura. Swaran, the king, rests on his lonely hill. Here the troops are mixed; they frown in sleep; their shields beneath their heads; their swords gleam at distance in heaps; the fires are faint, their embers fail in smoke; all is hushed, but the gale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel the heroes through the slumbering band; half the journey is past, when Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, and glistens through the shade: his spear is raised on high. Why dost thou bend thy brow, chief of Oithona?' said fair-haired Calmar,' we are in the midst of foes. Is this a time for delay?' 'It is a time for vengeance,' said Orla, of the gloomy brow. 'Mathon of Lochlin sleeps: seest thou his spear? Its point is dim with the gore of my father. The blood of Mathon shall reek on

mine; but shall I slay him sleeping, son of Mora! No! he shall feel his wound; my fame shall not soar on the blood of slumber: rise, Mathon! rise! the son of Connal calls, thy life is his; rise to combat.' Mathon starts from sleep; but did he rise alone? No: the gathering chiefs bound on the plain. Fly, Calmar! fly!' said dark-haired Orla, • Mathon is mine; I shall die in joy, but Lochlin crowds around; fly through the shade of night.' Orla turns, the helm of Mathon is cleft; his shield falls from his arm: he shudders in his blood. He rolls by the side of the blazing oak: Strumon sees him fall his wrath rises; his weapon glitters on the head of Orla: but a spear pierced his eye, his brain gushes through the wound, and foams on the spear of Calmar. As roll the waves of the ocean on two mighty barks of the north, so pour the men of Lochlin on the chiefs. As, breaking the surge in foam, proudly steer the barks of the north, so rise the chiefs of Morven on the scattered crests of Lochlin. The din of arms came to the ear of Fingal. He strikes his shield; his sons throng around; the people pour along the heath; Ryno bounds in joy. Ossian stalks in his arms; Oscar shakes the spear; the eagle wing of Fillan floats on the wind. Dreadful is the clang of death! many are the widows of Lochlin; Morven prevails in its strength.

Morn glimmers on the hills; no living foe is seen; but the sleepers are many; grim they lie on Erin. The breeze of ocean lifts their locks; yet they do not awake. The hawks scream above their prey.

Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief? bright as the gold of the stranger, they mingle with the dark hair of his friend. "Tis Calmar; he lies on the bosom of Orla. Theirs is one

stream of blood. Fierce is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not; but his eye is still a flame. It glares in death unclosed. His hand is grasped in Calmar's; but Calmar lives! he lives, though low. Rise,' said the king, rise, son of Mora; 'tis mine to heal the wounds of heroes. Calmar may yet bound on the hills of Morven.'

'Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven with Orla,' said the hero. What were the chase to me alone? Who would share the spoils of battle with Calmar? Orla is at rest! Rough was thy soul, Orla! yet soft to me as the dew of morn. It glared on others, in lightning; to me, a silver beam of night. Bear my sword to blue-eyed Mora; let it hang in my empty hall. It is not pure from blood: but it could not save Orla. Lay me with my friend raise the song when I am dark!

They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four gray stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar.

When Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the blue waves. The winds gave our barks to Morven. The bards raised the song.

"What form rises on the roar of clouds? Whose dark ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests? his voice rolls on the thunder; 'tis Orla! the brown chief of Oithona. He was unmatched in war. Peace to thy soul, Orla! thy fame will not perish. Nor thine, Calmar! lovely wast thou, son of blue-eyed Mora! but not harmless was thy sword. It hangs in thy cave. The ghosts of Lochlin shriek around its steel. Hear thy praise, Calmar! It dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy name shakes on the echoes of Morven. Then raise thy fair locks, Son of Mora. Spread them on the arch of the rainbow; and smile through the tears of the storm.*

* I fear Laing's late edition has completely overthrown every

TO E. N. L. ESQ.

Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico.-Hor. E.
DEAR L, in this sequester'd scene,
While all around in slumber lie,
The joyous days which ours have been,
Come rolling fresh on fancy's eye;
Thus if amidst the gathering storm,
While clouds the darken'd noon deform,
Yon heaven assumes a varied glow,
I hail the sky's celestial bow;
Which spreads the sign of future peace,
And bids the war of tempests cease.
Ah!, though the present brings but pain,
I think those days may come again;
Or, if in melancholy mood,
Some lurking envious fear intrude,
To check my bosom's fondest thought,
And interrupt the golden dream,
I crush the fiend with malice fraught,
And still indulge my wonted theme;
Although we ne'er again can trace,
In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore,
Nor through the groves of Ida chase
Our raptured visions as before;
Though youth has flown on rosy pinion,
And manhood claims his stern dominion,
Age will not every hope destroy,
But yield some hours of sober joy.

hope that Macpherson's Ossian might prove the translation of a series of Poems, complete in themselves; but, while the imposture is discovered, the merit of the work remains undisputed, though not without faults, particularly, in some parts, turgid and bombastic diction.-The present humble imitation will be pardoned by the admirers of the original, as an attempt, however inferior, which evinces an attachment to their favourite author.