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snowy breast appeared. She bent her blush. ing face to the ground. I looked in silence to the chiefs. The spear fell from my hand; the sigh of my bosom rose! But when I heard the name of the maid, my crowding tears rushed down. I blessed the lovely beam of youth, and bade the battle move !

Why, son of the rock, should Ossian tell how Teutha’s warriors died ? They are now forgot in their land ; their tombs are not found on the heath. Years came on with their storms. The green mounds are mouldered away. Scarce is the grave of Dunthalmo seen, or the place where he fell by the spear of Ossian. Some gray warrior, half blind with age, sitting by night at the flaming oak of the hall, tells now my deeds to his sons, and the fall of the dark Dunthalmo. The faces of youth bend sidelong towards his voice. Surprise and joy burn in their eyes

s! I found Calthon bound to an oak; my sword cut the thongs from his hands. I gave him the white bosomed Colmal. They dwelt in the halls of Teutha.

THE WAR OF CAROS.

ARGUMENT Caros is probably the noted vsurper Caraus!us, by birth a

Menapian, who assumed the purple in the year 284 ; and, seizing on Britain, defeated the Emperor Maxiıninian Herculius in several naval engagements, which gives propriety to his being called in this poem the king of ships.' He repaired Agricola's wall, in order to obstruct the incursions of the Caledonians, and when he was employed in that work, it appears he was attacked by a party urder the command of Oscar, the son of Ossian. This battle is the foundation of the present poem, which is ad

dressed to Malvina, the daughter of Toscar. BRING, daughter of Toscar, bring the harp ! the light of the song rises in Ossian's soul! It is

like the field, when darkness covers the hills around, and the shadow grows slowly on the plain of the sun I behold my son, O Malvina ! near the mossy rock of Crona. But it is the mist of the desert, tinged with the beain of the west! Lovely is the mist that assumes the form of Oscar! turn from it, ye winds, when ye roar on the side of Ardven!

Who comes towards my son, with the mur. mur of a song ? His staff is in his hand, his gray hair loose on the wind. Surly joy lightens his face. He often looks back to Caros. It is Ryno of songs, he that went to view the foe. • What does Caros, king of ships ?' said the son of the now mournful Ossian : 'spreads he the wings* of his pride, bard of the times of old ? • He spreads them, Oscar,' replied the bard,

but it is behind his gathered heap.t He looks over his stones with fear. He beholds thee tersible, as the ghost of night, that rolls the waves to his ships !

Go, thou first of my bards !' says Oscar, take the spear of Fingal. Fix a flame on its point. Shake it to the winds of heaven. Bid him in songs, to advance, and leave the rolling of his wave. Tell to Caros that I long for battle; that my bow is weary of the chase of Cona. Tell him the mighty are not here; and that my arm is young.'

He went with the murmur of songs. Oscar reared his voice on high. It reached his heroes on Ardven, like the noise of a cave, when the sea of Togorma rolls before it, and its trees meet the roaring winds. They gather round my son like the streams of the hill; when, after rain, they roll in the pride of their course,

• The Roman eagle.
Agricola's wall, which Carausius repaired

Ryno came to the mighty Caros. He struck his flaming spear. Come to the battle of Oscar. O thou that sittest on the rolling of waves! Fingal is distant far; he hears the songs of hards in Morven : the wind of his hall is in his hair. His terrible spear is at his side ; his shield that is ike the darkened moon! Come to the battle of Oscar ; the hero is alone.

He came not over the streamy Carun. The bard returned with his song. Gray night grow's dim on Crona. The feast of shells is spread. A hundred oaks burn to the wind; faint light gleams over the heath. The ghosts of Ard. ven pass through the beam, and show their dim and distant forms. Comala* is half unseen on her meteor; Hidallan is sullen and dim, like the darkened moon behind the mist of night.

Why art thou sad ?' said Ryno; for he alone beheld the chief. Why art thou sad, Hidallan ! hast thou not received thy fame? The songs of Ossian have been heard ; thy ghost has brightened in wind, when thou didst bend from thy cloud to hear the song of Morven's bard !'- And do thine eyes,' said Oscar, “behold the chief, like the dim meteor of night ? Say, Ryno, say, how fell Hidallan, the renowned in the days of my fa. thers! His name remains on the rocks of Cona. I have often seen the streams of his hills !' Fingal, replied the bard, drove Hidallan from

The king's soul was sad for Comala, and his eyes could not behold the chief. Lonely, sad, along the heath he slowly moved, with silent steps: His arms hung disordered on his side. His hair flies loose from his brow. The tear is in his down-cast eyes; a sigh half-silent in his breast ! Three days he strayed unseen, alone, be

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his wars.

• This is the scene of Comala's death, which is the sub Ject of the dramatic poom.

fore he came to Lamor's halls : the mossy halls of his fathers, at the stream of Balva. There Lamor sat -alone beneath a tree; for he had sent his people with Hidallan to war. The stream ran at his feet, his gray head rested on his staff. Sightless are his aged eyes. He hums the song of other times. The noise of Hidallan's feet came to his ear: he knew the tread of his son.

• Is the son of Lamor returned; or is it the sound of his ghost ? Hast thou fallen on the banks of Carun, son of the aged Lamor? Or, if I hear the sound of Hidallan's feet, where are the mighty in the war? where are my people, Hidallan! that were wont to return with their echoing shields ? Have they fallen on the banks of Carun ?

• No,' replied the sighing youth, the people of Lainor live. They are renowned in war, my father! but Hidallan is renowned ro more. I must sit alone on the banks of Balva, when the roar of the battle grows.

• But thy fathers never sat alone,' replied the rising pride of Lamor. • They never sat alone on the banks of Balva, when the roar of battle

Dost thou not behold that tomb ? My eyes discern it not ; there rests the noble Gar. mállon, who never fled from war! Come thor: renowned in battle, he says, come to thy father's tomb. How am I renowned, Garmállon? my son has fled from war!'

• King of the streamy Balva !' said Hidallan with a sigh, why dost thou torment my soul? Lamor, I never fied. Fingal was sad for Co. mala ; he denied his wars to Hidallan. Go to the gray streams of thy land, he said ; moulder like a leatless oak, which the winds have bent over Balva, never more to grow.'

• And must I hear,' Lamor replied, the lonely trcad of Hicallan's feet ? When thou.

rose.

sands are renowned in battle, shall ne bend over my gray streams ? Spirit of the noble Garmál. lon! carry Lamor to his place; his eyes are dark, his soul is sad, his son has lost his fame.'

• Where,' said the youth, shall I search for fame, to gladden the soul of Lamor ? From whence shall I return with renown, that the sound of my arms may be pleasant in his ear? If I go to the chase of hinds, my name will not be heard. Lamor will not feel my dogs with his hands, glad at my arrival from the hill. He will not inquire of his mountains, or of the dark-brown deer of his deserts !'

• I must fall,' said Lamor, like a leafless oak: it grew on a rock ! it was overturned by the winds! My ghost will be seen on my hills, mournful for my young Hidallan. Will not ye, ye mists, as ye rise, hide him from my sight! My son, go to Lamor's hall: there the arms of our fathers hang. Bring the sword of Garmál. lon: he took it from a foe !"

He went and brought the sword with all its studded thongs. He gave it to his father. The gray-haired hero felt the point with his hand.

* My son, lead me to Garmállon's tomb: it rises beside that rustling tree. The long grass is withered; I hear the breezes whistling there. A little fountain murmurs near, and sends its water's to Balva.

There let me rest ; it is noon : the sun is on our fields !'

lle led him to Garmállon's tomb. Lamor pierced the side of his son. They sleep together : their ancient halls moulder away. Ghosts are seen there at noon : the valiey is silent, and the people shun the place of Lamor.

• Mournful is thy tale,' said Oscar, “son of the times of old ! My soul sighs for Hidallan ; he fell in the days of his youth. He flies on the blast of the desert : his wandering is in a

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