IB 



would no more have compared them to climbing mist, than a water- 

 fall to a sky-rocket. 



Macpherson, 254. 



Long shall Moma wait for Cathba ! 

 Behold this sword unsheathed. 

 Here wanders the blood of Cathba. 

 Long shall Moma wait. 

 He fell by the stream of Branno ! 



Ross. 



Long shalt thou wait, O Moma, 



For the boisterous son of Armin. 



Lo ! on this sharp-edged sword. 



To ITS VERY BACK is the blood of Cathbat. 



The hero was slain by me. 



Long shalt thou wait, O Moma. 



Here again we discover evident marks of superiority in Macpher- 

 son. As usual, he is more simple and delicate. The words which he 

 ascribes to Duchomar, "Behold this sword unsheathed, here wanders 

 the blood of Cathba," indicate the fate of her lover by his hand, with 

 sufficient plainness, without the frigid tautology of Ross, " the hero 

 was slain by me." The expression to its very back we have no doubt 

 is common to this day in the Highlands. It is characteristically savage, 

 and quite unworthy of the pretended refinement of the classic age of 

 the king of tufted Morven. 



Macph»rson, 287. 



She came, in all her tears she came ; 

 She drew the sword from his breast. 

 He pierced her white side ! 

 He spread her fair locks on the ground ! 

 Her bursting blood sounds from her side ; 

 Her white arm is stained with red. 



Ross. 



Tearful and slow she came, 



To draw the sword from his side. 



He pierced the fair breast of the maid, 



She fell ; her locks were spread on the ground ; 



The blood ran purling down ; 



It was red on her arm of snow. 



This passage furnishes Ross with an opportunity, which he never 

 fails to improve, of abusing Macpherson. He lays on his critical lash 

 with so little mercy and so little justice, as to considerably diminish 

 our compassion for his own egregious offences. " Here," says he, " the 



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