OF THE PASSIONS 453 



I am pursued over the sea: 



A hero of heavy vvratli is following my track ; 



The son of Sora's king pursues me ; 



The mighty chief whose name is Mayro Borb. 



" Rest thou here under my protection, 

 Beautiful form of the fairest hue ! 

 And, in defiance of Mayro Borb, 

 Thou shall' find safety under the shade of my shield." 



Perhaps the two sublimest passages in the poems of Ossian are, his Address 

 to the Sun in his Carthon, and his description of the Spirit of Loda in his 

 Caricthura. the genuineness of both which is ascertained beyond the power 

 of suspicion. The first evinces sublimity combined with exquisite tender- 

 ness ; and has a near resemblance to Milton's admirable address of the same 

 kind. The second evinces sublimity combined with majestic terror, and has 

 as near a resemblance to the mighty Spirit of the Cape in Camoens's Lusiad, 

 though it is greatly superior. We have not time for quoting both these pas- 

 sages, and I shall confine myself, therefore, to the latter. I shall quote from 

 Mr. Macpherson's version, which is sufficiently true to the original. 



" The wan cold moon rose in the east. Sleep descended on the youths. 

 Their blue helmets glitter to the beam. But sleep did not rest on the king. 

 He rose in the midst of his arms, and slowly ascended the hill, to behold the 

 flame of Sarno's tower. The flame was dim and distant ; the moon hid her 

 red face in the east. A blast came from the mountain : on its wings was the 

 spirit of Loda. He came to his place in his terrors, and shook his dusky 

 spear. His eyes appear like flames in his dark face : his voice is like dis- 

 tant thunder. Fingal advanced his spear in night, and raised his voice on 

 high. * Son of night, retire : call thy winds, and fly ! Why dost thou come 

 to my presence with thy shadowy arms ? Do I fear thy gloomy form, spirit 

 of dismal Loda ? Weak is thy shield of clouds ; feeble is that meteor thy 

 sword ! The blast rolls them together : and thou thyself art lost. Fly from 

 my presence, son of night ! call thy winds and fly !' 



" ' Dost thou force me from my place V replied the hollow voice. ' I turn 

 the battle in the field of the braye. I look on the nations, and they vanish : 

 my nostrils pour the blast of death. I come abroad on the winds : the tem- 

 pests are before my face. But my dwelling is calm above the clouds ; plea- 

 sant are the fields of my rest.' 



"' Dwell in thy pleasant fields,' said the king. ' Let Comhal's son be for- 

 gotten. Do my steps ascend from my hills into thy peaceful plains ? Do I 

 meet thee with a spear on thy cloud, spirit of dismal Loda 1 Why then dost 

 thou frown on me 1 Why shake thine airy spear? Thou frownest in vain : 

 I never fled from the mighty in war ; and shall the sons of the wind frighten 

 the king of Morven ? No he knows the weakness of their arms.' 



" * Fly to thy land,' replied the form, * take to the wind, and fly ! The 

 blasts are in the hollow of my hand : the course of the storm is mine. The 

 king of Sora (the enemy of Fingal) is my son ; he bends at the stone of my 

 power. His battle is around Caricthura ; and he will prevail ! Fly to thy 

 land, son of Comhal, or feel my flaming wrath !' 



"He lifted high his shadowy spear ! he bent forward his dreadful height. 

 Fingal, advancing, drew his sword, the blade of dark-brown Luno. The 

 gleaming path of the steel winds through the gloomy ghost. The form fell 

 shapeless into air." 



Ullin, Orran, and other ancient Gaelic bards, seem to have been almost as 

 celebrated as Ossian ; and even of Ossian's poetry Mr. Macpherson has not, 

 perhaps, after all, selected the most beautiful. The " Death of Gaul," pub- 

 lished in 1780, by Dr. Smith of Campbelton, in Argyleshire, and accompanied 

 with the original, as taken down from the memory of different Highland 

 families, is one of the sweetest and tenderest, arid, ai the same time, one of 

 the most regular pieces that has ever been composed in any language. Gaul 

 was the bosom friend of Oscar, the son of Ossian, and the grandson of Fingal. 

 The story, in few words, is as follows. Fin pal summoned his heroes for an 

 expedition to the isle of Ifrona. A iloo ! n llw river Str':ir:oi< prevented Gaul 



