BH 



ON THE LANGUAGE 



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

 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 flume of Sarno's tower. — The flame was dim and distant ; the 

 Hioon hid her red face in the east. A blast came from the mountain ; on 

 its wings wis the sj3irit of Loda. He came to his place in his terrors, 

 and shook his dusky spear. His eyes appear Hke flames in his dark face : 

 his voice is like distant thunder. Fingal advanced his spear in night, and 

 raised his voice on high. ' Son of night, retire : call thy winds, and fly I 

 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 ?' replied the hollow voice. ' I 

 turn the battle in the field of the brave. I look on the nations, and they 

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

 the tempests are before my face. But my dwelling is calm above the 

 clouds ; pleasant are the fields of my rest.' 



" ' Dwell in thy pleasant fields,' said the king. ' Let Comhall's son 

 be forgotten. Do my steps ascend from my hilteinto thy peaceful plains ? 

 Do 1 meet thee with a spear on thy cloud, spirit of dismal Loda ? Why 

 then dost thou frown on me ? 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 i '^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 s6n ; he bends at the stone 

 of my power. His battle is around Caricthura ; and he will prevail! 

 Fly to thy land, son of Comhall, 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. ' 



Ulhn, 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 " X)eath of Gaul," 

 published in 1780, by Dr. Smith of Campbelton, in Argyleshire, and ac- 

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

 Highland families, is one of the sweetest and tenderest, and at 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. Fingal 

 summoned his heroes for an expedition to the isle of Ifrona. A flood ii^* 

 the river Strumon prevented Gaul from joining them in time : but he put' 

 forth in his bark alone on the ensuing day. On his voyage he passed his 

 friends, who were returning victorious, without his perceiving them, and 

 landed singly on the hostile shore. Consistently with the chivalrous honour 

 of the times, he would not fly ; but struck his shield as a token of defi- 

 ance to the islanders, against whom he maintained, singly, a desperate 

 conflict, and kept the enemy at a distance ; till at length a stone,.rolled 

 ibom above, disabled him from moving or fighting any longer ; in whiclv 



