the hero, as he unsheathed his fword; and shall I begin to fear, Oithóna, when thy foes are near? Go to thy cave, daughter of Nuath, till our battle ceafe. Son of Leth, bring the bows of our fathers; and the founding quiver of Morni. Let our three warriors bend the yew. Ourselves will lift the fpear. They are an hoft on the rock ; but our fouls are ftrong.

The daughter of Nuath went to the cave: a troubled joy rofe on her mind, like the red path of the lightning on a ftormy cloud.

Her foul was refolved, and the tear was dried from her wildly-looking eye. Dunrommath flowly approached; for he faw the fon of Morni. Contempt contracted his face, a fimile is on his dark-brown cheek; his red eye rolled, half-conceal'd beneath his shaggy brows.

Whence are the fons of the fea, begun the gloomy chief? Have the winds driven you to the rocks of Tromáthon? Or come you in fearch of the white-handed daughter of Nuath? The fons of the unhappy, ye feeble men, come to the hand of Dunrommath. His eye fpares not the weak ; and he delights in the blood of ftrangers. Oithóna is a beam of light, and the chief of Cuthal enjoys it in fecret; would thou come on its loveliness

like a cloud, son of the feeble hand! Thou mayft come, but shalt thou return to the halls of thy fathers?

Doft thou not know me, faid Gaul, redhaired chief of Cuthal Thy feet were swift on the heath, in the battle of car-borne Lathmon; when the fword of Morni's fon purfued his hoft, in Morven's woody land, Dunrommath! thy words are mighty, for thy warriors gather behind thee. But do I fear them, fon of pride ? I am not of the race of the feeble.

Gaul advanced in his arms; Dunrommath shrunk behind his people. But the fpear of Gaul pierced the gloomy chief, and his fword lopped off his head, as it bended in death.

The fon of Morni shook it thrice by the lock; the warriors of Dunrommath fled. The arrows of Morven purfued them: ten fell on the moffy rocks. The reft, lift the founding fail, and bound on the echoing deep.

Gaul advanced towards the cave of Oithóna. He beheld a youth leaning against a rock. An arrow had pierced his fide; and his eye rolled faintly beneath his helmet. -The foul of Morni's fon is fad, he came and spoke the words of peace.

Can the hand of Gaul heal thee, youth of the mournful brow? I have fearched for the herbs of the mountains; I have gathered them on the fecret banks of their ftreams. My hand has closed the wound of the valiant, and their eyes have bleffed the fon of Morni. Where dwelt thy fathers, warrior? Were they of the fons of the mighty Sadness shall come, like night, on thy native ftreams; for thou art fallen in thy youth.

My fathers, replied the ftranger, were of the fons of the mighty; but they shall not be fad; for my fame is departed like morning mift. High walls rife on the banks of Duvranna, and fee their moffy towers in the ftream; a rock afcends behind them with its bending firs. Thou mayft behold it far diftant. There my brother dwells. He is renowned in battle: give him this glittering helmet.

The helmet fell from the hand of Gaul; for it was the wounded Oithóna. She had armed herself in the cave, and came in fearch of death. Her heavy eyes are half closed; the blood pours from her fide.

Son of Morni, she faid, prepare the narrow tomb. Sleep comes like a cloud, on my foul. The eyes of Oithóna are dim. O had

I dwelt at Duvranna, in the bright beam of my fame! then had my years come on with joy; and the virgins would blefs my steps. But I fall in youth, fon of Morni, and my father shall blush in his hall.

She fell pale on the rock of Tromáthon. The mournful hero raifed her tomb.-He came to Morven; but we faw the darkness of his foul. Offian took the harp in the praise of Oithóna. The brightness of the face of Gaul returned. But his figh rofe, at times, in the midst of his friends, like blafts that shake their unfrequent wings, after the stormy winds are laid.