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But who is he so dark and grand
Comes in the thunder of his course?
Who but proud Starno's haughty son,
Behind him all his warlike force;

Behold the battle of the chiefs!

'Tis like the storm the sailor braves, When spirits fierce in wrath contend, Which shall possess the rolling waves.

The mighty clang of arms is heard,
Dreadful the battle rages round-
In twain are cleft their dark brown shields,
Their steel flies broken on the ground;

Each to his hero's grasp doth rush

And round their sinewy arms they bend, They turn from side to side and strain, And wide their spreading limbs distend!

But when their pride of strength arose
They shook the high hill with their heels, -
Rocks tumbled headlong from on high,
Trees are uprooted in the fields!

At length the strength of Swaran fell!
The king of groves is strongly bound,
And Fingal gives a strict command
That guards the prisoner shall surround;

For he is strong as Lochlin's waves-
His hand was early taught to war,
His race is ancient and renown'd;
Secure him well with strength and care!

"Thou first of heroes, valiant Gaul,
And Ossian, king of songs, attend;
His grief to joy, oh! strive to raise,
For he was Aggandecca's friend!

"But fly, ye children of the race!
Pursue the foe o'er Lena's plain,
Let no tall ship hereafter bound,
On Inistore's dark rolling main!"

Sudden they flew across the heath,
While slowly moves his stately form,
Like thunder o'er the sultry plain,
Silent and dark, before the storm;

He marched toward a lonely chief,
His sword was as a sunbeam bright,
Before his fiery eyes it waved

Like streaming meteor of the night!

Who is that man so dark and sad,
At the rock of the roaring stream?
He cannot bound across its course-
A noble chief, 'twould seem!

"Youth of the dark red flowing hair,
What tidings dost thou bring?
Art thou a foe to Fingal's race?"
Said woody Morven's king-

"A son of Lochlin I," he cried,

" And powerful is my arm in fight; My spouse sits weeping at our home, But Orla ne'er shall bless her sight."

Said Fingal, "dost thou fight, or yield
To this, my powerful arm!
Foes do not conquer where I stand,
And thee I would not harm;

"Be thou my friend, and follow me-
Pursue my fleet and bounding deer,
Partake my goodly feast of shells,

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Be thou my friend, and share my cheer."

"No," said the hero, "Fingal, no!
My strength is with the weak in arms,
My sword has ever been unmatched,
For valour's fire my bosom warms;

"So let the king of Morven yield."
"Orla, I never yield to man!
Then draw thy sword if thou wilt fight,
And choose thy foe amongst my clan."

"And does the king refuse to fight?"
Said Orla of the dark-brown shield;!
"Orla is match for Fingal's sword,-
I fight him only in the field!

"But, king of Morven, should I fall,
For every chief must one day die,
Oh! raise my tomb upon this plain-
And, generous Fingal, raise it high!

"And o'er the dark-blue rolling wave,
To her he loves send Orla's sword,
That she may tell her youthful son,
Whose soul shall kindle at the word.”

"Son of the mournful tender tale,
Why thus awaken Fingal's grief?
Death is the certain doom of man,
Whose longest term of life is brief;-

"The hero in the battle falls,

While widows mourn their lonely fate,Children and youths, with pride and love, Their fathers' valiant deeds relate:

"The arms hang useless in the hall
Which gleam'd like lightning on the foe,
No more the warrior through his ranks
Makes seas of blood around him flow:

"Fair Orla, thy tall tomb shall rise,
And tower above each common tomb:
Upon thy sword thy spouse shall weep,
Thy son lament thy hapless doom."

On Lena's bloody heath they fought,
Feeble the arm of Lota's son,
The sword of Fingal cleft his shield,
It fell, and glittered as the moon!

"Oh! generous Fingal!" said the chief,
"Haste, end thy work, and pierce my breast!
My weary spirit longs to fly

And find a lasting place of rest;

"Bloody and wounded, from the fight
I dragg'd my feeble, fainting frame;
Deserted by my dearest friends,
All weak and lonely, Orla came!

"Oh! lift once more thy friendly steel
And lay me in my silent tomb,
The tale will grieve my widow'd love,
To whom my ghost will often come;

"How will her heart sustain the blow
When she receives the mournful tale?
My son will weep his father's fate,
And both will long my loss bewail."

"Orla," the noble Fingal cried,

" I cannot slay so brave a foeOn Lota's bank there meet thy love, From Selma's power in safety go:

"In peace, go greet thy gray-hair'd sire!
Perhaps his eyes are blind with age-
And let the music of thy voice
The anguish of his heart assuage."

"But he will never hear that voice,"
Feebly the fainting chief replied-
"Beneath my belt are mortal wounds,
Here on these plains my woes subside!"

From 'neath his belt the dark blood pours,
And pale upon the heath he falls,
And Fingal, bending o'er his corse,
In tears his youthful heroes calls:

"Oscar, and Fillan, hear my words!
Come, raise the tomb of Orla high,
Here let the dark hair'd hero rest-
Far from his spouse with tearful eye;

"Here in his narrow house he sleeps
Far from his love; in Lota's Hall
His faithful dogs are howling round,
Waiting to hear their master's call;

"Oh! fallen is the valiant arm,
The mighty son of war is low!
Exalt the voice, and blow the horn,
In music let our sorrow flow!

"To Swaran let us all return,
And send the night away in song, -
But Ryno, that young son of fame,
To greet me why delay so long?”

"Ryno," said Ullin, first of bards,
"Rests with his fathers' awful forms,
The youth is low, the youth is pale,
On Lena's heath exposed to storms."

"Oh! thou wert swiftest in the race!"
Exclaimed the mourning king,
"The first to bend the stately bow:-
Thy fame our bards shall sing;

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