dressing the saint who had requested of him a detail of the engagement in which Magnus had been

defeated

Thus was the mighty battle won

On Erin's sounding shore;
And thus, O clerk! great Comhal's son
The palm of valour bore !

Alas! far sweeter to mine ear

The triumphs of that day

Than all the psalming songs I hear,
Where holy zealots pray.

Thou hast my tale ;-though memory bleeds,

And sorrow wastes my frame,

Still will I tell of former deeds,

And live on former fame!

Now old, the streams of life congeal'd,
Bereft of all my joys!

No sword this wither'd hand can wield,
No spear my arm employs.

Among thy clerks, my last sad hour
Its weary scene prolongs;

And psalms must now supply the pow'r
Of victory's lofty songs.

It is nevertheless to the opening of The Chase, a legendary poem, which, from its mention of church bells, cannot be attributed to a period earlier than

the middle ages, that we are indebted for the fullest developement of the character of Ossian as drawn by the Irish bards. This piece also, like the former, displays a glowing picture of the head and heart of the king of Morven, to whom, as the fair translator has remarked, every quality is attributed that is either interesting, amiable, or great *.

The delineation, indeed, either of Ossian or his royal father, being precisely such as we find drawn in the poems translated by Macpherson, would answer the purpose which I have in view; but as the character of the bard is, from the splendor of his genius, from his blindness, and his being the last of his race, perhaps still more endeared to us than that of the warrior, I shall confine myself principally to the picture which has been given us of the former. The saint and the poet are represented as usual, conversing familiarly together, when the latter exclaims with his customary courtesy,

Did e'er my tale thy curious ear
And fond attention draw,
The story of that chase to hear,
Which my famed father saw?

The chase, which singly o'er the plain,

The hero's steps pursued;
Nor one of all his valiant train

Its wond'rous progress view'd?

A query to which the holy anchorite replies,

O royal bard! to valour dear,
Whom fame and wisdom grace,
It never was my chance to hear
That memorable chase.

But let me now, O bard, prevail !
Now let the song ascend;
And through the wonders of the tale,
May truth thy words attend !

The insinuation which the saint here throws out against the veracity of the bard very naturally and very deservedly calls forth a rebuke, but delivered in a tone of energy and moral dignity which has seldom been surpassed :

O Patrick! to the Finian race

A falsehood was unknown;

No lie, no imputation base

On our clear fame was thrown;

But by firm truth and manly might
That fame established grew,
Where oft, in honourable fight,
Our foes before us flew.

Not thy own clerks, whose holy feet
The sacred pavement trod,
With thee to hymn, in concert sweet,
The praises of thy God;

Not thy own clerks in truth excell'd
The heroes of our line,

By honour train'd, by fame impell'd
In glory's fields to shine!

O Patrick of the placid mien,
And voice of sweetest sound!
Of all thy church's walls contain
Within their hallow'd round,

Not one more faithful didst thou know
Than Comhal's noble son;
The chief who gloried to bestow
The prize the bards had won!

Were Morni's * valiant son alive,
(Now in the deedless grave)
O could my wish from death revive
The generous and the brave !

* The celebrated Gaul Mac Mevrni, well known to the reader of Ossian's Poems. "Great as is Oisin's partiality," remarks the translator, " in favour of the heroes of his own race, yet we find him, on all occasions, doing ample justice

VOL. II.

E

Or Mac O'Dhuivne, graceful form,
Joy of the female sight;

The hero who would breast the storm,
And dare the unequal fight:

Or he whose sword the ranks defy'd,
Mac-Garra, conquest's boast,

Whose valour would a war decide,
His single arm an host.

Or could Mac-Ronan now appear,
In all his manly charms;
Or,-Oh my Osgar * ! wert thou here,
To fill my aged arms!

Not then, as now, should Calphruin's son
His sermons here prolong;

With bells and psalms the land o'er-run, And hum his holy song!

If Fergus † lived, again to sing