"Or if it was thy Crugal's semblance pale, "Why not to me impart the deathful tale? "Thee did he teach his cave of rest to find, "His narrow house, that feeble son of wind! "My sword might penetrate its dark retreat, "And force his knowledge from its secret seat. "But small that knowledge, he was here to-day "Knew'st thou he swell'd the slaughter of the fray? "Scarce o'er these hills his ghost has wing'd its flight,

"Who there could tell him we should fall in fight?"

"Yet heed the warning voice, brave Connal cries!

'On the swift gale each warrior's spirit flies;

They dwell together in their gloomy cave,

'Talk of the fate of Chiefs, the hero's grave.'

"Of other Chiefs-but let them ne'er presume "To waste prediction on CUCHULLIN's doom! "May in their caves my fate neglected lie!"The Chief of Erin was not born to fly! "I will not fly from Swaran!-if I fall, "Swift shall my spirit seek their airy hall;

My tomb, in years of future fame, shall rise, "Sought by the brave, and hallow'd by their sighs; "On my cold stone the hunter's tear descend,

"And sorrowing o'er it fair Bragela bend.

"I fear not death, but fear ignoble flight, "Stain of the youthful warrior's former might !— "Oft has great FINGAL, from his rapid car, "Seen conquest mine amid the rage of war."Dim phantom of the hill, appear to me! "Shew in thy livid hand my death's decree; "No thought of flight shall thy pale doom inspire, "Son of the whistling blast, the meteor-fire!

"Go, Connal, loudly strike the high-hung shield, "From yon riv'd oak dark shadowing on the field; "Peace is not in the sound.-My Chiefs shall hear, "Start from their sleep, and snatch the prostrate

spear.

"Though Fingal yet no promis'd aid fulfils,
"Nor leads his heroes from their stormy hills,
"Yet, Son of Colgar, will we scorn to fly,
"But nobly conquer, or as nobly die !"

THE GHOST OF CUCHULLIN.

FROM OSSIAN.

ON Dora's hill, the fires of parting day,
With soften'd lustre, shed the yellow ray;
Yet scarce they sunk behind the mountain's breast
Ere gathering storms the fading scene invest.
Loud hollow gales fell murmuring on the floods,
And shook Temora through his bending woods.
One ample cloud a sable curtain rear'd,
And faint, behind its edge, a red star peer'd,
And in its shade a tall, unreal form

Stalk'd through the air, and mourn'd amid the storm.
His lengthen'd steps o'er the vast mountain pass'd,
And his broad shield a pale effulgence cast.
Too well Cuchullin's faded form I knew,
Yet, ere my lips could breathe their last adieu,
Swift, on his howling blast, away he strode,
And night, and horror, gather'd on the wood.

EPISTLE

TO

MR NEWTON, The Derbyshire Minstrel,

ON RECEIVING HIS DESCRIPTION, IN VERSE, OF AN AUTUMNAL SCENE, NEAR EYAM, IN THAT COUNTY,

SEPTEMBER, 1791.

HIGH on the airy mountain's sunny side,
On the rais'd heath-bush, gay in purple pride,
You seat me, Edwin, where you sat serene,
And with the pen of Genius sketch'd the scene;
Taught his bold lines each feature wild to trace,
Each rude magnificence, each sylvan grace;
Vast barren hills, and deep luxuriant dales,
That the sun gilds, the volant cloud half veils,
Alternate. Ah! no spot recorded then,
No distant valley, and no nearer glen,
That twining Wye's cerulean current laves,
Or yellow Derwent with his frothing waves;

No rock, no hamlet, on the mountain's swell,
No village, nestling in the shadowy dell,

But, as I meet their lov'd, familiar name,
Swift, as the lightning's penetrating flame,
To my charm'd soul return her morning years,
Their transports heighten'd, and dispell'd their cares.

Thus on the spirit Memory's local spell
No time can weaken, and no change repel;
It melts the heart, and rushes through the brain,
With pleasure, sweeter for the mingled pain.
What heart but feels that pain, that pleasure's strife,
Oft as it traces back the maze of life!

But O! where warm the ingenuous passions glow,
That avarice, pride, nor wild ambition know,
This local spell!-how instant is it's power,
To chase the Present, and the Past restore!

SCOTLAND, than thine, what poets more endear Their native scenes, and send our spirits there? Ah! when they sing of Tay, of Forth, and Clyde, Of Leader-Haughs, and Yarrow's flowery side, Their strains my heart with softer rapture fire Than MASON'S, GRAY's, or DARWIN's lays inspire; Their loftier rhyme though loftier Genius taught, Glow in their image, and sublime their thought.

And when you, EDWIN, bid description's truth Recall the scenes that charm'd my early youth,