"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, THE GHOST OF CUCHULLIN. FROM OSSIAN. ON Dora's hill, the fires of parting day, Stalk'd through the air, and mourn'd amid the storm. 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, No rock, no hamlet, on the mountain's swell, But, as I meet their lov'd, familiar name, Thus on the spirit Memory's local spell But O! where warm the ingenuous passions glow, 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, |