bard with whom he had raised the song, to the silence of the narrow tomb. Thus, is it customary with him, when recording the noble actions of his forefathers, to mark them as occurring "in the days of song; when the king heard the music of harps, the tales of other times! When the chiefs gathered from all their hills, and heard the lovely sound. When they praised the voice of Cona! * the first among a thousand bards! I hear the call of years!" continues the mournful bard; "they say, as they pass along, why does Ossian sing? The sons of song are gone to rest. My voice remains, like a blast, that roars, lonely, on a sea-surrounded rock, after the winds are laid. The dark moss whistles there; the distant mariner sees the waving trees!" +

It had been the unhappy lot, indeed, of the Celtic bard, not only to have buried all the heroes of his house and name, but to have been condemned to linger out the remnant of his life among a fallen and degenerate race, a destiny which greatly aggravates the sense of his

* Ossian is sometimes poetically called the voice of Cona. + The Songs of Selma. Ossian, vol. i. p. 216.

infirmities, and renders his dependency and loss of sight more galling and severe. The comparison is, in fact, ever present to his mind, and seldom, indeed, disjoined from the mention of his sightless age. Then, says he, adverting in his Fingal to the times of old, then "Many a voice and many a harp, in tuneful sounds arose. Of Fingal's noble deeds they sung; of Fingal's noble race: and sometimes on the lovely sound was heard the name of Ossian. I often fought, and often won, in battles of the spear. But, now, blind, and tearful, and forlorn, I walk with little men! O Fingal, with thy race of war, I now behold thee not! The wild roes feed on the green tomb of the mighty king of Morven ! Blest be thy soul, thou king of swords, thou most renowned on the hills of Cona! *"

There is something inexpressibly interesting and pathetic in the various indirect modes by which Ossian connects his loss of sight with the memory of his former friends. Among a number of instances which might be quoted, I shall select one, whose appeal to the heart is rendered peculiarly tender and effective, by the

*Book the third, Ossian, vol. i. p. 279.

mournful expedient to which the bard is represented as having recourse, when, in the fulness of his feelings, he seems to evince an attachment for whatever object reminds him of his noble father.

"Did not Ossian hear a voice? or is it the sound of days that are no more? Often does the memory of former times come like the evening sun, on my soul. The noise of the chase is renewed. In thought I lift the spear. But Ossian did hear a voice! Who art thou, son of night? The children of the feeble are asleep. The midnight wind is in my hall. Perhaps it is the shield of Fingal that echoes to the blast. It hangs in Ossian's hall. HE FEELS IT Yes! I hear

SOMETIMES WITH HIS HANDS.

thee, my friend! Long has thy voice been absent from mine ear! What brings thee, on thy cloud, to Ossian, son of generous Morni? Are the friends of the aged near thee? Where is Oscar, son of fame? He was often near thee, O Conlath, when the sound of battle arose."*

There was one consolation, however, left to Ossian, of inestimable value; the unshaken at

* Opening of Conlath and Cuthona, Ossian, vol. ii. p. 183.

tachment of Malvina, the beautiful daughter of Toscar. She had loved his son, the brave and gallant Oscar, and she now watched the steps of the blind and grey-haired bard, with an assiduity and affection, which neither age nor misfortune could diminish. To her has he addressed many of his most pathetic poems, and on her sympathy has he loved to repose his intimate and domestic sorrows. We behold her, as in the following passage, leading the timestricken but still enthusiastic bard to the sound of his mountain streams; we admire the conscious sense of immortality which burns in the breast of the aged minstrel; and we dwell with rapture on the pity, mingled with veneration, which beams from the lovely features of Malvina.

"Darkness comes on my soul, O fair daughter of Toscar! I behold not the form of my son at Carun, nor the figure of Oscar on Crona. The rustling winds have carried him far away; and the heart of his father is sad. But lead me, O Malvina! to the sound of my woods; to the roar of my mountain streams. Let he chase be heard on Cona; let me think on the days of

other years. And bring me the harp, O maid! that I may touch it, when the light of my soul shall arise. Be thou near, to

future times shall hear of me!

learn the song;

The sons of the

feeble hereafter will lift the voice on Cona; and, looking up to the rocks, say, Here Ossian dwelt. They shall admire the chiefs of old, the race that are no more! while we ride on our clouds, Malvina on the wings of the roaring winds. Our voices shall be heard, at times, in the desert; we shall sing on the breeze of the rock." *

It is to the same tender and ever-faithful companion that Ossian delights to entrust the recollection of his happiest days, when he was the favoured among numerous competitors for the love of the beautiful Everallin. The comparison which these reminiscences induce between that period of enjoyment, and his present state of destitution and sorrow, is touched with a masterly pencil. It ushers in the fourth book of Fingal, and is one of the many passages in the poetry of Ossian, which shows in what high estimation was held the gift of song, at that remote era, among the Celtic tribes of Scotland;

* Ossian, vol. i. p. 165.