LODBROC'S DEATH-SONG.* CHORUS. We hewed with our swords. 1. When first we landed on the GOTHIC shore, vengeance soon o'ertook the wily dragon, We hew'd with our swords. 25. But still there is never-failing consolation De parted heroes know no griefs when once they en- We hew'd with our SWORDS. This song contains twenty-five verses, and concludes thus characteristic of Scandinavian mythology. Now let us cease our SONG. 25. See! the celestial virgins, sent from that compose my placid visage. HACO's Expedition. From the Norwegian account published in the original Icelandic, from the FLATEYDN and FRISIAN MSS. Translated by the Rev. James Johnson, A. M. B In the poem of Carthon, who is vanquished by Classammor, Fingal soothes his last moments by the assurance that his bards should celebrate his death. "But thou shalt not die unknown, replied the king of woody Morven my bards are many, O Carthon! their songs descend to future times. The children of years to come shall hear the fame of Carthon when they sit round the burning oak, and the night is spent in songs of old. The hunter sitting in the heath, shall hear the rustling blast; and raising his eyes, behold the rock were Carthon fell. He shall turn to his son and shew the place where the mighty fought there the king of Balclutha fought, like the strength of a thousand streams.' This poem concludes with Ossian's address to the sun, so pathetic and sublime, you committed it to memory as an effusion of very fine poetry, and of genuine feeling: and compared it with Milton's pathetically lamenting, in the person of Samson, the cheerless and dreary void left in his bosom, by being debarred the common pleasures of a fine day, or the milder influence of a lunar sky. I advise, not to read connectedly, or long at one time, otherwise you may find Ossian monotonous; but there are moments when the mind feels attuned to the grand, the awful and sublime: and then it is, that these Erse poems will be best appreciated: in * See page 77, of " The Theory of Elocution," by B. H. Smart. short, we refer to them as we would wish to listen to solemn strains of music. We will now attend to the voice of Ossian when he celebrated the unhappy fate of the vanquished: "We sat that night in Selma, round the strength of the shell. The wind was abroad in the oaks. The spirit of the mountain roared." "The blast came rustling through the hall, and gently touched my harp. The sound was mournful and low, like the song of the tomb. Fingal heard it the first. The wounded sighs of his bosom arose." Some of my heroes are low, said the grey-haired king of Morven. I heard the sound of death on the harp. Ossian, touch the trembling string. Bid the sorrows rise; that their spirits may fly with joy to Morven's woody hills! I touched the harp before the king; the sound was mournful and low. "Bend forward from your clouds, I said, ghosts of my fathers! bend, lay by the red terrors of your course. Receive the fallen chief, whether he comes from a distant land, or rises from the rolling sea. Let his robe of mist be near; his spear that is formed of a cloud. Place an half extinguished meteor by his side in the form of the hero's sword. And, oh! let his countenance be lovely, that his friends may delight in his presence. Bend from your clouds, I said, ghosts of my fathers, bend!" These similes of Ossian are beautiful and sublime and every appearance of nature acquires fresh interest from being so noticed by our northern bards, the very mists of the valley assume dignity, and the ragged skirts of a cloud, as it sails over the heath, reminds us of Ossian's poetical flights. You will easily catch an enthusiasm for the inhabitants of a country wild and secluded as the Highlands; and their primitive habits cherishing undefined sentiments of immortality which render them so interesting.(4) But the greatest charm of these ancient records you will find to be, the purity of sentiment they display in the respect and attention shewn to woman. The hero of Fingal's time made of the tender sex a bosom friend; either to be a participator of his melancholy hours, or to exult in his success when he touched his harp to an animating strain. "But lead me, O Malvina! to the sound of my woods to the roar of the mountain streams. And bring me the harp, O maid, that I may touch it, when the light of my soul shall arise. Be thou near, to learn the song; future times shall hear of me! 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." How tender is our commiseration of this celebrated Malvina, who losing her lover in the first bloom of youth, transfers all her affectionate attentions to his blind father. In our most pensive mood, we may open the Erse volume at the poem of Croma, and give our tears of sympathy to the affecting scene, the father endeavouring to divert the grief of Malvina for the loss of his son Oscar. "It was the voice of my love! seldom art thou in the dreams of Malvina! Open your airy halls, O fathers of Toscar of shields! Unfold the gates of your clouds: the steps of Malvina are near. I have heard a voice in my dream. I feel the fluttering of my soul." We will terminate our extracts from Ossian with this touching and refined sentiment, so characteristic of the ancient hero's love, of his age, and nation. You, my young friends, will learn to prize every attempt of man to immortalize the affections: and honour every indication of his instinctive perceptions of an imperishable essence superior to time and death. And this is the transcendent merit of the Erse poems to the heart and mind of woman, the tender sentiments which constitute love an emanation of the soul. Nor let us suppose that the hero's heart is less sensible in the present day to this devotedness of |