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Joy rose in Carthon's face: he lifted his heavy eyes. He gave his sword to Fingal, to lie within his hall, that the memory of Balclutha's king might remain in Morven. The battle ceased along the field, 215 the bard had sung the song of peace. The chiefs gathered round the falling Carthon; they heard his words with sighs. Silent they leaned on their spears, while Balclutha's hero spoke. His hair sighed in the wind, and his voice was sad and low.

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"King of Morven," Carthon said, "I fall in the midst of my course. A foreign tomb receives, in youth, the last of Reuthámir's race. Darkness dwells in Balclutha the shadows of grief in Crathmo. But raise my remembrance on the banks of Lora, where 225 my fathers dwelt. Perhaps the husband of Moina will mourn over his fallen Carthon." His words reached the heart of Clessámmor: he fell, in silence, on his son. The host stood darkened around: no voice is on the plain. Night came, the moon, from the east, looked 230 on the mournful field: but still they stood, like a silent grove that lifts its head on Gormal, when the loud winds are laid, and dark autumn is on the plain.

Three days they mourned above Carthon; on the fourth his father died. In the narrow plain of the 235 rock they lie; a dim ghost defends their tomb. There lovely Moina is often seen; when the sunbeam darts on the rock, and all around is dark. There she is seen, Malvina! but not like the daughters of the hill. Her

240 robes are from the stranger's land; and she is still alone!

Fingal was sad for Carthon; he commanded his bards to mark the day, when shadowy autumn returned: And often did they mark the day, and sing the hero's 245 praise. "Who comes so dark from ocean's roar, like autumn's shadowy cloud? Death is trembling in his hand! his eyes are flames of fire! Who roars along dark Lora's heath? Who but Carthon, king of swords! The people fall! see! how he strides, like the sullen 250 ghost of Morven! But there he lies a goodly oak, which sudden blasts over-turned! When shalt thou rise, Balclutha's joy? When, Carthon, shalt thou arise? Who comes so dark from ocean's roar, like autumn's shadowy cloud?" Such were the words of 255 the bards, in the day of their mourning: Ossian often joined their voice; and added to their song. My soul was mournful for Carthon; he fell in the days of his youth and thou, O Clessámmor! where is thy dwelling in the wind? Has the youth forgot his wound? Flies 260 he, on clouds, like thee? I feel the sun, O Malvina! leave me to my rest. Perhaps they may come to my dreams; I think I hear a feeble voice! The beam of heaven delights to shine on the grave of Carthon: I feel it warm around!

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O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers! Whence are thy beams, O sun! thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth, in thy awful beauty;

the stars hide themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave. But thou thyself movest alone: who can be a companion of thy course! 270 The oaks of the mountains fall: the mountains themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks and grows again the moon herself is lost in heaven; but thou art ever the same; rejoicing in the brightness of thy course. When the world is dark with tempests; when the 275 thunder rolls, and lightning flies; thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian, thou lookest in vain; for he beholds thy beams no more; whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of 280 the west. But thou art perhaps, like me, for a season, thy years will have an end. Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds, careless of the voice of the morning. Exult thee, O sun! in the strength of thy youth! Age is dark and unlovely; it is like the glimmering light of 285 the moon, when it shines through broken clouds, and mist is on the hills; the blast of north is on the plain; the traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey.

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CHARLES CHURCHILL

FROM THE PROPHECY OF FAMINE

OFT have I heard thee mourn the wretched lot 180 Of the poor, mean, despised, insulted Scot,

Who, might calm reason credit idle tales,
By rancour forged where prejudice prevails,
Or starves at home, or practises, through fear
Of starving, arts which damn all conscience here.
185 When scribblers, to the charge by interest led,
The fierce North Briton foaming at their head,
Pour forth invectives, deaf to candour's call,
And, injured by one alien, rail at all;

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On northern Pisgah when they take their stand,
To mark the weakness of that Holy Land,
With needless truths their libels to adorn,
And hang a nation up to public scorn,
Thy generous soul condemns the frantic rage,
And hates the faithful but ill-natured page.

The Scots are poor, cries surly English pride;
True is the charge, nor by themselves denied.
Are they not then in strictest reason clear,
Who wisely come to mend their fortunes here?
If, by low, supple arts successful grown,

They sapped our vigour to increase their own;
If, mean in want, and insolent in power,

They only fawned more surely to devour,
Roused by such wrongs should reason take alarm,
And e'en the Muse for public safety arm:
But if they own ingenuous virtue's sway,
And follow where true honour points the way;
If they revere the hand by which they're fed,
And bless the donors for their daily bread,
Or by vast debts of higher import bound,
Are always humble, always grateful found:
If they, directed by Paul's holy pen,
Become discreetly all things to all men,
That all men may become all things to them,
Envy may hate, but justice can't condemn.
"Into our places, states, and beds they creep;"
They've sense to get what we want sense to keep.
Once, be the hour accursed, accursed the place!

I ventured to blaspheme the chosen race.
Into those traps, which men, called patriots, laid,
By specious arts unwarily betrayed,

Madly I leagued against that sacred earth,
Vile parricide! which gave a parent birth:
But shall I meanly error's path pursue,
When heavenly truth presents her friendly clue ?
Once plunged in ill, shall I go farther in?
To make the oath, was rash; to keep it, sin.
Backward I tread the paths I trod before,

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