and the feeble, his shield rises, a darkened orb ". He is a setting meteor to the weak in arms. Bright, as a rainbow on streams, came Lulan's white-bosomed maid.

12 But, between him and the feeble, his shield rises a crust of darkness. First edit.] Namely, to intercept the shell from their lips. An additional incident from the Battle of Books. "But, ere his mouth had kissed the liquid chrystal, Apollo came, and in the channel held his shield betwixt the modern and the fountain, so that he drew up nothing but mud."

CATH-LODA:

A POEM.

DUAN SECOND.

CATH-LODA.

DUAN SECOND.

"WHERE art thou, son of the king,” said darkhaired Duth-maruno? "Where hast thou failed, young beam of Selma? He returns not, from the bosom of night! Morning is spread on Uthorno. In his mist is the sun, on his hill. Warriors, lift the shields, in my presence. He must not fall, like a fire from heaven, whose place is not marked on the ground. He comes, like an eagle from the skirt of his squally wind! In his hand are the spoils of foes. King of Selma, our souls were sad!

"Near us are the foes, Duth-maruno. They come forward, like waves in mist, when their

foamy tops are seen, at times, above the lowsailing vapour'. The traveller shrinks on his journey; he knows not whither to fly. No trembling travellers are we! Sons of heroes call forth the steel. Shall the sword of Fingal arise, or shall a warrior lead ?”

"The deeds of old," said Duth-maruno, "are like paths to our eyes, O Fingal. Broad-shielded Trenmor is still seen, amidst his own dim years. Nor feeble was the soul of the king. There, no dark deed wandered in secret. From their hundred streams came the tribes, to grassy ColglanTheir chiefs were before them. Each

crona.

strove to lead the war. Their swords were often half unsheathed. Red rolled their eyes of rage. Separate they stood, and hummed their surly songs. "Why should they yield to each other?

1 Like waves in mist, when their foamy tops are seen, at times, above the low-sailing vapour.] POPE's Iliad, iv. 315.

Thus from some lofty promontory's brow
A swain surveys the gather'd storm below;
Slow from the main the heavy vapours rise,
Spread in dun streams, and sail along the skies-
He dreads th' impending storm, and drives his flock
To the close cover of the arching rock.

"The traveller shrinks on his journey; he knows not whither to fly."