A POEM.
147
when it lifts its head through clouds and fmiles on the valley of
fileuce.
Blessed, fald Crimoina, be the chief of Morven, the friend of
the feeble in the day of their danger ! — But what Ihould Crimoina
do in her land ; where every rock and hill, every tree and murmur-
ing brook, would awake her flumbering forrow ? The youths
whom I fcorned, when they would behold me, would laugh, and
fay, Where is now thy Armor ? You may fay it, but I will not
hear you ; I live in a land that is diftant. I end my fhort day
with the maids of Morven. Their hearts, like that of their king,
will feel for the unhappy.
We brought Crimoina with us to our land. We gave her fair
hand to Dargo. But ftill, at times, flie was fad; the fecret ftreams,
as they paffed, heard on their banks her figh. — Crimoina, thy day,
indeed, was fliort. The firings of the harp are wet, while the bard
repeats thy tale.
One day as we purfued the deer on Morven's darkly heath, the
fliips of Lochlin appeared on our feas, with all their white fails,
and nodding mafts. We thought it might be to demand Crimoi-
na. " I will not fight," faid Connas of the little foul, " till I firft
know if that flranger loves our race. Let us purfue the boar, and
dye the robe of Dargo with his blood. Then let us carry the body
of her hufband home, and fee howfhe will mourn for his lofs."
We heard, in an evil horn*, the advice of Connas. We purfued
the foaming boar. We brought him low in the echoing woods.
Two held him in all his foam, while Connas pierced him through
with the fpear.
Dargo lay down, and we fprinkled him over with the blood.
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