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A HEROIC POEM. UI
ing of the people alternately, is what sadly tor-
ments my heart.
Away we lifted the fair Oscar on the shoulders
by the tallest spears; and him with serious and
deliberate carriage we did bear, until we came to
Fingal's sacred hill. A woman could not la-
ment for her son; a man could not lament for his
valiant brother — with a deeper grief, than every
one about the hall: and all of us lamenting for
Oscar. It is the death of Oscar that grieves my
heart. Oscar, first of Albin's race, without thee,
great is our want. Where was ever seen in thy
time one hero so hardy as thee behind a sword?
Trembling and gloom never departed from Fingal,
from that day to the day of his death. Though 1
should say it, the third part of a man's food he
would notreliyh cor desire.

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