y primitive. The properties were few and simple; the
cars of the heroes, their spears, helmets, and blue shields; the harp,
the shells from which they drank in the hall, etc. Conventional compound
epithets abound, as in Homer: the "dark-bosomed" ships, the "car-borne"
heroes, the "white-armed" maids, the "long-bounding" dogs of the chase.
The scenery is that of the western Highlands; and the solemn monotonous
rhythm of MacPherson's style accorded well with the tone of his
descriptions, filling the mind with images of vague sublimity and
desolation: the mountain torrent, the dark rock in the ocean, the mist on
the hills, the ghosts of heroes half seen by the setting moon, the
thistle in the ruined courts of chieftains, the grass whistling on the
windy heath, the blue stream of Lutha, and the cliffs of sea-surrounded
Gormal. It was noticed that there was no mention of the wolf, common in
ancient Caledonia; nor of the thrush or lark or any singing bird; nor of
the salmon of the sealochs, so often referred to in modern Gaelic poetry.
But the deer, the swan, the boar, eagle, and raven occur repeatedly.

But a passage or two will exhibit the language and imagery of the whole
better than pages of description. "I have seen the walls of Balclutha,
but they were desolate. The fire had resounded in the halls, and the
voice of the people is heard no more. The stream of Clutha was removed
from its place by the fall of the walls. The thistle shook there its
lonely head; the moss whistled to the wind. The fox looked out from the
windows, the rank grass of the wall waved round its head. Desolate is
the dwelling of Moina, silence is in the house of her fathers. Raise the
song of mourning, O bards, over the land of strangers. They have but
fallen before us; for, one day, we must fall. Why dost thou build the
hall, son of the winged days? Thou lookest from thy towers to-day; yet a
few years, and the blast of the desert comes; it howls in thy empty
court, and whistles round thy half-worn shield."[3] "They rose rustling
like a flock of sea-fowl when the waves expel them from the shore. Their
sound was like a thousand streams that meet in Cona's vale, when, after a
stormy night, they turn their dark eddies beneath the pale light of the
morn. As the dark shades of autumn fly over hills of grass; so, gloomy,
dark, successive came the chiefs of Lochlin's[4] echoing woods. Tall as
the stag of Morven, moved stately before them the