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Title: The poems of Ossian
Author: James Macpherson
Editor: Esq. Hugh Campbell
William Sharp
Release date: November 11, 2026 [eBook #79976]
Language: English
Original publication: Edinburgh: Patrick Geddes & Colleagues, 1896
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79976
Credits: Tim Lindell, Shawn Carraher and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POEMS OF OSSIAN ***
[Illustration: Many celtic knots, in green, with an attribution that
says “WM WILSON, BINDER, EDINBURGH” and “H. HAY DEL.”]
[Illustration: 3 flying birds, each holding a leaf]
THE POEMS OF
OSSIAN
THE POEMS OF
OSSIAN
TRANSLATED BY JAMES
MACPHERSON, WITH NOTES,
AND WITH AN INTRODUCTION
BY WILLIAM SHARP
[Illustration: Celtic knot,
with 2 shamrocks on the top
and ribbons that form diamonds,
spades, and other shapes,
printed in orange ink]
PATRICK GEDDES & COLLEAGUES
EDINBURGH MDCCCXCVI.
CONTENTS
PAGE
+Cath-loda+: A Poem
Duan First 3
Duan Second 11
Duan Third 16
+Comala+: A Dramatic Poem 23
+Fingal+: An Epic Poem
Book I 33
Book II 50
Book III 60
Book IV 73
Book V 84
Book VI 94
+The Death of Cuthullin+: A Poem 107
+Lathmon+: A Poem 119
+Oithona+: A Poem 133
+The Battle of Lora+: A Poem 143
+Carric-thura+: A Poem 153
+Carthon+: A Poem 171
+Oina-morul+: A Poem 187
+Colna-dona+: A Poem 195
+Croma+: A Poem 201
+Calthon and Colmal+: A Poem 209
+Temora+: An Epic Poem
Book I 219
Book II 239
Book III 254
Book IV 267
Book V 280
Book VI 291
Book VII 303
Book VIII 313
+Cathlin of Clutha+: A Poem 331
+Dar-thula+: A Poem 341
+The War of Caros+: A Poem 359
+Conlath and Cuthona+: A Poem 369
+Sul-malla of Lumon+: A Poem 377
+The War of Inis-thona+: A Poem 387
+Berrathon+: A Poem 395
+The Songs of Selma+ 409
CORRIGENDA +AND+ NOTE.
As this Introduction had to be printed during the author’s absence in
America, and as he saw no proofs, some _errata_ have escaped notice,
and can be rectified only now, on receipt of notification from Mr
+William Sharp+.
(1) +Page+ x.--The seventh line should be--has given “a
_critical_ and admirable synopsis.”
(2) +Page+ xii.--(_a_) The name of the famous
French Celticist is _D’Arbois de
Jubainville_.
(_b_) After “Aryan,” in the third line of the
inset Summary, delete from “indeed to the
great majority of all human races”; and
substitute “akin indeed to the primitive
folk-lore of the human race.”
(_c_) The ensuing sentence should now
begin--“Variants as they are, however.”
(_d_) In the 14th line of this inset passage
delete “begun in the nineteenth century,
has fully developed”; and substitute
“[the euhemerising process] has been
scientifically developed.”
(3) +Pages+ xii., xiii., and xvii.--In the digests from the
writings of Mr A. Nutt and Prof. O’Curry, the vulgarism
“Scotch,” for “Scottish,” appears on these pages (twice on p.
xvii).
(4) +Page+ xiii.--(_a_) After the third line of
the text (21st from top of page) delete to
the end of the paragraph; and substitute
“[in his] Introduction to his superb
collection of heroic Gaelic ballads, The
_Leabhar na Feinne_, where his maturer
views were finally presented, the reader
may be referred to the adequate and more
easily procurable essay on the Ossianic
controversy which, as already stated, is
comprised in the fourth volume of ‘Popular
Tales of the West Highlands.’”
(_b_) The Rev. Nigel MacNeill’s book is “The
Literature of the Highlanders.”
(5) +Page+ xxiii.--(_a_) In fourth line of text
delete “that the present writer’s view”;
and substitute “it.”
(_b_) In second paragraph delete “It must suffice
to say that”; and begin “The consensus,” &c.
(_c_) In Summary (3) the words “or even main” and
(4) “and worthy of all possible honour”
should be deleted; and (5) the words “of
its kind” should be interpolated after “no
single work.”
NOTE.
Finally, it should be stated that, while the Editor is responsible
for what he considers a more apt arrangement of the Poems, and also
for a few notes, this Centenary Edition is otherwise reprinted from
the edition produced in 1822 by Mr Hugh Campbell. The notes to which
the initial C is appended are those of Mr Campbell, and are generally
to correct some statement of Macpherson--though some of Mr Campbell’s
own correctional notes have not been reproduced, often in error as he
was himself. The great majority of the notes without any initial are
Macpherson’s own comments.
INTRODUCTORY NOTE
It is a hundred years since the death of James Macpherson, and the
rumour of the Ossianic Controversy has not yet died away. It is more
than likely that the problem is one that will never be quite definitely
settled. The question of the partial authenticity of Macpherson’s
“Ossian” must probably remain in abeyance, if for no other reason than
the fact that the time wherein verification was possible is now past.
What we do know for certain--that is, as a matter no longer reasonably
disputable--is: that Macpherson’s “Ossian” is not a translation
either of ancient or of mediæval legendary sagas. The scholar, in the
restricted sense, of history and the critic of literature can find
ample confirmation of this surety in the Poems themselves.
What remains to be settled is, in what degree, to what extent, are
these Ossianic poems of James Macpherson paraphrases of legendary
romances and primitive ballads and folk-lore.
It is simplest to direct the would-be student--and, of course, I do
not allude to those who can approach the subject from the standpoint
of a knowledge of ancient or modern Gaelic--to consult certain
easily-obtainable volumes wherein every aspect of the question is
fairly dealt with. German and French specialists in Celtic literature
have given close attention to this subject; but here reference need be
made only to one or two eminent authors in our own land. The opinion
that--at any rate, in Scotland--carries the most weight is that of
the late Mr Campbell of Islay. In the fourth volume of his invaluable
“Popular Tales of the West Highlands,” there is an elaborate,
conscientious, and, within its limits, satisfactory essay on the whole
Ossianic controversy. In “The Waifs and Strays of Celtic Tradition,”
Mr Alfred Nutt has given a critical and admirable synopsis of the best
opinions on the development of the Fenian or Ossianic saga. Again, in
the fourth volume of the Argyllshire Series, the late John Gregerson
Campbell has a great deal to say upon the traditionary Scottish Lore
of the Fians; and in the same volume is an elaborate series of remarks
by Mr Alfred Nutt, criticising the theory of the famous specialist
Professor Zimmer, respecting the proper place of the Fenian stories in
the history of Irish literature. Dr Douglas Hyde has a short chapter,
entitled “Who were the Fenians,” in his little book, “The Story of
Early Gaelic Literature.” Rather than direct the reader to those
texturally invaluable but otherwise inconclusive and often misleading
volumes of the Ossianic Society of Dublin, I will specify only one
other recent book on a subject which already has quite a library by
itself: Mr Bailey Saunders’ “Life of James Macpherson,” published two
years ago.
To take these in reverse order. Mr Saunders’ interesting and carefully
compiled record of Macpherson’s life and literary doings has the
demerit of leaving the reader in as great uncertainty as to the partial
authenticity of the Ossianic poems as he probably felt when he took up
Mr Saunders’ book. Otherwise, it is an indispensable volume for all who
would study the subject.
Dr Douglas Hyde, in his chapter on the subject, gives all the different
theories in regard to Finn--as the name of the great Celtic hero,
Fionn, is most commonly given in early Gaelic literature. It may be
added here that Fian or Finn is never called Fingal in any of those
early ballads and legendary romances. There was another Fingal; and
there is also the word Fionn-ghal, meaning “the fair stranger.” Despite
Macpherson’s arbitrary adoption of the word Fingal and the Fingalians
for Finn and the Fians, it is no proof that he was unaware of the true
name. For one thing, he doubtless considered euphony as more important
than accuracy, and found Fingal suit his purpose much better than
Finn--as from this point of view, it certainly does. Dr Hyde concludes
the series of interesting critical remarks thus:
“I see nothing to differentiate the case of Finn from that of the
kings and heroes who were also the subjects of bardic stories, and
whose deaths are recorded in the annals, except that the creative
imagination of later Gaels happened to seize upon him, and make him and
his contemporaries the nucleus of a vast literature, instead of some
earlier or later group of warriors. Finn has now become to all ears a
pan-Gaelic champion, just as Arthur became a Brythonic one.”
The introduction to “The Fians” by John Gregerson Campbell sets forth
the historical conditions which form the basis of Professor Zimmer’s
argument, which is that Finn was really a Norseman, and that the Fenian
cycle is posterior to the Norse invasion. Professor Zimmer lays great
stress on the fact of Finn being the Irish translation for “white,”
and of the Irish, therefore, calling the Norse vikings Finians (Fian,
Fianna, The Fenian Militia)--_i.e._ “White Strangers”--as, later,
they called the Danes black or dark strangers. According to Professor
Zimmer, also, Lochlann--the Lochlin of Macpherson--which has hitherto
been considered to be Norway, is explicable as Lake-land: and Lochlann
to be an Irish rendering of _Laland_ and, the island whence came
the Danish vikings, and first designated the Danes’ country alone,
although afterwards the whole of Scandinavia. The arguments brought
against Professor Zimmer are of two kinds: the purely philological,
and the historical. Despite his great ingenuity, and the innumerable
half-proofs he brings to bear in support of his thesis, it may be
enough to say that his fundamental philological point--the significance
of the word _fiann_--is confuted by our own chief living philologist,
Mr Whitley Stokes; while his historical arguments are contested by two
other even more eminent Celtic specialists, Professor Kuno Meyer and M.
D’Arbois de Jubainville.
The conclusion of Mr Alfred Nutt’s essay on the development of the
Fenian or Ossianic saga may be summarised thus:--
The tales of Finn and his fellow-warriors are Gaelic variants
of tales common to all Celtic, to all Aryan, akin indeed to the
primitive folk-lore of the human race. Variants as they are, however
they are essentially Gaelic, being found wherever there is a Gaelic
population, and practically only where there is a Gaelic population.
To account for the one cycle being introduced into the corpus of
the Irish legend at a later date than the other, Mr Nutt brings
forward the fact that the spread of a national heroic tradition is
mainly determined by political considerations, and enumerates those
considerations which influenced the Fenian saga. The history of the
tales is modified by the fact that (1) the euhemerising process has
been scientifically developed and the saga fitted into a framework
of tribal and personal conditions, which necessarily determine its
growth along certain lines. (2) Mythic features and incidents have
been translated into historic terms borrowed from the comparatively
recent history of the race, therefore enriched by a new series of
personages and by a wider geographical horizon.
Nothing is to be said in favour of the Fenian saga being older on
Scottish ground than the Dalriadic colonisation. Both Scotland
and Ireland have an equal claim to the saga in this sense--that
both countries were inhabited by Gaels, who told and localised it
wherever they went. But Ireland’s claim is so far superior, in that
these tales were told in Ireland earlier than in Scotland; that
whatever admixture of fact in them is Irish fact, and that the chief
shapers of the cycle have been Irish, not Scottish Gaels.
Apart from its interest to the student of tradition _per se_,
the Fenian saga is the most authentic product we have of Gaelic
folk-fancy working over an immense period of time. But it has
probably nothing to tell us respecting the oldest history, whether of
deed or thought, of the Gaelic race; and, although it preserves to us
an immense number of mythic ideas and situations, it is, as a rule,
in a form influenced by comparatively modern models of conception
and expression. Mr Nutt’s argument, therefore, is that the whole
groundwork of Ossianic tales is mythical.
Although the late Mr Campbell of Islay devoted considerable space to
the consideration of the authenticity of the Macphersonian Ossianic
fragments, in his Introduction to his superb collection of heroic
Gaelic ballads, The _Leabhar na Feinne_, where his maturer views were
finally presented, the reader may be referred to the adequate and more
easily procurable essay on the Ossianic controversy which, as already
stated, is comprised in the fourth volume of “Popular Tales of the West
Highlands.”
Since the publication of his famous volume, two later essays have
appeared, which, though they give no new facts, are at once excellent
and trustworthy summaries, and are easily procurable. The one is the
chapter on Macpherson’s “Ossian” in Mr Nigel Macneill’s “The Literature
of the Highlanders” (the student should peruse the first ten chapters
of this book); the other is an address entitled “Who were the Feinn,”
given by Mr Alexander Macbain at Inverness, and reprinted in the
second volume of the “Transactions of the Gaelic Society of Glasgow,”
recently published. This last is an excellent synthesis of the chief
views on the subject, comprising as it does criticisms of Professor
Zimmer, Mr Nutt, and other eminent specialists. I will quote his
conclusion, as it probably represents the view held by the majority of
those who have studied the subject:
“We come now to the conclusion of the whole matter. We have found
that the Feinn history is nothing but heroic sagas, the leading
features of which are reproduced among other Aryan nations, and we
have found, moreover, that the most popular portions are purely
fairy or nursery tales--pure _Märchen_, to employ the German word.
Was there really a historical personage called Fionn? In his case,
we may emphatically say--what cannot always be said of these heroic
figures--that there was no Fionn: at least, little or no Fionn. The
histories, we saw, reject him and his band. His connection with King
Cormac is factitious and fictitious. This monarch is the most popular
that appears in early Irish history, and it is natural that the hero
about whom the national legends were gathered should be fixed in his
reign and indeed become connected with him by marriage.
“If Fionn is not a historical character, then how can we account
for his existence as the national hero of the Gael? To answer
this is to have the “key of all the mythologies.” How do the
heroes and demi-gods of mythology arise? Fionn is, like Hecales,
Theseus, Perseus, and other such persons of Greek myth, a culture
hero--probably originally a local deity raised to a national place.
He is an incarnation of the chief deity of the race--the Mercury,
whom Caesar tells us the Gauls worshipped--a god of a literary and
mercantile character. His grandson Oscar is a reflection of the war
god, and the other characters of the Fenian band no doubt correspond
to the other personages of the Gaelic Olympus. Reverting to the
question with which we started--‘Did Fingal live or Ossian sing’--we
have to give the answer, that Fingal lived and Ossian sang only in
the heart and imagination of the Gaelic race, to embody their ideal
of all that is noble and heroic.”
The ordinary English opinion, which blindly and unreasoningly follows
the lead of a great authority on many literary matters, though one
whose dicta on Ossianic literature were next to valueless, Dr Johnson,
is: that “The Poems of Ossian,” which were published in 1760, and have
since become familiar throughout the whole world, were composed in
English prose by James Macpherson, and that he was the inventor of the
characters and incidents: in a word, that the poems had no previous
existence in any shape.
This, of course, as all our leading specialists are now agreed, is
wholly untenable. As Mr Campbell states, in the already alluded to
essay in his “Popular Tales of the West Highlands,” the groundwork of
much that is in “Ossian” certainly existed in Gaelic in Scotland long
before Macpherson was born. The chief characters figured in Gaelic
compositions centuries ago, and in Gaelic songs by well-known ancient
bards there are so many allusions to Fionn, the Feinne, Oìsin (Ossian),
and the heroes of the Ossianic cycle, that there is absolutely no
standing ground left for this theory.
On the other hand, the patriotic view still held by a limited number
of Scotsmen is that Ossian’s poems are historical; that the Gaelic
is genuine old poetry composed by a bard of the third century, who
witnessed many of the exploits recorded; and that to all intents and
purposes Macpherson simply gave us, in more or less sequent narrative,
an anglicised version of authentic traditionary lore.
This extreme view, unfortunately, must now be considered as untenable
as the more obviously absurd English extreme. What is certain is
that no early poems such as those given in English by Macpherson are
extant; and that the language adopted by Macpherson belongs much more
to the eighteenth century than to the Ossianic age. In his excellent
summary, Mr Campbell naturally dismisses the common English view as the
furthest from the truth: but, despite his Scottish predilections, leans
toward the Irish theory as most based upon probabilities. He gives
ample reasons for his conviction that Macpherson’s “Ossian” was based
upon really genuine ancient Gaelic MSS., although not those of Ossian
himself. His subsequent argument goes to prove his modification of the
too exclusive Irish theory which would claim Fian, and Ossian, and the
Ossianic literature as purely Irish in the most exclusive sense of the
designation. Mr Campbell proves that the Ossianic heroes were really
known centuries before Macpherson wrote of them: also that Macpherson
translated, or translated and paraphrased, genuine old Gaelic poems or
fragments: and that in so doing he may or may not have made a mistake
in altering and expanding his texts as he did, but that on this account
he is not to be blamed for fraudulent claims to have reconstructed
the practically perished oral literature of the past. The following
_précis_ of a section of Mr Campbell’s elaborate essay and of the views
of other Gaelic authorities may fittingly be given here:--
Professor O’Curry says that hundreds of Irish writings are preserved
in various libraries, etc., and contain numerous Ossianic poems
“relating to the Fenian heroes, some of them of great antiquity.”
Now these ancient Irish documents, and those which are preserved in
Scotland, are pervaded by the variously spelt names of Fionn or Finn
and his worthies. There is hardly a grown Highlander who is not
familiar with their names--they are household words at the firesides
of Irish peasants; and the characters and relationships of these
mythical warriors are almost invariably the same. They are the heroes
of Ossian.
Professor O’Curry holds that the “Fenians” were historical Irish
personages who flourished in the third century, but he shows that Fer
Féne was written in the book of Ballymote in 1391, in a poem composed
in 1024, and he translates it “Fene men, these were farmers.” Still
Finn’s genealogy is traced to 110 B.C.
Poems attributed to Finn Mac Cumhail, his sons Oisin and Fergus
Finnbheoil, and his kinsman Caelte, do exist in Gaelic MSS., seven
hundred years old.
Professor O’Curry says that the “Poems of Ossian,” as published in
1807 or 1760, or anything like them from which they could have been
translated, exist in ancient Irish manuscript; but he has pointed out
some of the incidents on which the first book of Temora is founded,
in one or two ancient poems which were attributed to Oisin in the
tenth century.
According to Irish authorities, then, Gaelic poems are preserved in
ancient manuscript, and some of them relate to the Ossianic heroes.
But these were Irishmen who lived, and loved, and fought in the third
century, and not Scotsmen; while again, according to other Irish
authorities, these men flourished much later. Scottish and British
Fenians are mentioned, and Scottish Oscars appear in Irish poems,
even Danish Oscars are named in Irish books; and the feats attributed
to the ancient heroes who bore these Ossianic names, and whose chief
was _Finn_, are often the exploits of giants and demigods.
“No tradition now current, and no ancient MS. of which I have heard,
makes any mention of the kingdom of Morven or its King Fingal.
I believe that the kingdom is an invention of the compounder of
Ossian’s poems, whoever he may have been.”
As for the poet, to whom nearly all the old poetry in the Highlands
is now attributed, his date and origin are as uncertain as his
father’s. If he was Finn’s son he could not have survived to converse
with St Patrick, nor have lived with a fairy lady in the land of
youth; he is in Gaelic popular tradition and old Gaelic lore the
counterpart of Thomas the Rymour, who was a living man in 1280, and
yet went to fairyland, and has the credit of being a prophet, a
magician, and a poet--the author of Sir Tristrem.
The date of Fionn and his family may be the third century; but unless
there were many who bore the same names, the exploits of a series
of men and the fabulous deeds of mythological characters must have
gathered about the names of this single family. I am still inclined
to believe that these heroes of popular romance were ancient Celtic
gods.
The only Gaelic traditional reference to a people with a name
like that of the Picts is an occasional but very rare mention of
_Piocaich_ as a kind of men.
The Celts had swords, and spears, and shields, and mail, like the
traditional Feinne, and in a poem the banner of Fionn is described.
In a charter of lands in Morayshire, the words “Tubar na Fein” occur.
This is explained to mean “The well of the great or kempis men,”
which proves that the name of the Feinne was even then associated
with the topography of the eastern Highlands. (Celtic Gleanings,
MacLauchlan.)
In 1408 a charter of lands in Islay was written in the usual form
of Latin charters, but in the Gaelic language and character. This
proves that the Gaelic language and character were then used in legal
documents in Scotland (Celtic Gleanings), disproves the Irish claim
to the exclusive use of the old character, and refutes the assertion
that Gaelic was not a written language. It might as well be argued
that English was unwritten because the _Times_ does not use Chaucer’s
language and black letter.
It is evident that tales about the Feinne were commonly known to the
Lowlanders of Scotland in 1450, the time of William Dunbar, who wrote
for them.
The Book of the Dean of Lismore contains 11,000 lines of poetry, some
of which are attributed to Oisein and his comrades, some to bards of
the period. Probably a collection written from dictation, it gives
according to the writer’s ability a faithful representation of the
current language and traditional poems of the district of Lorne in
the sixteenth century. Even a few sheets of this publication prove
beyond question that the groundwork of the first book of Temora had
been made the subject of a Gaelic poem written down more than three
centuries ago, but the poem of 1807 is not there. This MS., then,
disposes of a great deal of the Ossianic controversy and clears the
ground. Lorne is close to Morven, but there is no mention of Fingal
or his kingdom. It is thus proved that Fionn and his heroes are
not simply creatures of Macpherson’s brain, or worthies who belong
exclusively to Irish romance.
In 1571 the first book was printed in the Irish character with a
press and types got from Queen Elizabeth. It is a catechism; and,
so far, it appears that Gaelic Scotland was ahead of Ireland in
the literary race, for the first known Gaelic book was printed in
Edinburgh.
At this day men still point out Dun Finn in Arran and explain
“Ar-ainn” to mean Ar-fhinn, Fin’s land; and Cowal, which sounds like
MacCowl, is still brimful of Fenian traditions.
Inseabh-Gall, the Hebrides, were so called from their Norse masters.
This, then, proves that Scotland was considered to be the land of
Fionn eighty years before Macpherson published anything.
If the statement of Mr MacGilvray, given at page 50 of the
dissertation prefixed to the large edition of “Ossian,” 1807, is not
a deliberate falsehood, there is an end of the argument which makes
Macpherson the author, though no early copy of the entire poems is
known.
In 1774 a certain Duncan Kennedy collected traditional poetry in
the West Highlands, and named seventeen of his authorities. The
collection is now preserved in the Advocate’s Library. The name
Fingal is used in the English, but in the Gaelic it is Fion or Fionn.
The Rev. Donald MacNicol, minister of Lismore, published in his reply
to Johnson’s tour:
“Every man of inquiry; every person of the least taste for the poetry
or turn for the antiquities of his country, has heard often repeated
some part or other of the poems published by Mr Macpherson. Hundreds
still alive have heard portions of them recited long before Mr
Macpherson was born; so that he cannot possibly be deemed the author
of compositions which existed before he had any existence himself.
It is true that there is no man now living, and perhaps there never
has existed any one person who either can or could repeat the whole
of the poems of Ossian.... Mr Macpherson’s great merit has been in
collecting the _disjecta membra poetae_; and his fitting the parts so
well together as to form a complete figure.”
Campbell says (speaking of Fingal):
“I do not assert that the poet’s name was Ossian. I deny on good
grounds that it was James Macpherson. I maintain that a poet, and a
Scotch Highlander, composed all those Gaelic lines separately, if
not together; and judging from my own knowledge of the people, and
their ways, it is possible that these may be fragments of sentimental
poetry different from the popular ballads, more modern, but certainly
older than 1730.”
“On the Gaelic Poetry of known and unknown Bards, Published and
Traditional.” (H. Maclean.)
“The Gaelic poems which were published in 1807, from a manuscript in
the handwriting of James Macpherson, differ very widely indeed from
those which are handed down by tradition; very widely indeed from all
known traditions about the Fenian heroes current in the Highlands.
The kingdom of Morven is unknown either in traditional poems or
stories. The traditional Finn is not that grave, stately, solemn,
ostentatious old monarch which he is published in the Ossian of Mr
Macpherson; but a being of more human sympathies, possessed of strong
feelings and passions--a hero that might have been a brave, generous
chieftain, who was not entirely free from the frailties that flesh is
heir to.”
Then follows an account of the traditional Fenian heroes, their
ballads, poems, etc., and then Mr Maclean goes on to say:
“The language of the printed Ossian of 1807 differs entirely from
that of the traditional ballads now ascribed to Ossian; it differs
entirely from that of other published Scoto-Gaelic poetry, except
Dr Smith’s Sean Dana, Mordubh, and a few other pieces published by
Gillies Stewart, MacCallum, etc., and the language appears to be more
tinged with foreign idioms even than Sean Dana, or any other Gaelic
publication which I have read, Mordubh and some modern translations
from English only excepted; it differs entirely from Gaelic as spoken
at present in the Highlands; and it differs entirely from that of the
Irish Ossianic poems which have been published by the Irish Ossianic
Society. All these have a common bond, a common idiom, a common
structure, though they differ in minutiæ, and the common general
idiom is seldom violated by any of these.”
Mr Maclean then gives particulars of a number of modern Gaelic
bards who make mention of Ossian and the Feinne, and points out the
difference between these bards and Ossian. He also gives several
letters from different people whom he has interrogated on the subject.
In a long letter Mr Alexander Carmichael, our foremost living
Hebridean scholar, states his firm belief that Macpherson did not
invent the tales of Ossian. He says:
“I have frequently questioned old men concerning the Fingalians in
almost all parts of the Highlands, from Cape Wrath to the Mull of
Cantyre. If they had heard of them--what they heard of them--and if
they believed in them? I have never in _one single_ instance met a
negative.” Farther on Mr Carmichael says: “Some, I believe, imagine,
in the simplicity of their heart, that Macpherson, the translator,
was the author of Ossian’s poems. Perhaps it was Macpherson who also
composed the thousand and one Fingalian tales that are floating
throughout the Highlands? and all the anecdotes of the Fingalians?
Well, if so, I can only say that Macpherson must have been very busy
in his day.”
Mr Maclean ends by giving his own opinion on the subject:
“I hold that there is nothing to prove that Macpherson, Ossian, or
any other individual, composed the Gaelic poems of 1807--or that
they are older than Macpherson’s time as a whole--but there is a mass
of evidence to prove that he had something which we have not....
Macpherson’s ‘Ossian’ is, as I conceive, without doubt a composite
work, to be ranked as poetry made up of various materials, ancient
and modern, like houses which I have seen in ancient Greece.”
So much then, for the drift of the best informed opinion. In so far as
the opinion of one who has studied the subject from every point of view
is worth, it may be added it is that already given in his Introduction
to “Lyra Celtica”: which, therefore, he may be excused for reiterating
here:
The consensus of qualified opinion decides--(1) That Macpherson’s
“Ossian” is not a genuine rendering of ancient originals; (2) that he
worked incoherently upon a genuine but unsystematised, unsifted, and
fragmentary basis, without which he could have achieved nothing; (3)
that inherent evidence disproves Macpherson’s sole authorship as well
as Ossian’s and that he was at most no more than a skilful artificer;
(4) that, if he were the sole author, he would be one of the few poetic
creators of the first rank; (5) that no single work of its kind in our
literature has had so wide-reaching, so potent, and so enduring an
influence....
The day is gone when the stupid outcry against Macpherson’s “Ossian,”
as no more than a gigantic fraud, finds a response among lovers of
literature. We all know, now, that Macpherson’s “Ossian” is not a
genuine translation of authentic _Dana Oisin mhic Fhionn_, but,
for all its great and enduring beauty, a clumsily-constructed,
self-contradictory, and sometimes grotesquely impossible rendering
of disconnected, fugitive, and for the most part, oral lore. Of the
genuineness of this legendary lore there is no longer any doubt in the
minds of those native and alien students, who alone are qualified to
pronounce a definite verdict on this long disputed point.... Ancient
poetry such as “The Song of Fionn” conveys little to the ordinary
reader, not only on account of its puzzling allusions to events and
persons of whom the Englishman is not likely to have heard, or from
the strangeness of its style, as because of the remoteness of the
underlying sentiment and mental standpoint. And of this there can be
no question: that the ancient poetry, the antique spirit, breathes
throughout this eighteenth-century restoration and gives it enduring
life, charm, and all the spell of cosmic imagination.
CATH-LODA
CATH-LODA
A Poem
DUAN[1] FIRST
ARGUMENT
Fingal, when very young, making a voyage to the Orkney Islands, was
driven, by stress of weather, into a bay of Scandinavia, near
the residence of Starno, King of Lochlin. Starno invites Fingal
to a feast. Fingal, doubting the faith of the king, and mindful
of a former breach of hospitality, refuses to go. Starno gathers
together his tribes; Fingal resolves to defend himself. Night
coming on, Duth-maruno proposes to Fingal to observe the motions
of the enemy.--The king himself undertakes the watch. Advancing
towards the enemy, he accidentally comes to the cave of Turthor,
where Starno had confined Corban-carglas, the captive daughter
of a neighbouring chief.--Her story is imperfect, a part of
the original being lost.--Fingal comes to a place of worship,
where Starno and his son, Swaran, consulted the spirit of Loda,
concerning the issue of the war.--The rencounter of Fingal and
Swaran.--_Duan_ first concludes with a description of the airy
hall of Cruth-loda, supposed to be the Odin of Scandinavia.
A tale of the times of old!
Why, thou wanderer unseen; thou bender of the thistle of Lora; why,
thou breeze of the valley, hast thou left mine ear? I hear no distant
roar of streams! No sound of the harp, from the rock! Come, thou
huntress of Lutha, Malvina, call back his soul to the bard. I look
forward to Lochlin of lakes, to the dark billowy bay of U-thorno, where
Fingal descends from Ocean, from the roar of winds. Few are the heroes
of Morven, in a land unknown!
Starno sent a dweller of Loda to bid Fingal to the feast; but the
king remembered the past, and all his rage arose. “Nor Gormal’s mossy
towers, nor Starno, shall Fingal behold. Deaths wander like shadows
over his fiery soul! Do I forget that beam of light, the white-handed
daughter[2] of kings? Go, son of Loda! His words are wind to Fingal:
wind, that, to and fro, drives the thistle, in autumn’s dusky vale.
Duth-maruno,[3] arm of death! Cromma-glas of iron shields! Struthmor,
dweller of battle’s wing! Cormar, whose ships bound on seas, careless
as the course of a meteor, on dark rolling clouds! Arise round me
children of heroes, in a land unknown! Let each look on his shield,
like Trenmor the ruler of wars.” “Come down,” thus Trenmor said, “thou
dweller between the harps! Thou shalt roll this stream away, or waste
with me in earth.”
Around the king they rise in wrath. No words come forth: they seize
their spears. Each soul is rolled into itself. At length the sudden
clang is waked, on all their echoing shields. Each takes his hill,
by night; at intervals, they darkly stand. Unequal bursts the hum of
songs, between the roaring wind.
Broad over them rose the moon!
In his arms, came tall Duth-maruno; he from Croma of rocks, stern
hunter of the boar. In his dark boat he rose on waves, when
Crumthormo[4] awaked its woods. In the chase he shone, among foes: No
fear was thine, Duth-maruno!
“Son of daring Comhal, shall my steps be forward through night? From
this shield shall I view them over their gleaming tribes? Starno, king
of lakes, is before me, and Swaran, the foe of strangers. Their words
are not in vain, by Loda’s stone of power.--Should Duth-maruno not
return, his spouse is lonely at home, where meet two roaring streams,
on Crathmo-craulo’s plain. Around are hills, with echoing woods, the
ocean is rolling near. My son looks on screaming sea-fowl, a young
wanderer on the field. Give the head of a boar to Can-dona,[5] tell him
of his father’s joy, when the bristly strength of I-thorno rolled on
his lifted spear. Tell him of my deeds in war! Tell where his father
fell!”
“Not forgetful of my fathers,” said Fingal, “I have bounded over the
seas. Theirs were the times of danger, in the days of old. Nor settles
darkness on me, before foes, though youthful in my locks. Chief of
Crathmo-craulo, the field of night is mine.”
Fingal rushed, in all his arms, wide-bounding over Turthor’s stream,
that sent its sullen roar, by night, through Gormal’s misty vale. A
moon-beam glittered on a rock; in the midst, stood a stately form; a
form with floating locks, like Lochlin’s white-bosomed maids. Unequal
are her steps, and short. She throws a broken song on wind. At times
she tosses her white arms: for grief is dwelling in her soul.
“Torcul-torno,[6] of aged locks!” she said, “where now are thy steps,
by Lulan? Thou hast failed, at thine own dark streams, father of
Corban-cârgla! But I behold thee, chief of Lulan, sporting by Loda’s
hall, when the dark-skirted night is rolled along the sky.--Thou,
sometimes, hidest the moon with thy shield. I have seen her dim, in
heaven. Thou kindlest thy hair into meteors, and sailest along the
night. Why am I forgot, in my cave, king of shaggy boars? Look from the
hall of Loda, on thy lonely daughter.”
“Who art thou,” said Fingal, “voice of night?”
She, trembling, turned away.
“Who art thou, in thy darkness?”
She shrunk into the cave.
The king loosed the thong from her hands. He asked about her fathers.
“Torcul-torno,” she said, “once dwelt at Lulan’s foamy stream: he
dwelt--but, now, in Loda’s hall, he shakes the sounding shell. He met
Starno of Lochlin, in war; long fought the dark-eyed kings. My father
fell, in his blood, blue-shielded Torcul-torno! By a rock, at Lulan’s
stream, I had pierc’d the bounding roe. My white hand gathered my hair,
from off the rushing winds. I heard a noise. Mine eyes were up. My
soft breast rose on high. My step was forward, at Lulan, to meet thee,
Torcul-torno! It was Starno, dreadful king! His red eyes rolled on me
in love. Dark waved his shaggy brow, above his gathered smile. Where
is my father, I said; he that was mighty in war? Thou art left alone
among foes, O daughter of Torcul-torno! He took my hand. He raised the
sail. In this cave he placed me dark. At times, he comes, a gathered
mist. He lifts, before me, my father’s shield. But often passes a
beam[7] of youth, far distant from my cave. The son of Starno moves in
my sight. He dwells lonely in my soul.”
“Maid of Lulan,” said Fingal, “white-handed daughter of grief! a cloud
marked with streaks of fire, is rolled along thy soul. Look not to
that dark-robed moon; look not to those meteors of heaven. My gleaming
steel is around thee, the terror of thy foes! It is not the steel of
the feeble, nor of the dark in soul! The maids are not shut in our[8]
caves of streams. They toss not their white arms alone. They bend, fair
within their locks, above the harps of Selma. Their voice is not in the
desert wild. We melt along the pleasing song!”
* * * * *
Fingal, again, advanced his steps, wide through the bosom of night, to
where the trees of Loda shook amid squally winds. Three stones, with
heads of moss, are there; a stream with foaming course; and dreadful,
rolled around them, is the dark-red cloud of Loda. High from its top
looked forward a ghost half formed of the shadowy smoke. He poured
his voice, at times, amidst the roaring stream. Near, bending beneath
a blasted tree, two heroes received his words: Swaran of lakes, and
Starno foe of strangers. On their dun shields they darkly leaned: their
spears are forward through night. Shrill sounds the blast of darkness,
in Starno’s floating beard.
They heard the tread of Fingal. The warriors rose in arms. “Swaran,
lay that wanderer low,” said Starno in his pride. “Take the shield of
thy father. It is a rock in war.”--Swaran threw his gleaming spear. It
stood fixed in Loda’s tree. Then came the foes forward, with swords.
They mixed their rattling steel. Through the thongs of Swaran’s shield
rushed the blade[9] of Luno. The shield fell rolling on earth. Cleft,
the helmet[10] fell down. Fingal stopped the lifted steel. Wrathful
stood Swaran, unarmed. He rolled his silent eyes; he threw his sword on
earth. Then slowly stalking over the stream, he whistled as he went.
Nor unseen of his father is Swaran. Starno turns away in wrath. His
shaggy brows wave dark, above his gathered rage. He strikes Loda’s tree
with his spear. He raises the hum of songs. They came to the host of
Lochlin, each in his own dark path; like two foam-covered streams, from
two rainy vales!
To Turthor’s plain Fingal returned. Fair rose the beam of the east. It
shone on the spoils of Lochlin in the hand of the king. From her cave
came forth in her beauty, the daughter of Torcul-torno. She gathered
her hair from wind. She wildly raised her song. The song of Lulan of
shells, where once her father dwelt. She saw Starno’s bloody shield.
Gladness rose, a light, on her face. She saw the cleft helmet of
Swaran.[11] She shrunk, darkened, from Fingal.... “Art thou fallen, by
thy hundred streams, O love of the mournful maid?”
U-thorno, that risest in waters! on whose side are the meteors of
night! I behold the dark moon descending, behind thy resounding woods.
On thy top dwells the misty Loda: the house of the spirits of men!
In the end of his cloudy hall, bends forward Cruth-loda of swords.
His form is dimly seen, amid his wavy mist. His right hand is on
his shield. In his left is the half-viewless shell. The roof of his
dreadful hall is marked with nightly fires.
The race of Cruth-loda advance, a ridge of formless shades. He reaches
the sounding shell, to those who shone in war. But, between him 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.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The bards distinguished those compositions, in which the narration
is often interrupted by episodes and apostrophes, by the name of
_Duan_. Since the extinction of the order of the bards, it has been a
general name for all ancient compositions in verse. The abrupt manner
in which the story of this poem begins may render it obscure to some
readers; it may not therefore be improper to give here the traditional
preface which is generally prefixed to it. Two years after he took
to wife Ros-crana, the daughter of Cormac, king of Ireland, Fingal
undertook an expedition into Orkney, to visit his friend Cathulla, king
of Inistore. After staying a few days at Carric-thura, the residence
of Cathulla, the king set sail, to return to Scotland; but, a violent
storm arising, his ships were driven into a bay of Scandinavia, near
Gormal, the seat of Starno, king of Lochlin, his avowed enemy. Starno,
upon the appearance of strangers on his coast, summoned together the
neighbouring tribes, and advanced, in a hostile manner, towards the bay
of U-thorno, where Fingal had taken shelter. Upon discovering who the
strangers were, and fearing the valour of Fingal, which he had, more
than once, experienced before, he resolved to accomplish by treachery
what he was afraid he should fail in by open force. He invited,
therefore, Fingal to a feast, at which he intended to assassinate him.
The king prudently declined to go, and Starno betook himself to arms.
The sequel of the story may be learned from the poem itself.
[2] Agandecca, the daughter of Starno, whom her father killed, on
account of her discovering to Fingal a plot laid against his life. Her
story is related at large in the third book of Fingal.
[3] Duth-maruno is a name very famous in tradition. Many of his great
actions are handed down; but the poems, which contained the detail
of them, are long since lost. He lived, it is supposed, in that part
of the north of Scotland which is over against Orkney. Duth-maruno,
Cromma-glas, Struthmor, and Cormar, are mentioned, as attending Comhal
in his last battle against the tribe of Morni, in a poem, which is
still preserved. It is not the work of Ossian; the phraseology betrays
it to be a modern composition. It is something like those trivial
compositions which the Irish bards forged, under the name of Ossian, in
the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Duth-maruno signifies, _black
and steady_; Cromma-glas, _bending and swarthy_; Struthmor, _roaring
stream_; Cormar, _expert at sea_.
[4] Crumthormo, one of the Orkney or Shetland Islands.
[5] Cean-daona, _head of the people_, the son of Duth-maruno. He became
afterwards famous, in the expeditions of Ossian, after the death of
Fingal. The traditional tales concerning him are very numerous, and,
from the epithet in them bestowed on him (_Candona of boars_), it would
appear that he applied himself to that kind of hunting, which his
father, in this paragraph, is so anxious to recommend to him.
[6] Torcul-torno, according to tradition, was king of Crathlun,
a district in Sweden. The river Lulan ran near the residence of
Torcul-torno. There is a river in Sweden, still called _Lula_,
which is probably the same with _Lulan_. The war between Starno and
Torcul-torno, which terminated in the death of the latter, had its
rise at a hunting party. Starno being invited, in a friendly manner,
by Torcul-torno, both kings, with their followers, went to the
mountains of Stivamore, to hunt. A boar rushed from the wood before
the kings, and Torcul-torno killed it. Starno thought this behaviour
a breach upon the privilege of guests, who were always _honoured_,
as tradition expresses it, _with the danger of the chase_. A quarrel
arose, the kings came to battle, with all their attendants, and the
party of Torcul-torno were totally defeated, and he himself slain.
Starno pursued his victory, laid waste the district of Crathlun,
and, coming to the residence of Torcul-torno, carried off, by force,
Corban-carglas, the beautiful daughter of his enemy. Her he confined
in a cave, near the palace of Gormal, where, on account of her cruel
treatment, she became distracted.
The paragraph just now before us is the song of Corban-carglas, at the
time she was discovered by Fingal. It is in lyric measure, and set
to music, which is wild and simple, and so inimitably suited to the
situation of the unhappy lady that few can hear it without tears.
[7] By _the beam of youth_, it afterwards appears, that Corban-carglas
means Swaran, the son of Starno, with whom, during her captivity, she
had fallen in love.
[8] From this contrast, which Fingal draws, between his own nation and
the inhabitants of Scandinavia, we may learn that the former were much
less barbarous than the latter. This distinction is so much observed
throughout the poems of Ossian, that there can be no doubt that he
followed the real manners of both nations in his own time. At the close
of the speech of Fingal, there is a great part of the original lost.
[9] The sword of Fingal, so called from its maker, Luno of Lochlin.
[10] The helmet of Swaran. The behaviour of Fingal is always consistent
with that generosity of spirit which belongs to a hero. He takes no
advantage of a foe disarmed.
[11] Corban-carglas, from seeing the helmet of Swaran bloody in the
hands of Fingal, conjectured that that hero was killed. A part of the
original is lost. It appears, however, from the sequel of the poem,
that the daughter of Torcul-torno did not long survive her surprise,
occasioned by the supposed death of her lover. The description of the
airy hall of Loda, which is supposed to be the same with that of Odin,
the deity of Scandinavia, is more picturesque and descriptive, than any
in the Edda, or other works of the northern Scalders.
DUAN SECOND
ARGUMENT
Fingal returning with day, devolves the command on Duth-maruno, who
engages the enemy, and drives them over the stream of Turthor.
Having recalled his people, he congratulates Duth-maruno on his
success, but discovers that that hero had been mortally wounded
in the action.--Duth-maruno dies. Ullin, the bard, in honour of
the dead, introduces the episode of Colgorm and Strina-dona,
which concludes this _duan_.
“Where art thou, son of the king?” said dark-haired Duth-maruno. “Where
hast thou failed, young beam of Selma? He returns not, from the bosom
of night! Morning is spread on U-thorno. 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 low-sailing
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
Colglan-crona. Their chiefs were before them. Each 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? their fathers were equal in war.” Trenmor
was there, with his people, stately in youthful locks. He saw the
advancing foe. The grief of his soul arose. He bade the chiefs to lead,
by turns: they led, but they were rolled away. From his own mossy hill,
blue-shielded Trenmor came down. He led wide-skirted battle, and the
strangers failed. Around him the dark-browed warriors came: they struck
the shield of joy. Like a pleasant gale, the words of power rushed
forth from Selma of kings. But the chiefs led, by turns, in war, till
mighty danger rose: then was the hour of the king to conquer in the
field.
“Not unknown,” said Cromma-glass[12] of shields, “are the deeds of our
fathers. But who shall now lead the war, before the race of kings? Mist
settles on these four dark hills: within it let each warrior strike his
shield. Spirits may descend in darkness, and mark us for the war.”
They went, each to his hill of mist. Bards marked the sounds of the
shields. Loudest rung thy boss, Duth-maruno. Thou must lead in war!
Like the murmur of waters, the race of U-thorno came down. Starno
led the battle, and Swaran of stormy isles. They looked forward from
iron shields, like Cruth-loda fiery-eyed when he looks from behind
the darkened moon, and strews his signs on night. The foes met by
Turthor’s stream. They heaved like ridgy waves. Their echoing strokes
are mixed. Shadowy death flies over the hosts. They were clouds of
hail, with squalling winds in their skirts. Their showers are roaring
together. Below them swells the dark-rolling deep.
Strife of gloomy U-thorno, why should I mark thy wounds? Thou art with
the years that are gone; thou fadest on my soul!
Starno brought forward his skirt of war, and Swaran his own dark wing.
Nor a harmless fire is Duth-maruno’s sword. Lochlin is rolled over her
streams. The wrathful kings are lost in thought. They roll their silent
eyes, over the flight of their land. The horn of Fingal was heard;
the sons of woody Albion returned. But many lay, by Turthor’s stream,
silent in their blood.
“Chief of Crathmo,” said the king, “Duth-maruno, hunter of boars!
not harmless returns my eagle from the field of foes! For this
white-bosomed Lanul shall brighten, at her streams; Candona shall
rejoice, as he wanders in Crathmo’s fields.”
“Colgorm,”[13] replied the chief, “was the first of my race in Albion;
Colgorm, the rider of ocean, through its watery vales. He slew his
brother in I-thorno:[14] he left the land of his fathers. He chose his
place, in silence, by rocky Crathmo-craulo. His race came forth, in
their years; they came forth to war, but they always fell. The wound of
my fathers is mine, king of echoing isles!”
“He drew an arrow from his side! He fell pale, in a land unknown.
His soul came forth to his fathers, to their stormy isle. There they
pursued boars of mist, along the skirts of winds. The chiefs stood
silent around, as the stones of Loda, on their hill. The traveller sees
them, through the twilight, from his lonely path. He thinks them the
ghosts of the aged, forming future wars.”
“Night came down, on U-thorno. Still stood the chiefs in their grief.
The blast whistled, by turns, through every warrior’s hair. Fingal, at
length, broke forth from the thoughts of his soul. He called Ullin, of
harps, and bade the song to rise. No falling fire that is only seen,
and then retires in night; no departing meteor was he that is laid so
low. He was like the strong-beaming sun, long rejoicing on his hill.
Call the names of his fathers, from their dwellings old!”
I-thorno,[15] said the bard, that risest midst ridgy seas! why is thy
head so gloomy, in the ocean’s mist? From thy vales came forth a race
fearless as thy strong-winged eagles: the race of Colgorm of iron
shields, dwellers of Loda’s hall.
In Tormoth’s resounding isle, arose Lurthan, streamy hill. It bent
its woody head over a silent vale. There, at foamy Cruruth’s source,
dwelt Rurmar, hunter of boars! His daughter was fair as a sun-beam,
white-bosomed Strina-dona.
Many a king of heroes, and hero of iron shields: many a youth of heavy
locks came to Rurmar’s echoing hall. They came to woo the maid, the
stately huntress of Tormoth wild. But thou lookest careless from thy
steps, high-bosomed Strina-dona!
If on the heath she moved, her breast was whiter than the down of
Cana,[16] if on the sea-beat shore, than the foam of the rolling ocean.
Her eyes were two stars of light. Her face was heaven’s bow in showers.
Her dark hair flowed round it, like the streaming clouds. Thou wert the
dweller of souls, white-handed Strina-dona!
Colgorm came, in his ship, and Corcul-suran, king of shells. The
brothers came, from I-thorno, to woo the sun-beam of Tormoth wild.
She saw them in their echoing steel. Her soul was fixed on blue-eyed
Colgorm. Ul-lochlin’s[17] nightly eye looked in, and saw the tossing
arms of Strina-dona.
Wrathful the brothers frowned. Their flaming eyes, in silence, met.
They turned away, they struck their shields. Their hands were trembling
on their swords. They rushed into the strife of heroes, for long-haired
Strina-dona.
Corcul-suran fell in blood. On his isle, raged the strength of his
father. He turned Colgorm, from I-thorno, to wander on all the winds.
In Crathmo-craulo’s rocky field, he dwelt by a foreign stream. Nor
darkened the king alone, that beam of light was near, the daughter of
echoing Tormoth, white-armed Strina-dona.[18]
FOOTNOTES:
[12] In tradition, this Cromma-glass makes a great figure in that
battle which Comhal lost, together with his life, to the tribe of
Morni. I have just now in my hands, an Irish composition, of very
modern date, as appears from the language, in which all the traditions,
concerning that decisive engagement, are jumbled together. It is worthy
of being remarked, that Comhal is, in this poem, very often called,
_Comhal na h’Albin_, or _Comhal of Albion_.
[13] The family of Duth-maruno, it appears, came originally from
Scandinavia, or, at least, from some of the northern isles, subject,
in chief, to the kings of Lochlin. The Highland senachies, who never
missed to make their comments on, and additions to, the works of
Ossian, have given us a long list of the ancestors of Duth-maruno,
and a particular account of their actions, many of which are of the
marvellous kind. One of the tale-makers of the north has chosen for
his hero, Starnmor, the father of Duth-maruno, and, considering
the adventures through which he has led him, the piece is neither
disagreeable nor abounding with that kind of fiction which shocks
credibility.
[14] An island of Scandinavia.
[15] This episode is, in the original, extremely beautiful. It is set
to that wild kind of music which some of the Highlanders distinguish
by the title of _Fón Oimarra_, or the _Song of Mermaids_. Some part
of the air is absolutely infernal, but there are many returns in the
measure which are inexpressibly wild and beautiful. From the genius
of the music, I should think it came originally from Scandinavia, for
the fictions delivered down concerning the _Oi-marra_--who are reputed
the authors of the music--exactly correspond with the notions of the
northern nations concerning their _diræ_, or _goddesses of death_.--Of
all the names in this episode, there is none of a Gaelic original,
except Strina-dona, which signifies the _strife of heroes_.
[16] The _Cana_, or _Canna_, is a certain kind of grass, which grows
plentifully in the heathy morasses of the north. Its stalk is of the
reedy kind, and it carries a tuft of down, very much resembling cotton.
It is excessively white, and, consequently, often introduced by the
bards in their similes concerning the beauty of women.
[17] Ul-lochlin, _the guide to Lochlin_; the name of a star.
[18] The continuation of this episode is just now in my hands; but the
language is so different from, and the ideas so unworthy of, Ossian,
that I have rejected it as an interpolation by a modern bard.
DUAN THIRD
ARGUMENT
Ossian, after some general reflections, describes the situation
of Fingal, and the position of the army of Lochlin.--The
conversation of Starno and Swaran.--The episode of Corman-trunar
and Foina-bragal.--Starno, from his own example, recommends
to Swaran, to surprise Fingal, who had retired alone to a
neighbouring hill. Upon Swaran’s refusal, Starno undertakes
the enterprise himself, is overcome and taken prisoner, by
Fingal.--He is dismissed, after a severe reprimand for his
cruelty.
Whence is the stream of years? Whither do they roll along? Where have
they hid, in mist, their many-coloured sides?
I look into the times of old, but they seem dim to Ossian’s eyes, like
reflected moon-beams, on a distant lake. Here rise the red beams of
war! There, silent, dwells a feeble race! They mark no years with their
deeds, as slow they pass along. Dweller between the shields! thou that
awakest the failing soul! descend from thy wall, harp of Cona, with thy
voices three! Come with that which kindles the past: rear the forms of
old, on their own dark-brown years!
U-thorno, hill of storms, I behold my race on thy side. Fingal is
bending, in night, over Duth-maruno’s tomb. Near him are the steps
of his heroes, hunters of the boar. By Turthor’s stream the host of
Lochlin is deep in shades. The wrathful kings stood on two hills; they
looked forward from their bossy shields. They looked forward to the
stars of night, red-wandering in the west. Cruth-loda bends from high,
like a formless meteor in clouds. He sends abroad the winds, and marks
them with his signs. Starno foresaw, that Morven’s king was not to
yield in war.
He twice struck the tree in wrath. He rushed before his son. He hummed
a surly song; and heard his hair in wind. Turned[19] from one another,
they stood, like two oaks, which different winds had bent; each hangs
over its own loud rill, and shakes its boughs in the course of blasts.
“Annir,” said Starno of lakes, “was a fire that consumed of old. He
poured death from his eyes, along the striving fields. His joy was in
the fall of men. Blood to him was a summer stream, that brings joy to
the withered vales, from its own mossy rock. He came forth to the lake
Luth-cormo, to meet the tall Corman-trunar, he from Urlor of streams,
dweller of battle’s wing.”
The chief of Urlor had come to Gormal, with his dark-bosomed ships. He
saw the daughter of Annir, white-armed Foina-bragal. He saw her! Nor
careless rolled her eyes, on the rider of stormy waves. She fled to his
ship in darkness, like a moon-beam thro’ a nightly vale. Annir pursued
along the deep; he called the winds of heaven. Nor alone was the king;
Starno was by his side. Like U-thorno’s young eagle, I turned my eyes
on my father.
We rushed into roaring Urlor. With his people came tall Corman-trunar.
We fought; but the foe prevailed. In his wrath my father stood. He
lopped the young trees, with his sword. His eyes rolled red in his
rage. I marked the soul of the king, and I retired in night. From the
field I took a broken helmet: a shield that was pierced with steel:
pointless was the spear in my hand. I went to find the foe.
On a rock sat tall Corman-trunar, beside his burning oak; and near him,
beneath a tree, sat deep-bosomed Foina-bragal. I threw my broken shield
before her. I spoke the words of peace. “Beside his rolling sea, lies
Annir of many lakes. The king was pierced in battle; and Starno is to
raise his tomb. Me, a son of Loda, he sends to white-handed Foina, to
bid her send a lock from her hair, to rest with her father, in earth.
And thou, king of roaring Urlor, let the battle cease, till Annir
receive the shell from fiery-eyed Cruth-loda.”
Bursting into tears, she rose, and tore a lock from her hair; a lock,
which wandered, in the blast, along her heaving breast. Corman-trunar
gave the shell; and bade me to rejoice before him. I rested in the
shade of night; and hid my face in my helmet deep. Sleep descended
on the foe. I rose, like a stalking ghost. I pierced the side of
Corman-trunar. Nor did Foina-bragal escape. She rolled her white bosom
in blood.
Why then, daughter of heroes, didst thou wake my rage?
Morning rose. The foe were fled, like the departure of mist. Annir
struck his bossy shield. He called his dark-haired son. I came,
streaked with wandering blood: thrice rose the shout of the king, like
the bursting forth of a squall of wind, from a cloud, by night. We
rejoiced, three days, above the dead, and called the hawks of heaven.
They came, from all their winds, to feast on Annir’s foes. Swaran!
Fingal is alone,[20] on his hill of night. Let thy spear pierce the
king in secret; like Annir my soul shall rejoice.
“Son of Annir,” said Swaran, “I shall not slay in shades. I move forth
in light: the hawks rush from all their winds. They are wont to trace
my course: it is not harmless thro’ war.”
Burning rose the rage of the king. He thrice raised his gleaming
spear. But, starting, he spared his son; and rushed into the night. By
Turthor’s stream a cave is dark, the dwelling of Corban-cârgla. There
he laid the helmet of kings, and called the maid of Lulan; but she was
distant far, in Loda’s resounding hall.
Swelling in his rage, he strode, to where Fingal lay alone. The king
was laid on his shield, on his own secret hill.
Stern hunter of shaggy boars! no feeble maid is laid before thee. No
boy, on his ferny bed, by Turthor’s murmuring stream. Here is spread
the couch of the mighty, from which they rise to deeds of death. Hunter
of shaggy boars, awaken not the terrible!
Starno came murmuring on. Fingal arose in arms. “Who art thou, son of
night?” Silent he threw the spear. They mixed their gloomy strife. The
shield of Starno fell, cleft in twain. He is bound to an oak. The early
beam arose. It was then Fingal beheld the king. He rolled awhile his
silent eyes. He thought of other days, when white-bosomed Agandecca
moved like the music of songs. He loosed the thong from his hands. Son
of Annir, he said, retire. Retire to Gormal of shells; a beam that
was set returns. I remember thy white-bosomed daughter; dreadful king,
away! Go to thy troubled dwelling, cloudy foe of the lovely! Let the
stranger shun thee, thou gloomy in the hall!
A tale of the times of old!
FOOTNOTES:
[19] The surly attitude of Starno and Swaran is well adapted to their
fierce and uncomplying dispositions. Their characters at first sight,
seem little different; but, upon examination, we find that the poet
has dexterously distinguished between them. They were both dark,
stubborn, haughty, and reserved; but Starno was cunning, revengeful,
and cruel, to the highest degree; the disposition of Swaran, though
savage, was less bloody, and somewhat tinctured with generosity. It is
doing injustice to Ossian to say that he has not a great variety of
characters.
[20] Fingal, according to the custom of the Caledonian kings, had
retired to a hill alone, as he himself was to resume the command of the
army the next day. Starno might have some intelligence of the king’s
retiring, which occasions his request to Swaran, to stab him; as he
foresaw, by his art of divination, that he could not overcome him in
open battle.
COMALA
COMALA
A Dramatic Poem
_THE PERSONS_
FINGAL
HIDALLAN
COMALA
MELILCOMA } Daughters of Morni
DERSAGRENA }
BARDS
ARGUMENT
This poem is valuable on account of the light it throws on the
antiquity of Ossian’s compositions. The Caracul mentioned here
is the same with Caracalla the Son of Severus, who in the year
211 commanded an expedition against the Caledonians. The variety
of the measure shows that the poem was originally set to music,
and perhaps presented before the chiefs upon solemn occasions.
Tradition has handed down the story more complete than it is in
the poem. “Comala, the daughter of Sarno, king of Inistore or
Orkney islands, fell in love with Fingal the son of Comhal at a
feast, to which her father had invited him [_Fingal_, b. iii.]
upon his return from Lochlin, after the death of Agandecca. Her
passion was so violent, that she followed him, disguised like
a youth who wanted to be employed in his wars. She was soon
discovered by Hidallan the son of Lamor, one of Fingal’s heroes,
whose love she had slighted some time before. Her romantic
passion and beauty recommended her so much to the king, that he
had resolved to make her his wife[21]; when news was brought him
of Caracul’s expedition. He marched to stop the progress of the
enemy, and Comala attended him. He left her on a hill, within
sight of Caracul’s army, when he himself went to battle, having
previously promised, if he survived, to return that night.” The
sequel of the story may be gathered from the poem itself.
DERSAGRENA.
The chase is over. No noise on Ardven but the torrent’s roar! Daughter
of Morni, come from Crona’s banks. Lay down the bow and take the harp.
Let the night come on with songs, let our joy be great on Ardven.
MELILCOMA.[22]
Night comes apace, thou blue-eyed maid! grey night grows dim along
the plain. I saw a deer at Crona’s stream; a mossy bank he seemed
through the gloom, but soon he bounded away. A meteor played round his
branching horns! the awful faces of other times looked from the clouds
of Crona!
DERSAGRENA.[23]
These are the signs of Fingal’s death. The king of shields is fallen!
and Caracul prevails. Rise, Comala,[24] from thy rock; daughter of
Sarno, rise in tears! The youth of thy love is low; his ghost is on our
hills.
MELILCOMA.
There Comala sits forlorn! two grey dogs near shake their rough ears,
and catch the flying breeze. Her red cheek rests upon her arm, the
mountain wind is in her hair. She turns her blue eyes toward the fields
of his promise. Where art thou, O Fingal? the night is gathering around!
COMALA.
O Carun[25] of the streams! why do I behold thy waters rolling in
blood? Has the noise of the battle been heard; and sleeps the king of
Morven? Rise, moon, thou daughter of the sky! look from between thy
clouds, rise that I may behold the gleam of his steel, on the field of
his promise. Or rather let the meteor, that lights our fathers through
the night, come, with its red beam, to show me the way to my fallen
hero. Who will defend me from sorrow? Who from the love of Hidallan?
Long shall Comala look before she can behold Fingal in the midst of his
host; bright as the coming forth of the morning, in the cloud of an
early shower.
HIDALLAN.[26]
Dwell, thou mist of gloomy Crona, dwell on the path of the king! Hide
his steps from mine eyes, let me remember my friend no more. The bands
of battle are scattered, no crowding tread is round the noise of his
steel. O Carun! roll thy streams of blood, the chief of the people is
low.
COMALA.
Who fell on Carun’s sounding banks, son of the cloudy night? Was he
white as the snow of Ardven? Blooming as the bow of the shower? Was his
hair like the mist of the hill, soft and curling in the day of the sun?
Was he like the thunder of heaven in battle? Fleet as the roe of the
desert?
HIDALLAN.
O that I might behold his love, fair-leaning from her rock! Her red eye
dim in tears, her blushing cheek half hid in her locks! Blow, O gentle
breeze! lift thou the heavy locks of the maid, that I may behold her
white arm, her lovely cheek in her grief.
COMALA.
And is the son of Comhal fallen, chief of the mournful tale? The
thunder rolls on the hill! The lightning flies on wings of fire! They
frighten not Comala; for Fingal is low. Say, chief of the mournful
tale, fell the breaker of the shields?
HIDALLAN.
The nations are scattered on their hills; they shall hear the voice of
the king no more.
COMALA.
Confusion pursue thee over thy plains! Ruin overtake thee, thou king of
the world![27] Few be thy steps to thy grave; and let one virgin mourn
thee! Let her be like Comala, tearful in the days of her youth! Why
hast thou told me, Hidallan, that my hero fell? I might have hoped a
little while his return; I might have thought I saw him on the distant
rock; a tree might have deceived me with his appearance; the wind of
the hill might have been the sound of his horn in mine ear. O that I
were on the banks of Carun! that my tears might be warm on his cheek!
HIDALLAN.
He lies not on the banks of Carun: on Ardven heroes raise his tomb.
Look on them, O moon! from thy clouds; be thy beam bright on his
breast, that Comala may behold him in the light of his armour!
COMALA.
Stop, ye sons of the grave, till I behold my love! He left me at the
chase alone. I knew not that he went to war. He said he would return
with the night; the king of Morven is returned! Why didst thou not tell
me that he would fall, O trembling dweller of the rock![28] Thou sawest
him in the blood of his youth; but thou didst not tell Comala!
MELILCOMA.
What sound is that on Ardven? Who is that bright in the vale? Who comes
like the strength of rivers, when their crowded waters glitter to the
moon?
COMALA.
Who is it but the foe of Comala, the son of the king of the world?[29]
Ghost of Fingal! do thou, from thy cloud, direct Comala’s bow. Let him
fall like the hart of the desert. It is Fingal in the crowd of his
ghosts. Why dost thou come, my love, to frighten and please my soul?
FINGAL.
Raise, ye bards, the song; raise the wars of the streamy Carun! Caracul
has fled from our arms along the fields of his pride. He sets far
distant like a meteor, that incloses a spirit of night, when the winds
drive it over the heath, and the dark woods are gleaming around. I
heard a voice, or was it the breeze of my hills? Is it the huntress of
Ardven, the white-handed daughter of Sarno? Look from thy rocks, my
love; let me hear the voice of Comala!
COMALA.
Take me to the cave of thy rest, O lovely son of death!
FINGAL.
Come to the cave of my rest. The storm is past, the sun is on our
fields. Come to the cave of my rest, huntress of echoing Ardven!
COMALA.
He is returned with his fame! I feel the right hand of his wars! But I
must rest beside the rock till my soul returns from my fear! O let the
harp be near! raise the song, ye daughters of Morni!
DERSAGRENA.
Comala has slain three deer on Ardven, the fire ascends on the rock; go
to the feast of Comala, king of the woody Morven!
FINGAL.
Raise, ye sons of song, the wars of the streamy Carun; that my
white-handed maid may rejoice: while I behold the feast of my love.
BARDS.
Roll, streamy Carun, roll in joy, the sons of battle fled! The steed is
not seen on our fields; the wings[30] of their pride spread in other
lands. The sun will now rise in peace, and the shadows descend in joy.
The voice of the chase will be heard: the shields hang in the hall.
Our delight will be in the war of the ocean, our hands shall grow red
in the blood of Lochlin. Roll, streamy Carun, roll in joy, the sons of
battle fled!
MELILCOMA.
Descend, ye light mists from high! Ye moon-beams, lift her soul! Pale
lies the maid at the rock! Comala is no more!
FINGAL.
Is the daughter of Sarno dead, the white-bosomed maid of my love? Meet
me, Comala, on my heaths, when I sit alone at the streams of my hills!
HIDALLAN.
Ceased the voice of the huntress of Ardven? Why did I trouble the soul
of the maid? When shall I see thee, with joy, in the chase of the
dark-brown hinds?
FINGAL.
Youth of the gloomy brow! no more shalt thou feast in my halls. Thou
shalt not pursue my chase, my foes shall not fall by thy sword.[31]
Lead me to the place of her rest that I may behold her beauty. Pale she
lies at the rock, the cold winds lift her hair. Her bow-string sounds
in the blast, her arrow was broken in her fall. Raise the praise of the
daughter of Sarno! give her name to the winds of heaven!
BARDS.
See! meteors gleam around the maid! See! moon-beams lift her soul!
Around her, from their clouds, bend the awful faces of her fathers;
Sarno[32] of the gloomy brow; the red rolling eyes of Fidallan! When
shall thy white hand arise? When shall thy voice be heard on our rocks?
The maids shall seek thee on the heath, but they shall not find thee.
Thou shalt come, at times, to their dreams, to settle peace in their
soul. Thy voice shall remain in their ears, they shall think with
joy on the dreams of their rest. Meteors gleam around the maid, and
moon-beams lift her soul!
FOOTNOTES:
[21] Is not this the original of Sir Walter Scott’s Edith, in “The Lord
of the Isles”? _C._
[22] Melilcoma, _soft-rolling eye_.
[23] Dersagrena, _the brightness of a sun-beam_.
[24] Comala, _the maid of the pleasant brow_.
[25] Carun or Cara’on, _a winding river_.--This river retains still the
name of Carron, and falls into the Forth some miles to the north of
Falkirk.
[26] Hidallan was sent by Fingal to give notice to Comala of his
return; he, to revenge himself on her for slighting his love some time
before, told her that the king was killed in battle. He even pretended
that he carried his body from the field to be buried in her presence;
and this circumstance makes it probable that the poem was presented of
old.
[27] Caracalla.
[28] By _the dweller of the rock_ she means a druid. It is probable
that some of the order of the druids remained as late as the beginning
of the reign of Fingal; and that Comala had consulted one of them
concerning the event of the war with Caracul.
[29] Caracalla, the son of Severus.
[30] Perhaps the poet alludes to the Roman eagle.
[31] The sequel of the story of Hidallan is introduced in another poem.
[32] Sarno the father of Comala died soon after the flight of his
daughter. Fidallan was the first king that reigned in Inistore.
FINGAL
FINGAL
An Epic Poem
BOOK I
ARGUMENT
Cuthullin (general of the Irish tribes, in the minority of Cormac,
king of Ireland) sitting alone beneath a tree, at the gate of
Tura, a castle of Ulster, Carrickfergus (the other chiefs having
gone on a hunting party to Cromla, a neighbouring hill), is
informed of the landing of Swaran, king of Lochlin, by Moran,
the son of Fithil, one of his scouts. He convenes the chief; a
council is held, and disputes run high about giving battle to
the enemy. Connal, the petty king of Togorma, and an intimate
friend of Cuthullin, was for retreating till Fingal, king of
those Caledonians who inhabited the north-west coast of Scotland,
whose aid had been previously solicited, should arrive; but
Calmar, the son of Matha, lord of Lara, a country in Connaught,
was for engaging the enemy immediately. Cuthullin, of himself
willing to fight, went into the opinion of Calmar. Marching
towards the enemy, he missed three of his bravest heroes, Fergus,
Duchômar, and Câthba. Fergus arriving, tells Cuthullin of the
death of the two other chiefs; which introduces the affecting
episode of Morna, the daughter of Cormac. The army of Cuthullin
is descried at a distance by Swaran, who sent the son of Arno to
observe the motions of the enemy, while he himself ranged his
forces in order of battle. The son of Arno, returning to Swaran,
describes to him Cuthullin’s chariot, and the terrible appearance
of that hero. The armies engage, but night coming on, leaves the
victory undecided. Cuthullin, according to the hospitality of the
times, sends to Swaran a formal invitation to a feast, by his
bard Carril, the son of Kinfena. Swaran refuses to come. Carril
relates to Cuthullin the story of Grudar and Brassolis. A party,
by Connal’s advice, is sent to observe the enemy; which closes
the action of the first day. _M._ and _C._
Cuthullin[33] sat by Tura’s wall: by the tree of the rustling sound.
His spear leaned against a rock. His shield lay on grass, by his side.
Amid his thoughts of mighty Carbar,[35] a hero slain by the chief in
war; the scout[36] of ocean comes, Moran[37] the son of Fithil!
“Arise,” says the youth, “Cuthullin, arise. I see the ships of the
north! Many, chief of men, are the foe. Many the heroes of the sea-born
Swaran!” “Moran!” replied the blue-eyed chief, “thou ever tremblest,
son of Fithil! Thy fears have increased the foe. It is Fingal, king[38]
of deserts, with aid to green Erin of streams.” “I beheld their chief,”
says Moran, “tall as a glittering rock. His spear is a blasted pine.
His shield the rising moon! He sat on the shore! like a cloud of mist
on the silent hill! Many, chief of heroes! I said, many are our hands
of war. Well art thou named, the Mighty Man: but many mighty men are
seen from Tura’s windy walls.”
“He spoke, like a wave on a rock, who in this land appears like me?
Heroes stand not in my presence: they fall to earth from my hand. Who
can meet Swaran in fight? Who but Fingal, king of Selma of storms? Once
we wrestled on Malmor;[39] our heels overturned the woods. Rocks fell
from their place; rivulets, changing their course, fled murmuring from
our side. Three days we renewed the strife; heroes stood at a distance,
and trembled. On the fourth, Fingal says, that the king of the ocean
fell! but Swaran says, he stood! Let dark Cuthullin yield to him, that
is strong as the storms of this land!”
“No!” replied the blue-eyed chief, “I never yield to mortal man! Dark
Cuthullin shall be great or dead! Go, son of Fithil, take my spear.
Strike the sounding shield of Semo.[40] It hangs at Tura’s rustling
gate. The sound of peace is not its voice! My heroes shall hear and
obey.” He went. He struck the bossy shield. The hills, the rocks reply.
The sound spreads along the wood: deer start by the lake of roes.
Curach[41] leaps from the sounding rock; and Connal of the bloody
spear! Crugal’s[42] breast of snow beats high. The son of Favi leaves
the dark-brown hind. It is the shield of war, said Ronnor! the spear
of Cuthullin, said Lugar! son of the sea put on thy arms! Calmar, lift
thy sounding steel! Puno! dreadful hero, arise! Cairbar, from thy red
tree of Cromla! Bend thy knee, O Eth! descend from the streams of Lena.
Ca-olt, stretch thy side as thou movest along the whistling heath of
Mora: thy side that is white as the foam of the troubled sea, when the
dark winds pour it on rocky Cuthon.[43]
Now I behold the chiefs in the pride of their former deeds! Their souls
are kindled at the battles of old; at the actions of other times.
Their eyes are flames of fire. They roll in search of the foes of the
land. Their mighty hands are on their swords. Lightning pours from
their sides of steel. They come like streams from the mountains; each
rushes roaring from his hill. Bright are the chiefs of battle, in the
armour of their fathers. Gloomy and dark their heroes follow, like the
gathering of the rainy clouds behind the red meteors of heaven. The
sounds of crashing arms ascend. The grey dogs howl between. Unequal
bursts the song of battle. Rocky Cromla[44] echoes round. On Lena’s
dusky heath they stand, like mist that shades the hills of autumn: when
broken and dark it settles high, and lifts its head to heaven!
“Hail,” said Cuthullin, “sons of the narrow vales! hail, hunters of
the deer! Another sport is drawing near: It is like the dark rolling
of that wave on the coast! Or shall we fight, ye sons of war! or yield
green Erin to Lochlin! O Connal,[45] speak, thou first of men! thou
breaker of the shields! thou hast often fought with Lochlin: wilt thou
lift thy father’s spear?”
“Cuthullin!” calm the chief replied, “the spear of Connal is keen. It
delights to shine in battle; to mix with the blood of thousands. But
though my hand is bent on fight, my heart is for the peace of Erin.[46]
Behold, thou first in Cormac’s war, the sable fleet of Swaran. His
masts are many on our coast, like reeds in the Lake of Lego.[47] His
ships are forests clothed with mist, when the trees yield by turns
to the squally wind. Many are his chiefs in battle. Connal is for
peace! Fingal would shun his arm, the first of mortal men! Fingal,
who scatters the mighty, as stormy winds the heath; when streams roar
through echoing Cona: and night settles with all her clouds on the hill!
“Fly, thou man of peace,” said Calmar.[48] “Fly,” said the son
of Matha; “go, Connal, to thy silent hills, where the spear never
brightens in war! Pursue the dark-brown deer of Cromla: stop with thine
arrows the bounding roes of Lena.[49] But, blue-eyed son of Semo,
Cuthullin, ruler of the field, scatter thou the sons of Lochlin![50]
roar through the ranks of their pride. Let no vessel of the kingdom of
Snow bound on the dark-rolling waves of Inistore.[51] Rise, ye dark
winds of Erin, rise! roar, whirlwind of Lara of hinds! Amid the tempest
let me die, torn, in a cloud, by angry ghosts of men; amid the tempest
let Calmar die, if ever chase was sport to him, so much as the battle
of shields!”
“Calmar!” Connal slow replied, “I never fled, young son of Matha! I was
swift with my friends in fight; but small is the fame of Connal! The
battle was won in my presence; the valiant overcame! But, son of Semo,
hear my voice, regard the ancient throne of Cormac. Give wealth and
half the land for peace, till Fingal shall arrive on our coast. Or, if
war be thy choice, I lift the sword and spear. My joy shall be in the
midst of thousands; my sword shall lighten through the gloom of the
fight!”
“To me,” Cuthullin replies, “pleasant is the noise of arms! pleasant as
the thunder of heaven, before the shower of spring! But gather all the
shining tribes, that I may view the sons of war. Let them pass along
the heath, bright as the sunshine before a storm; when the west wind
collects the clouds, and Morven echoes over all her oaks! But where are
my friends in battle? The supporters of my arm in danger? Where art
thou, white-bosomed Câthba? Where is that cloud in war, Duchômar?[52]
Hast thou left me, O Fergus![53] in the day of the storm? Fergus,
first in our joy at the feast! son of Rossa! arm of death! comest thou
like a roe from Malmor? Like a hart from thy echoing hills? Hail, thou
son of Rossa! what shades the soul of war?”
“Four stones,”[54] replied the chief, “rise on the grave of Câthba.
These hands have laid in earth Duchômar, that cloud in war! Câthba, son
of Torman! thou wert a sun-beam in Erin. And thou, O valiant Duchômar!
a mist of the marshy Lano;[55] when it moves on the plains of autumn,
bearing the death of thousands along. Morna! fairest of maids! calm is
thy sleep in the cave of the rock! Thou hast fallen in darkness, like a
star, that shoots across the desert; when the traveller is alone, and
mourns the transient beam!”
“Say,” said Semo’s blue-eyed son, “say how fell the chiefs of Erin?
Fell they by the sons of Lochlin, striving in the battle of heroes? Or
what confines the strong in arms to the dark and narrow house?”
“Câthba,” replied the hero, “fell by the sword of Duchômar at the
oak of the noisy streams. Duchômar came to Tura’s cave; he spoke to
the lovely Morna. Morna,[56] fairest among women, lovely daughter of
strong-armed Cormac! Why in the circle of stones? in the cave of the
rock alone? The stream murmurs along. The old tree groans in the wind.
The lake is troubled before thee; dark are the clouds of the sky! But
thou art snow on the heath; thy hair is the mist of Cromla; when it
curls on the hill; when it shines to the beam of the west! Thy breasts
are two smooth rocks seen from Branno of streams. Thy arms, like two
white pillars in the halls of the great Fingal.”[57]
“From whence,” the fair-haired maid replied, “from whence, Duchômar,
most gloomy of men? Dark are thy brows and terrible! Red are thy
rolling eyes! Does Swaran appear on the sea? What of the foe,
Duchômar?” “From the hill I return, O Morna, from the hill of the
dark-brown hinds. Three have I slain with my bended yew. Three with
my long-bounding dogs of the chase. Lovely daughter of Cormac, I love
thee as my soul! I have slain one stately deer for thee. High was his
branchy head; and fleet his feet of wind.” “Duchômar!” calm the maid
replied, “I love thee not, thou gloomy man! hard is thy heart of rock;
dark is thy terrible brow. But Câthba, young son of Torman,[58] thou
art the love of Morna. Thou art a sun-beam, in the day of the gloomy
storm. Sawest thou the son of Torman, lovely on the hill of his hinds?
Here the daughter of Cormac waits the coming of Câthba!”
“Long shall Morna wait,” Duchômar said, “long shall Morna wait for
Câthba! Behold this sword unsheathed! Here wanders the blood of Câthba.
Long shall Morna wait. He fell by the stream of Branno! On Croma I will
raise his tomb, daughter of blue-shielded Cormac! Turn on Duchômar
thine eyes; his arm is strong as a storm.” “Is the son of Torman
fallen?” said the wildly-bursting voice of the maid. “Is he fallen on
his echoing hills, the youth with the breast of snow? The first in the
chase of hinds? The foe of the strangers of ocean? Thou art dark[59] to
me, Duchômar, cruel is thine arm to Morna! Give me that sword, my foe!
I love the wandering blood of Câthba!”
He gave the sword to her tears. She pierced his manly breast! He fell,
like the bank of a mountain-stream, and stretching forth his hand,
he spoke: “Daughter of blue-shielded Cormac! Thou hast slain me in
youth! The sword is cold in my breast: Morna, I feel it cold. Give me
to Moina[60] the maid. Duchômar was the dream of her night! She will
raise my tomb; the hunter shall raise my fame. But draw the sword from
my breast. Morna, the steel is cold!” She came, in all her tears she
came; she drew the sword from his breast. He pierced her white side! He
spread her fair locks on the ground! Her bursting blood sounds from her
side: her white arm is stained with red. Rolling in death she lay. The
cave re-echoed to her sighs.
“Peace,” said Cuthullin, “to the souls of the heroes! their deeds were
great in fight. Let them ride around[61] me on clouds. Let them shew
their features of war. My soul shall then be firm in danger; mine arm
like the thunder of heaven! But be thou on a moon-beam, O Morna! near
the window of my rest; when my thoughts are of peace; when the din of
arms is past. Gather the strength of the tribes! Move to the wars of
Erin! Attend the car of my battles! Rejoice in the noise of my course!
Place three spears by my side: follow the bounding of my steeds! That
my soul may be strong in my friends, when battle darkens round the
beams of my steel!”
As rushes a stream of foam from the dark shady deep of Cromla; when
the thunder is travelling above, and dark-brown night sits on half the
hill. Through the breaches of the tempest look forth the dim faces of
ghosts. So fierce, so vast, so terrible rushed on the sons of Erin.
The chief, like a whale of ocean, whom all his billows pursue, poured
valour forth as a stream, rolling his might along the shore. The sons
of Lochlin heard the noise, as the sound of a winter-storm. Swaran
struck his bossy shield: he called the son of Arno. “What murmur rolls
along the hill, like the gathered flies of the eve? The sons of Erin
descend, or rustling winds roar in the distant wood! Such is the noise
of Gormal, before the white tops of my waves arise. O Son of Arno,
ascend the hill; view the dark face of the heath!”
He went. He, trembling, swift returned. His eyes rolled wildly round.
His heart beat high against his side. His words were faltering, broken,
slow. “Arise, son of ocean, arise, chief of the dark-brown shields! I
see the dark, the mountain-stream of battle! The deep-moving strength
of the sons of Erin! The car, the car of war comes on, like the flame
of death! the rapid car of Cuthullin, the noble son of Semo! It bends
behind like a wave near a rock; like the sun-streaked mist of the
heath. Its sides are embossed with stones, and sparkle like the sea
round the boat of night. Of polished yew is its beam; its seat of the
smoothest bone. The sides are replenished with spears; the bottom is
the footstool of heroes! Before the right side of the car is seen the
snorting horse! the high-maned, broad-breasted, proud, wide-leaping,
strong steed of the hill. Loud and resounding is his hoof; the
spreading of his mane above is like a stream of spray on a ridge of
rocks. Bright are the sides of the steed! His name is Sulin-Sifadda!”
“Before the left side of the car is seen the snorting horse! The
thin-maned, high-headed, strong-hoofed, fleet, bounding son of the
hill: his name is Dufronnal, among the stormy sons of the sword! A
thousand thongs bind the car on high. Hard polished bits shine in a
wreath of foam. Thin thongs, bright studded with gems, bend on the
stately necks of the steeds. The steeds that like wreaths of mist fly
over the streamy vales! The wildness of deer is in their course, the
strength of eagles descending on their prey. Their noise is like the
blast of winter, on the sides of the snow-headed Gormal.
“Within the car is seen the chief; the strong-armed son of the sword.
The hero’s name is Cuthullin, son of Semo, king of shells. His red
cheek is like my polished yew. The look of his blue-rolling eye is wide
beneath the dark arch of his brow. His hair flies from his head like a
flame, as bending forward he wields the spear. Fly, king of ocean, fly!
He comes, like a storm, along the streamy vale!”
“When did I fly?” replied the king. “When fled Swaran from the battle
of spears? When did I shrink from danger, chief of the little soul? I
met the storm of Gormal, when the foam of my waves beat high. I met the
storm of the clouds; shall Swaran fly from a hero? Were Fingal himself
before me, my soul should not darken with fear. Arise to battle, my
thousands! pour round me like the echoing main. Gather round the bright
steel of your king; strong as the rocks of my land; that meet the storm
with joy, and stretch their dark pines to the wind!”
Like autumn’s dark storms, pouring from two echoing hills, towards each
other approached the heroes. Like two deep streams from high rocks
meeting, mixing, roaring on the plain; loud, rough and dark in battle
meet Lochlin and Innis-fail. Chief mixes his strokes with chief, and
man with man; steel, clanging, sounds on steel. Helmets are cleft on
high. Blood bursts and smokes around. Strings murmur on the polished
yews. Darts rush along the sky. Spears fall like the circles of light,
which gild the face of night. As the noise of the troubled ocean, when
roll the waves on high. As the last peal of thunder in heaven, such
is the din of war! Though Cormac’s hundred bards were there to give
the fight to song; feeble was the voice of a hundred bards to send the
deaths to future times! For many were the deaths of heroes; wide poured
the blood of the brave!
Mourn, ye sons of song, mourn the death of the noble Sithâllin.[62] Let
the sighs of Fiona arise, on the lone plains of her lovely Ardan. They
fell, like two hinds of the desert, by the hands of the mighty Swaran;
when, in the midst of thousands, he roared; like the shrill spirit of
a storm. He sits dim, on the clouds of the north, and enjoys the death
of the mariner. Nor slept thy hand by thy side, chief of the isle of
mist![63] many were the deaths of thine arm, Cuthullin, thou son of
Semo! His sword was like the beam of heaven when it pierces the sons
of the vale; when the people are blasted and fall, and all the hills
are burning around. Dufronnal[64] snorted over the bodies of heroes.
Sifadda[65] bathed his hoof in blood. The battle lay behind them, as
groves overturned in the desert of Cromla, when the blast has passed
the heath, laden with the spirits of night!
Weep on the rocks of roaring winds, O maid of Inistore![66] Bend thy
fair head over the waves, thou lovelier than the ghost of the hills,
when it moves, in a sun-beam at noon, over the silence of Morven! He
is fallen! thy youth is low! pale beneath the sword of Cuthullin! No
more shall valour raise thy love to match the blood of kings. Trenar,
graceful Trenar died, O maid of Inistore! His grey dogs are howling at
home! they see his passing ghost. His bow is in the hall unstrung. No
sound is in the hill of his hinds!
As roll a thousand waves to the rocks, so Swaran’s host came on. As
meets a rock a thousand waves, so Erin met Swaran of spears. Death
raises all his voices around, and mixes with the sounds of shields.
Each hero is a pillar of darkness; the sword a beam of fire in his
hand. The field echoes from wing to wing, as a hundred hammers that
rise, by turns, on the red son of the furnace. Who are these on Lena’s
heath, these so gloomy and dark? Who are these like two clouds, and
their swords like lightning above them? The little hills are troubled
around: the rocks tremble with all their moss. Who is it but Ocean’s
son and the car-borne chief of Erin? Many are the anxious eyes of their
friends, as they see them dim on the heath. But night conceals the
chiefs in clouds, and ends the dreadful fight!
It was on Cromla’s shaggy side that Dorglas had placed the deer;[67]
the early fortune of the chase, before the heroes left the hill.
A hundred youths collect the heath; ten warriors wake the fire;
three hundred choose the polish’d stones. The feast is smoking wide!
Cuthullin, chief of Erin’s war, resumed his mighty soul. He stood upon
his beamy spear, and spoke to the son of songs, to Carril of other
times, the grey-haired son of Kinfena.[68] “Is this feast spread for
me alone and the king of Lochlin on Erin’s shore; far from the deer
of his hills, and sounding halls of his feasts? Rise, Carril of other
times;[69] carry my words to Swaran. Tell him from the roaring of
waters, that Cuthullin gives his feast. Here let him listen to the
sound of my groves, amidst the clouds of night. For cold and bleak the
blustering winds rush over the foam of his seas. Here let him praise
the trembling harp, hear the songs of heroes!”
Old Carril went, with softest voice. He called the king of dark-brown
shields! “Rise from the skins of thy chase, rise, Swaran, king of
groves! Cuthullin gives the joy of shells. Partake the feast of Erin’s
blue-eyed chief!” He answered like the sullen sound of Cromla before a
storm. “Though all thy daughters, Inis-fail! should stretch their arms
of snow; should raise the heavings of their breasts, and softly roll
their eyes of love; yet, fixed as Lochlin’s thousand rocks, here Swaran
should remain; till morn, with the young beams of the east, shall light
me to the death of Cuthullin. Pleasant to my ear is Lochlin’s wind!
It rushes over my seas! It speaks aloft in all my shrouds, and brings
my green forests to my mind: The green forests of Gormal, which often
echoed to my winds, when my spear was red in the chase of the boar.
Let dark Cuthullin yield to me the ancient throne of Cormac; or Erin’s
torrents shall shew from their hills the red foam of the blood of his
pride!”
“Sad is the sound of Swaran’s voice,” said Carril of other times! “Sad
to himself alone,” said the blue-eyed son of Semo. “But, Carril, raise
the voice on high; tell the deeds of other times. Send thou the night
away in song; and give the joy of grief. For many heroes and maids of
love, have moved on Inis-fail: And lovely are the songs of woe that are
heard in Albion’s rocks; when the noise of the chase is past, and the
streams of Cona answer to the voice of Ossian.”[70]
“In other days,”[71] Carril replies, “came the sons of Ocean to Erin!
a thousand vessels bounded on waves to Ullin’s lovely plains. The sons
of Inis-fail arose, to meet the race of dark-brown shields. Cairbar,
first of men was there, and Grudar, stately youth! Long had they strove
for the spotted bull, that lowed on Golbun’s[72] echoing heath. Each
claimed him as his own. Death was often at the point of their steel!
Side by side the heroes fought; the strangers of Ocean fled. Whose
name was fairer on the hill, than the name of Cairbar and Grudar! But
ah! why ever lowed the bull, on Golbun’s echoing heath. They saw him
leaping like snow. The wrath of the chiefs returned!”
On Lubar’s[73] grassy banks they fought; Grudar fell in his blood.
Fierce Cairbar came to the vale, where Brassolis,[74] fairest of his
sisters, all alone, raised the song of grief. She sung of the actions
of Grudar, the youth of her secret soul! She mourned him in the field
of blood; but still she hoped for his return. Her white bosom is seen
from her robe, as the moon from the clouds of night, when its edge
heaves white on the view, from the darkness which covers its orb. Her
voice was softer than the harp to raise the song of grief. Her soul was
fixed on Grudar. The secret look of her eye was his. “When shalt thou
come in thine arms, thou mighty in the war?”
“Take, Brassolis,” Cairbar came and said, “take Brassolis, this shield
of blood. Fix it on high within my hall, the armour of my foe! Her soft
heart beat against her side. Distracted, pale, she flew. She found her
youth in all his blood; she died on Cromla’s heath. Here rests their
dust, Cuthullin! these lonely yews sprung from their tombs, and shade
them from the storm. Fair was Brassolis on the plain! Stately was
Grudar on the hill! The bard shall preserve their names, and send them
down to future times!”
“Pleasant is thy voice, O Carril,” said the blue-eyed chief of Erin.
“Pleasant are the words of other times! they are like the calm shower
of spring; when the sun looks on the field, and the light cloud flies
over the hills. O strike the harp in praise of my love, the lonely
sun-beam of Dunscaith! Strike the harp in the praise of Bragéla; she
that I left in the Isle of Mist,[75] the spouse of Semo’s son! Dost
thou raise thy fair face from the rock to find the sails of Cuthullin?
The sea is rolling distant far; its white foam deceives thee for my
sails. Retire for it is night, my love; the dark winds sing in thy
hair. Retire to the halls of my feasts; think of the times that are
past. I will not return till the storm of war is ceased. O Connal!
speak of war and arms, and send her from my mind. Lovely with her
flowing hair is the white-bosomed daughter of Sorglan.”
Connal, slow to speak, replied: “Guard against the race of Ocean. Send
thy troop of night abroad, and watch the strength of Swaran. Cuthullin!
I am for peace till the race of Selma come; till Fingal come, the first
of men, and beam, like the sun, on our fields!” The hero struck the
shield of alarms, the warriors of the night moved on! The rest lay in
the heath of the deer, and slept beneath the dusky wind. The ghosts[76]
of the lately dead were near, and swam on the gloomy clouds: And far
distant in the dark silence of Lena,[77] the feeble voices of death
were faintly heard.
FOOTNOTES:
[33] Cuthullin, the son of Semo and grandson to Caithbath, a Druid
celebrated in tradition for his wisdom and valour. Cuthullin when very
young married Bragela the daughter of Sorglan, and passing over into
Ireland, lived some time with Connal, grandson by a daughter to Congal,
the petty king of Ulster. His wisdom and valour in a short time gained
him such reputation, that in the minority of Cormac, the supreme king
of Ireland, he was chosen guardian to the young king, and sole manager
of the war against Swaran, king of Lochlin. After a series of great
actions he was killed in battle somewhere in Connaught,[34] in the
twenty-seventh year of his age. He was so remarkable for his strength,
that to describe a strong man it has passed into a proverb, “He has
the strength of Cuthullin.” They show the remains of his palace at
Dunscaich, in the Isle of Skye; and a stone to which he bound his dog,
Luath, goes still by his name. _M._
[34] This is a great error of the translator. He was killed
on the banks of the Legon, in battle with Torlath, a chief of
Connaught--_vide_ death of Cuthullin. _C._
[35] Cairbar or Cairbre, signifies _a strong man_.
[36] Cuthullin having previous intelligence of the invasion intended
by Swaran, sent scouts all over the coast of Ullin or Ulster, to give
early notice of the first appearance of the enemy, at the same time
that he sent Munan, the son of Stirmal, to implore the assistance of
Fingal. He himself collected the flower of the Irish youth to Tura
(Carrickfergus), a castle on the coast, to stop the progress of the
enemy till Fingal should arrive from Scotland. We may conclude from
Cuthullin’s applying so early for foreign aid, that the Irish were not
then so numerous as they have since been; which is a great presumption
against the high antiquities of that people. We have the testimony of
Tacitus, that one legion only was thought sufficient, in the time of
Agricola, to reduce the whole island under the Roman yoke; which would
not probably have been the case had the island been inhabited for any
number of centuries before. _M._
[37] Moran signifies _many_; and Fithil, or rather Fili, _an inferior
bard_.
[38] Fingal, the son of Comhal, and Morna, the daughter of Thaddu. His
grandfather was Trathal, and great grandfather Trenmor, both of whom
are often mentioned in the poem.
[39] Meal-mór, _a great hill_.
[40] Cabait, or rather Cathbait, grandfather to the hero, was so
remarkable for his valour, that his shield was made use of to alarm his
posterity to the battles of the family. We find Fingal making the same
use of his own shield in the fourth book. A horn was the most common
instrument to call the army together.
[41] Cu-raoch signifies _the madness of battle_.
[42] Cruth-geal, _fair-complexioned_.
[43] Cu-thon, _the mournful sound of waves_.
[44] Crom-leach signifies a place of worship among the Druids. It
is here the proper name of a hill on the coast of Ullin or Ulster.
_M._--Now the Cave Hill near Belfast. _C._
[45] Connal, the friend of Cuthullin, was the son of Caith-bait, prince
of the Tongorma, or the _island of blue waves_, probably one of the
Hebrides. His mother was Fioncoma, the daughter of Congal. He had a
son by Foba of Conacharnessar (Concobar mac Nessa), who was afterwards
petty king of Ulster. For his services in the war against Swaran he had
lands conferred on him, which, from his name, were called Tir-chonnuil
or Tir-connel--_i.e._ the Land of Connal.
[46] Erin, a name of Ireland; from _ear_ or _iar_ West, and _in_ an
island. This name was not always confined to Ireland, for there is the
highest probability that the _Ierne_ of the ancients was Britain to the
north of the Forth. For Ierne is said to be to the north of Britain,
which could not be meant of Ireland. _Strabo_, l. 2 and 4. _Casaub_, l.
1. (Erin is merely the dative of _Eire_. _W. S._).
[47] I was gratified on finding the reeds of the lake of +Lego+ as
plenty and conspicuous in the nineteenth as they were to Ossian in the
fifth century. _C._
[48] Calm-er, _a strong man_.
[49] Cromla is the highest mountain of the ridge of Lena. _C._
[50] The Gaelic name of Scandinavia in general.
[51] The Orkney Islands.
[52] Dubhchomar, _a black well-made man_.
[53] Fear-guth, _the man of the word_; or a commander of an army.
[54] This passage alludes to the manner of burial among the ancient
Scots. They opened a grave six or eight feet deep; the bottom was lined
with fine clay, and on this they laid the body of the deceased, and, if
a warrior, his sword, and the heads of twelve arrows by his side. Above
they laid another stratum of clay, in which they placed the horn of a
deer, the symbol of hunting. The whole was covered with a fine mold,
and four stones placed on end to mark the extent of the grave. These
are the four stones alluded to here.
[55] _Lano_ has been confounded with _Lego_. Lano appears to have been
a lake of Norway which sent forth pestilential vapours. Lego is in
Ulster.
[56] Muirne, or Morna, _a woman beloved by all_.
[57] “Pillars in the Hall of Fingal,” though a beautiful simile, is
bringing the era of Ossian down to that of Macpherson. _C._
[58] Torman, _thunder_. This is the true origin of the Jupiter Taramis
of the ancients. _M._
[59] She alludes to his name, _the dark man_.
[60] Moina, _soft in temper and person_.
[61] It was the opinion then, as indeed it is to this day, of some of
the Highlanders, that the soul of the deceased hovered round their
living friends; and sometimes appeared to them when they were about to
enter on any great undertaking.
[62] Sithallin signifies _a handsome man_; Fiöna, _a fair maid_; and
Ardan, _pride_.
[63] The Isle of Sky; not improperly called the _isle of mist_, as its
high hills which catch the clouds from the western ocean, occasion
almost continual rains.
[64] One of Cuthullin’s horses. Dubhstron-gheal.
[65] Sith-fadda--_i.e._ _a long stride_.
[66] _The maid of Inistore_ was the daughter of Gorlo, king of
Inistore, or Orkney Islands. Trenar was brother to the king of Iniscon,
supposed to be one of the islands of Shetland. The Orkneys and Shetland
were at that time subject to the king of Lochlin. We find that the dogs
of Trenar are sensible at home of the death of their master, the very
instant he is killed. It was the opinion of the times, that the souls
of heroes went immediately after death to the hills of their country,
and the scenes they frequented the most happy times of their life. It
was thought, too, that dogs and horses saw the ghosts of the deceased.
[67] The ancient manner of preparing feasts after hunting, is handed
down by tradition. A pit lined with smooth stones was made; and near
it stood a heap of smooth flat stones of the flint kind. The stones,
as well as the pit, were properly heated with heath. Then they laid
some venison in the bottom, and a stratum of stones above it; and thus
they did alternately till the pit was full. The whole was covered over
with heath to confine the steam. Whether this is probable I cannot
say; but some pits are shown which, the vulgar say, were used in that
manner. _M._--To prove the beauty of this remark--the shaggy sides of
Cromla--it is almost necessary to visit Cromla, and view it. Thousands
visit the scenes of the Roman Bard, when half of the money they spend
on their journey would confer comforts upon the starving peasants
of Ireland, where the scenes of Fingal’s exploits could not be but
agreeable to the classic or feeling mind. _C._
[68] Cean-feana--_i.e._ _the head of the people_. _M._--(Is this not
rather Ceann-Fianna? and so “the head of the Fingalians”? _W. S._).
[69] _i.e._ “of old.”
[70] The Cona here mentioned is that small river that runs through
Glencoe(?), in Argyllshire. One of the hills which environ that
romantic valley is still called Scornafena (Scour-na-Feinne), or the
hill of Fingal’s people.
[71] This episode is introduced with propriety. Calmar and Connal,
two of the Irish heroes, had disputed warmly before the battle about
engaging the enemy. Carril endeavours to reconcile them with the story
of Cairbar and Grudar; who, though enemies before, fought _side by
side_ in the war. The poet obtained his aim, for we find Calmar and
Connal perfectly reconciled in the third book.
[72] Golb-bhean, as well as Cromleach, signifies _a crooked hill_.
[73] Lubar, a river in Ulster. _Labhar_, loud, noisy.
[74] Brassolis signifies _a woman with a white breast_.
[75] The Isle of Sky, of which Cuthullin’s father was King or Chief.
_C._
[76] It was long the opinion of the ancient Scots, that a ghost was
heard shrieking near the place where a death was to happen soon
after. The accounts given, to this day, among the vulgar, of this
extraordinary matter are very poetical. The ghost comes mounted on a
meteor, and surrounds twice or thrice a place destined for the person
to die; and then goes along the road through which the funeral is to
pass, shrieking at intervals; at last, the meteor and ghost disappear
above the burial place.
[77] The Heath of Lena may fairly be said to have been the scene of all
the principal battles of Fingal, &c., in Ireland. _C._
BOOK II
ARGUMENT
The ghost of Crugal, one of the Irish heroes who was killed in
battle, appearing to Connal, foretells the defeat of Cuthullin
in the next battle, and earnestly advises him to make peace
with Swaran. Connal communicates the vision; but Cuthullin is
inflexible; from a principle of honour he would not be the first
to sue for peace, and he resolved to continue the war. Morning
comes; Swaran proposes dishonourable terms to Cuthullin, which
are rejected. The battle begins, and is obstinately fought for
some time, until, upon the flight of Grumal, the whole Irish
army gave way. Cuthullin and Connal cover their retreat; Carril
leads them to a neighbouring hill, whither they are soon followed
by Cuthullin himself, who descries the fleet of Fingal making
towards the coast; but, night coming on, he loses sight of it
again. Cuthullin, dejected after his defeat, attributes his
ill-success to the death of Freda his friend, whom he had killed
some time before. Carril, to shew that ill-success did not always
attend those who innocently killed their friends, introduces the
episode of Comal and Galvina.
Connal lay by the sound of the mountain stream, beneath the aged tree.
A stone, with its moss, supported his head. Shrill through the heath
of Lena, he heard the voice of night. At distance from the heroes he
lay; the son of the sword feared no foe! The hero beheld, in his rest,
a dark red stream of fire rushing down from the hill. Crugal sat upon
the beam, a chief who fell in fight. He fell by the hand of Swaran,
striving in the battle of heroes. His face is like the beam of the
setting moon. His robes are of the clouds of the hill. His eyes are two
decaying flames. Dark is the wound of his breast! “Crugal,” said the
mighty Connal, son of Dedgal, famed on the hill of hinds! “Why so pale
and sad, thou breaker of the shields? Thou hast never been pale for
fear! What disturbs the departed Crugal?” Dim, and in tears, he stood
and stretched his pale hand over the hero. Faintly he raised his feeble
voice, like the gale of the reedy Lego!
“My spirit, Connal, is on my hills; my corse on the sands of Erin.[78]
Thou shalt never talk with Crugal, nor find his lone steps in the
heath. I am light as the blast of Cromla. I move like the shadow of
mist! Connal, son of Colgar, I see a cloud of death: it hovers dark
over the plains of Lena. The sons of green Erin must fall. Remove from
the field of ghosts.” Like the darkened moon he retired, in the midst
of the whistling blast. “Stay,” said the mighty Connal, “stay, my
dark-red friend. Lay by that beam of heaven, son of the windy Cromla!
What cave is thy lonely house? What green-headed hill the place of
thy repose? Shall we not hear thee in the storm? In the noise of the
mountain-stream? When the feeble sons of the wind come forth, and,
scarcely seen, pass over the desert?”
The soft-voiced Connal rose, in the midst of his sounding arms. He
struck his shield above Cuthullin. The son of battle waked. “Why,” said
the ruler of the car, “comes Connal through my night? My spear might
turn against the sound; and Cuthullin mourn the death of his friend.
Speak, Connal; son of Colgar, speak, thy counsel is the sun of heaven!”
“Son of Semo!” replied the chief, “the ghost of Crugal came from his
cave. The stars dim-twinkled through his form. His voice was like the
sound of a distant stream. He is a messenger of death! He speaks of the
dark and narrow house! Sue for peace, O chief of Erin! or fly over the
heath of Lena.”
“He spoke to Connal,” replied the hero, “though stars dim-twinkled
through his form! Son of Colgar, it was the wind that murmured across
thy ear. Or if it was the form[79] of Crugal, why didst thou not force
him to my sight? Hast thou inquired where is his cave? The house
of that son of wind? My sword might find that voice, and force his
knowledge from Crugal. But small is his knowledge, Connal; he was here
to-day. He could not have gone beyond our hills! who could tell him
there of our fall?” “Ghosts fly on clouds, and ride on winds,” said
Connal’s voice of wisdom. “They rest together in their caves, and talk
of mortal men.”
“Then let them talk of mortal men; of every man but Erin’s chief.
Let me be forgot in their cave. I will not fly from Swaran! If fall
I must, my tomb shall rise, amidst the fame of future times. The
hunter shall shed a tear on my stone; sorrow shall dwell round the
high-bosomed Bragéla. I fear not death, to fly I fear! Fingal has seen
me victorious! Thou dim phantom of the hill, shew thyself to me! come
on thy beam of heaven, shew me my death in thine hand; yet I will not
fly, thou feeble son of the wind! Go, son of Colgar, strike the shield.
It hangs between the spears. Let my warriors rise to the sound, in the
midst of the battles of Erin. Though Fingal delays his coming with the
race of his stormy isles,[80] we shall fight, O Colgar’s son, and die
in the battle of heroes!”
The sound spreads wide. The heroes rise, like the breaking of a
blue-rolling wave. They stood on the heath, like oaks with all their
branches round them; when they echo to the stream of frost, and their
withered leaves are rustling to the wind! High Cromla’s head of clouds
is grey. Morning trembles on the half-enlightened ocean. The blue mist
swims slowly by, and hides the sons of Inis-fail!
“Rise ye,” said the king of the dark-brown shields, “ye that came from
Lochlin’s waves. The sons of Erin have fled from our arms; pursue them
over the plains of Lena! Morla, go to Cormac’s hall. Bid them yield to
Swaran; before his people sink to the tomb; and silence spread over
his isle.” 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 echoing woods. Tall as the stag
of Morven, moved stately before them the king. His shining shield is on
his side, like a flame on the heath at night; when the world is silent
and dark, and the traveller sees some ghost sporting in the beam! Dimly
gleam the hills around, and shew indistinctly their oaks. A blast from
the troubled ocean removed the settled mist. The sons of Erin appear,
like a ridge of rocks on the coast; when mariners, on shores unknown,
are trembling at veering winds!
“Go, Morla, go,” said the kin of Lochlin, “offer peace to these! Offer
the terms we give to kings, when nations bow down to our swords. When
the valiant are dead in war; when virgins weep on the field!” Tall
Morla came, the son of Swarth, and stately strode the youth along!
He spoke to Erin’s blue-eyed chief, among the lesser heroes. “Take
Swaran’s peace,” the warrior spoke, “the peace he gives to kings, when
nations bow to his sword. Leave Erin’s streamy plains to us, and give
thy spouse and dog. Thy spouse high-bosom’d, heaving fair! Thy dog that
overtakes the wind! Give these to prove the weakness of thine arm; live
then beneath our power!”
“Tell Swaran, tell that heart of pride, Cuthullin never yields. I give
him the dark rolling sea; I give his people graves in Erin. But never
shall a stranger have the pleasing sun-beam of my love. No deer shall
fly on Lochlin’s hills, before swift-footed Luath.” “Vain ruler of
the car,” said Morla, “wilt thou then fight the king? The king whose
ships of many groves could carry off thine isle? So little is thy
green-hilled Erin to him who rules the stormy waves!” “In words I yield
to many, Morla. My sword shall yield to none. Erin shall own the sway
of Cormac, while Connal and Cuthullin live! O Connal, first of mighty
men, thou hear’st the words of Morla. Shall thy thoughts then be of
peace, thou breaker of the shields? Spirit of fallen Crugal! why didst
thou threaten us with death? The narrow house shall receive me, in the
midst of the light of renown. Exalt, ye sons of Erin, exalt the spear
and bend the bow: rush on the foe in darkness, as the spirits of stormy
nights!”
Then dismal, roaring, fierce, and deep the gloom of battle poured
along; as mist that is rolled on a valley, when storms invade the
silent sunshine of heaven! Cuthullin moves before in arms, like an
angry ghost before a cloud; when meteors inclose him with fire; when
the dark winds are in his hand. Carril, far on the heath, bids the horn
of battle sound. He raises the voice of song, and pours his soul into
the minds of the brave.
“Where?” said the mouth of the song, “where is the fallen Crugal? He
lies forgot on earth; the hall of shells[81] is silent. Sad is the
spouse of Crugal! She is a stranger[82] in the hall of her grief. But
who is she that, like a sun-beam, flies before the ranks of the foe? It
is Degrena,[83] lovely fair, the spouse of fallen Crugal. Her hair is
on the wind behind. Her eye is red; her voice is shrill. Pale, empty
is thy Crugal now! His form is in the cave of the hill. He comes to
the ear of rest; he raises his feeble voice; like the humming of the
mountain-bee; like the collected flies of the eve! But Degrena falls
like a cloud of the morn; the sword of Lochlin is in her side. Cairbar,
she is fallen, the rising thought of thy youth. She is fallen, O
Cairbar, the thought of thy youthful hours!”
Fierce Cairbar heard the mournful sound. He rushed along like ocean’s
whale. He saw the death of his daughter: He roared in the midst of
thousands. His spear met a son of Lochlin! battle spreads from wing to
wing! As a hundred winds in Lochlin’s groves; as fire in the pines of a
hundred hills; so loud, so ruinous, so vast the ranks of men are hewn
down. Cuthullin cut off heroes like thistle; Swaran wasted Erin. Curach
fell by his hand, Cairbar of the bossy shield! Morglan lies in lasting
rest! Ca-olt[84] trembles as he dies! His white breast is stained with
blood; his yellow hair stretched in the dust of his native land! He
often had spread the feast where he fell. He often there had raised the
voice of the harp: when his dogs leaped around for joy; and the youths
of the chase prepared the bow!
Still Swaran advanced, as a stream that bursts from the desert. The
little hills are rolled in its course; the rocks are half sunk by its
side! But Cuthullin stood before him, like a hill, that catches the
clouds of heaven. The winds contend on its head of pines; the hail
rattles on its rocks. But firm in its strength, it stands and shades
the silent vale of Cona! So Cuthullin shaded the sons of Erin, and
stood in the midst of thousands. Blood rises like the fount of a rock,
from panting heroes around. But Erin falls on either wing, like snow in
the day of the sun.
“O sons of Erin,” said Grumal, “Lochlin conquers on the field. Why
strive we as reeds against the wind? Fly to the hill of dark-brown
hinds.” He fled like the stag of Morven; his spear is a trembling beam
of light behind him. Few fled with Grumal, chief of the little soul:
they fell in the battle of heroes, on Lena’s echoing heath. High on his
car, of many gems, the chief of Erin stood. He slew a mighty son of
Lochlin, and spoke, in haste to Connal. “O Connal, first of mortal men,
thou hast taught this arm of death! Though Erin’s sons have fled, shall
we not fight the foe? Carril, son of other times, carry my friends to
that bushy hill. Here, Connal, let us stand, like rocks, and save our
flying friends.”
Connal mounts the car of gems. They stretch their shields, like the
darkened moon, the daughter of the starry skies, when she moves, a
dun circle through heaven; and dreadful change is expected by men.
Sithfadda panted up the hill, and Sronnal haughty steed. Like waves
behind a whale behind them rushed the foe. Now on the rising side
of Cromla stood Erin’s few sad sons; like a grove through which the
flame had rushed, hurried on by the winds of the stormy night; distant
withered, dark they stand, with not a leaf to shake in the gale.
Cuthullin stood beside an oak. He rolled his red eye in silence, and
heard the wind in his bushy hair; the scout of ocean came, Moran the
son of Fithil. “The ships,” he said, “the ships of the lonely isles.
Fingal comes, the first of men, the breaker of the shields! The waves
foam before his black prows! His masts with sails are like groves in
clouds!” “Blow,” said Cuthullin, “blow ye winds that rush along my
isle of mist.[85] Come to the death of thousands, O king of resounding
Selma! Thy sails, my friend, are to me the clouds of the morning; thy
ships the light of heaven; and thou thyself a pillar of fire that beams
on the world by night. O Connal, first of men, how pleasing, in grief,
are our friends! But the night is gathering around! Where now are the
ships of Fingal? Here let us pass the hours of darkness; here wish for
the moon of heaven.”
The winds come down on the woods. The torrents rush from the rocks.
Rain gathers round the head of Cromla. The red stars tremble between
flying clouds. Sad by the side of a stream whose sound is echoed by a
tree, sad by the side of a stream the chief of Erin sits. Connal, son
of Colgar, is there, and Carril of other times. “Unhappy is the hand of
Cuthullin,” said the son of Semo, “unhappy is the hand of Cuthullin,
since he slew his friend! Ferda, son of Damman, I loved thee as myself!”
“How, Cuthullin, son of Semo! how fell the breaker of the shields? Well
I remember,” said Connal, “the son of the noble Damman. Tall and fair
he was like the rainbow of heaven.” Ferda, from Albion came, the chief
of a hundred hills. In Muri’s[86] hall he learned the sword, and won
the friendship of Cuthullin. We moved to the chase together: one was
our bed in the heath!
Deugala was the spouse of Cairbar, chief of the plains of Ullin. She
was covered with the light of beauty, but her heart was the house of
pride. She loved that sun-beam of youth, the son of noble Damman.
“Cairbar,” said the white-armed Deugala, “give me half of the herd. No
more I will remain in your halls. Divide the herd, dark Cairbar!” “Let
Cuthullin,” said Cairbar, “divide my herd on the hill. His breast is
the seat of justice. Depart, thou light of beauty!” I went and divided
the herd. One snow-white bull remained. I gave that bull to Cairbar.
The wrath of Deugala rose!
“Son of Damman,” begun the fair, “Cuthullin hath pained my soul. I must
hear of his death, or Lubar’s stream shall roll over me. My pale ghost
shall wander near thee, and mourn the wound of my pride. Pour out the
blood of Cuthullin, or pierce this heaving breast.” “Deugala,” said the
fair-haired youth, “how shall I slay the son of Semo? He is the friend
of my secret thoughts. Shall I then lift the sword?” She wept three
days before the chief, on the fourth he said he would fight. “I will
fight my friend, Deugala! but may I fall by his sword! Could I wander
on the hill alone? Could I behold the grave of Cuthullin?” We fought on
the plain of Muri. Our swords avoid a wound. They slide on the helmets
of steel; or sound on the slippery shields. Deugala was near with a
smile, and said to the son of Damman: “Thine arm is feeble, sun-beam of
youth! Thy years are not strong for steel. Yield to the son of Semo. He
is a rock on Malmor.”
The tear is in the eye of youth. He faltering said to me: “Cuthullin,
raise thy bossy shield. Defend thee from the hand of thy friend. My
soul is laden with grief: for I must slay the chief of men!” I sighed
as the wind in the cleft of a rock. I lifted high the edge of my steel.
The sun-beam of battle fell: the first of Cuthullin’s friends! Unhappy
is the hand of Cuthullin since the hero fell!
“Mournful is thy tale, son of the car,” said Carril of other times.
“It sends my soul back to the ages of old, to the days of other years.
Often have I heard of Comal, who slew the friend he loved; yet victory
attended his steel: the battle was consumed in his presence!”
Comal was a son of Albion; the chief of an hundred hills! His deer
drunk of a thousand streams. A thousand rocks replied to the voice of
his dogs. His face was the mildness of youth. His hand the death of
heroes. One was his love, and fair was she! the daughter of mighty
Conloch. She appeared like a sun-beam among women. Her hair was the
wing of the raven. Her dogs were taught to the chase. Her bow-string
sounded on the winds. Her soul was fixed on Comal. Often met their eyes
of love. Their course in the chase was one. Happy were their words in
secret. But Grumal loved the maid, the dark chief of the gloomy Ardven.
He watched her lone steps in the heath; the foe of unhappy Comal![87]
One day, tired of the chase, when the mist had concealed their friends,
Comal and the daughter of Comloch met, in the cave of Ronan. It was the
wonted haunt of Comal. Its sides were hung with his arms. A hundred
shields of thongs were there; a hundred helms of sounding steel. “Rest
here,” he said, “my love, Galbina: thou light of the cave of Ronan! A
deer appears on Mora’s brow. I go; but I will soon return.” “I fear,”
she said, “dark Grumal my foe: he haunts the cave of Ronan! I will rest
among the arms; but soon return, my love.”
He went to the deer of Mora. The daughter of Conloch would try his
love. She clothed her fair sides with his armour; she strode from the
cave of Ronan! He thought it was his foe. His heart beat high. His
colour changed, and darkness dimmed his eyes. He drew the bow. The
arrow flew. Galbina fell in blood! He ran with wildness in his steps!
he called the daughter of Conloch. No answer in the lonely rock. Where
art thou, O my love? He saw, at length, her heaving heart, beating
around the arrow he threw. “O Conloch’s daughter, is it thou?” He sunk
upon her breast! The hunters found the hapless pair; he afterwards
walked the hill. But many and silent were his steps round the dark
dwelling of his love. The fleet of the ocean came. He fought, the
strangers fled. He searched for death along the field. But who could
slay the mighty Comal! He threw away his dark-brown shield. An arrow
found his manly breast. He sleeps with his loved Galbina at the noise
of the sounding surge! Their green tombs are seen by the mariner, when
he bounds on the waves of the north.
FOOTNOTES:
[78] This observation leaves me to infer that Cuthullin attacked Swaran
immediately he landed on the beach--a fine sandy one--of Belfast Loch.
_C._
[79] The poet teaches us the opinions that prevailed in his time
concerning the state of separate souls. From Connal’s expression, “that
the stars dim-twinkled through the form of Crugal,” and Cuthullin’s
reply, we may gather that they both thought the soul was material:
something like the εἰδωλον of the ancient Greeks.
[80] Cuthullin, the general of young Cormac, the kinsman of Fingal,
here expresses his expectation of Fingal coming to his assistance. _C._
[81] The ancient Scots, as well as the present Highlanders, drank out
of shells; hence it is that we so often meet, in the old poetry, with
_the chief of shells_ and _the halls of shells_.
[82] Crugal had married Degrena but a little time before the battle,
consequently she may with propriety be called a stranger in the hall of
her grief.
[83] Deo-gréna signifies _a sun-beam_.
[84] Caoilte, one of the foremost Ossianic heroes. _S._
[85] To prove the consistency of the Poems and Poet, this sentence
speaks volumes! The winds that rush along the Isle of Sky were the best
winds that could blow, to waft Fingal from Morven into Belfast Loch.
_C._
[86] A place in Ulster. _M._--Probably at Temora, the capital. _C._
[87] The friends of Ossian must give credit to the Irish bard, Carril,
for this beautiful episode, which is, doubtless, one of the most
poetical in the collection. _C._
BOOK III[88]
ARGUMENT
Cuthullin, pleased with the story of Carril, insists with that bard
for more of his songs. He relates the actions of Fingal in
Lochlin, and death of Agandecca, the beautiful sister of Swaran.
He had scarce finished when Calmar, the son of Matha, who had
advised the first battle, came wounded from the field, and told
them of Swaran’s design to surprise the remains of the Irish
army. He himself proposes to withstand singly the whole force
of the enemy, in a narrow pass, till the Irish should make good
their retreat. Cuthullin, touched with the gallant proposal of
Calmar, resolves to accompany him, and orders Carril to carry
off the few that remained of the Irish. Morning comes, Calmar
dies of his wounds; and, the ships of the Caledonians appearing,
Swaran gives over the pursuit of the Irish, and returns to oppose
Fingal’s landing. Cuthullin ashamed, after his defeat, to appear
before Fingal, retires to the cave of Tura (Carrickfergus).
Fingal engages the enemy, puts them to flight; but the coming
on of night makes the victory not decisive. The king, who had
observed the gallant behaviour of his grandson Oscar, gives him
advices concerning his conduct in peace and war. He recommends
to him to place the example of his fathers before his eyes as
the best model for his conduct; which introduces the episode
concerning Fainasollis, the daughter of the king of Craca, whom
Fingal had taken under his protection, in his youth. Fillan and
Oscar are dispatched to observe the motions of the enemy by
night; Gaul, the son of Morni, desires the command of the army,
in the next battle; which Fingal promises to give him. Some
general reflections of the poet close the third day.
“Pleasant are the words of the song,” said Cuthullin! “lovely the tales
of other times! They are like the calm dew of the morning on the hill
of roes; when the sun is faint on its sides, and the lake is settled
and blue in the vale. O Carril, raise again thy voice! let me hear the
song of Selma: which was sung in my halls of joy, when Fingal king of
shields was there, and glowed at the deeds of his fathers.”
“Fingal! thou dweller of battle,” said Carril, “early were thy deeds in
arms. Lochlin was consumed in thy wrath, when thy youth strove with the
beauty of maids. They smiled at the fair-blooming face of the hero; but
death was in his hands. He was strong as the waters of Lora.[89] His
followers were the roar of a thousand streams. They took the king of
Lochlin in war; they restored him to his ships. His big heart swelled
with pride; the death of the youth was dark in his soul. For none ever,
but Fingal, had overcome the strength of the mighty Starno.[90] He
sat in the hall of his shells in Lochlin’s woody land. He called the
grey-haired Snivan, that often sung round the circle[91] of Loda: when
the stone of power heard his voice, and battle turned in the field of
the valiant!”
“Go, grey-haired Snivan,” Starno said, “go to Ardven’s sea-surrounded
rock. Tell to the king of Selma; he the fairest among his thousands,
tell him I give him my daughter, the loveliest maid that ever heaved a
breast of snow. Her arms are white as the foam of my waves. Her soul
is generous and mild. Let him come with his bravest heroes, to the
daughter of the secret hall!” Snivan came to Selma’s hall: Fair-haired
Fingal attended his steps. His kindled soul flew to the maid, as he
bounded on the waves of the north. “Welcome,” said the dark-brown
Starno, “welcome, king of rocky Morven: welcome his heroes of might,
sons of the distant isle! Three days within my halls shall ye feast;
three days pursue my boars; that your fame may reach the maid who
dwells in the secret hall.”
Starno designed their death. He gave the feast of shells. Fingal, who
doubted the foe, kept on his arms of steel. The sons of death were
afraid: They fled from the eyes of the king. The voice of sprightly
mirth arose. The trembling harps of joy were strung. Bards sung the
battle of heroes: They sung the heaving breast of love. Ullin, Fingal’s
bard, was there: the sweet voice of resounding Cona. He praised the
daughter of Lochlin; and Morven’s[92] high-descended chief. The
daughter of Lochlin overheard. She left the hall of her secret sigh!
She came in all her beauty, like the moon from the cloud of the east.
Loveliness was around her as light. Her steps were the music of songs.
She saw the youth and loved him. He was the stolen sigh of her soul.
Her blue eye rolled on him in secret: she blest the chief of resounding
Morven.
The third day, with all its beams, shone bright on the wood of boars.
Forth moved the dark-browed Starno; and Fingal, king of shields. Half
the day they spent in the chase; the spear of Selma was red in blood.
It was then the daughter of Starno, with blue eyes rolling in tears;
it was then she came with her voice of love, and spoke to the king of
Morven. “Fingal, high-descended chief, trust not Starno’s heart of
pride. Within that wood he has placed his chiefs. Beware of the wood of
death. But, remember, son of the isle, remember Agandecca: save me from
the wrath of my father, king of the windy Morven!”
The youth with unconcern went on; his heroes by his side. The sons of
death fell by his hand; and Gormal echoed around! Before the halls
of Starno the sons of the chase convened. The king’s dark brows were
like clouds. His eyes like meteors of night. “Bring hither,” he said,
“Agandecca to her lovely king of Morven! His hand is stained with the
blood of my people; her words have not been in vain!” She came with the
red eye of tears. She came with loosely flowing locks. Her white breast
heaved with broken sighs, like the foam of streamy Lubar.[93] Starno
pierced her side with steel. She fell, like a wreath of snow, which
slides from the rocks of Ronan; when the woods are still, and echo
deepens in the vale! Then Fingal eyed his valiant chiefs, his valiant
chiefs took arms. The gloom of battle roared; Lochlin fled or died.
Pale, in his bounding ship he closed the maid of the softest soul. Her
tomb ascends on Ardven; the sea roars round her narrow dwelling.
“Blessed be her soul,” said Cuthullin; “blessed be the mouth of the
song! Strong was the youth of Fingal; strong is his arm of age. Lochlin
shall fall again before the king of echoing Morven. Shew thy face from
a cloud, O moon! light his white sails on the wave; and if any strong
spirit[94] of heaven sits on that low-hung cloud, turn his dark ships
from the rock, thou rider of the storm!”
Such were the words of Cuthullin at the sound of the mountain-stream;
when Calmar ascended the hill, the wounded son of Matha. From the field
he came in his blood. He leaned on his bending spear. Feeble is the
arm of battle; but strong the soul of the hero! “Welcome! O son of
Matha,” said Connal, “welcome art thou to thy friends! Why bursts that
broken sigh, from the breast of him who never feared before? And never,
Connal, will he fear, chief of the pointed steel! My soul brightens in
danger: in the noise of arms. I am of the race of battle. My fathers
never feared.”
“Cormar was the first of my race. He sported through the storms of
waves. His black skiff bounded on ocean; he travelled on the wings of
the wind. A spirit once embroiled the night. Seas swell, and rocks
resound. Winds drive along the clouds. The lightning flies on wings of
fire. He feared, and came to land: then blushed that he feared at all.
He rushed again among the waves, to find the son of the wind. Three
youths guide the bounding bark; he stood with sword unsheathed. When
the low-hung vapour passed, he took it by the curling head. He searched
its dark womb with his steel. The son of the wind forsook the air. The
moon and stars returned! Such was the boldness of my race. Calmar is
like his fathers. Danger flies from the lifted sword. They best succeed
who dare!”
“But now, ye sons of green Erin, retire from Lena’s bloody heath.
Collect the sad remnant of our friends, and join the sword of Fingal.
I heard the sound of Lochlin’s advancing arms! Calmar will remain and
fight. My voice shall be such, my friends, as if thousands were behind
me. But, son of Semo, remember me. Remember Calmar’s lifeless corse.
When Fingal shall have wasted the field, place me by some stone of
remembrance, that future times may hear my fame; that the mother of
Calmar may rejoice in my renown.”
“No: son of Matha,” said Cuthullin, “I will never leave thee here.
My joy is in unequal fight: my soul increases in danger. Connal, and
Carril of other times, carry off the sad sons of Erin. When the battle
is over, search for us in this narrow way. For near this oak we shall
fall, in the stream of the battle of thousands!” “O Fithil’s son, with
flying speed rush over the heath of Lena. Tell to Fingal that Erin is
fallen. Bid the king of Morven come. O let him come like the sun in a
storm, to lighten, to restore the isle!”
Morning is grey on Cromla. The sons of the sea ascend.[95] Calmar
stood forth to meet them in the pride of his kindling soul. But pale
was the face of the chief. He leaned on his father’s spear. That spear
which he brought from Lara, when the soul of his mother was sad; the
soul of the lonely Alcletha, waning in the sorrow of years. But slowly
now the hero falls, like a tree on the plain. Dark Cuthullin stands
alone like a rock in a sandy vale. The sea comes with its waves, and
roars on its hardened sides. Its head is covered with foam; the hills
are echoing around.
Now from the grey mist of the ocean, the white-sailed ships of Fingal
appear. High is the grove of their mast, as they nod, by turns, on
the rolling wave. Swaran saw them from the hill. He returned from the
sons of Erin. As ebbs the resounding sea, through the hundred isles of
Inistore; so loud, so vast, so immense returned the sons of Lochlin
against the king. But bending, weeping, sad, and slow, and dragging his
long spear behind, Cuthullin sunk in Cromla’s wood, and mourned his
fallen friends. He feared the face of Fingal, who was wont to greet him
from the fields of renown!
“How many lie there of my heroes! the chiefs of Erin’s race! they that
were cheerful in the hall when the sound of the shells arose! No more
shall I find their steps in the heath. No more shall I hear their
voice in the chase. Pale, silent, low on bloody beds, are they who
were my friends! O spirits of the lately dead, meet Cuthullin on his
heath! Speak to him on the wind, when the rustling tree of Tura’s cave
resounds. There, far remote, I shall lie unknown. No bard shall hear of
me. No grey stone shall rise to my renown. Mourn me with the dead, O
Bragela! departed is my fame.” Such were the words of Cuthullin, when
he sunk in the woods of Cromla!
Fingal, tall in his ship, stretched his bright lance before him.
Terrible was the gleam of the steel: it was like the green meteor of
death, setting in the heath of Malmor, when the traveller is alone, and
the broad moon is darkened in heaven.
“The battle is past,” said the king. “I behold the blood of my friends.
Sad is the heath of Lena! mournful the oaks of Cromla![96] The hunters
have fallen in their strength: the son of Semo is no more. Ryno and
Fillan, my sons, sound the horn of Fingal. Ascend that hill on the
shore; call the children of the foe. Call them from the grave of
Lamdarg, the chief of other times. Be your voice like that of your
father, when he enters the battles of his strength. I wait for the dark
mighty man; I wait on Lena’s shore for Swaran. Let him come with all
his race; strong in battle are the friends of the dead!”
Fair Ryno as lightning gleamed along. Dark Fillan rushed like the shade
of autumn. On Lena’s heath their voice is heard. The sons of ocean
heard the horn of Fingal. As the roaring eddy of ocean returning from
the kingdom of snows; so strong, so dark, so sudden came down the sons
of Lochlin. The king in their front appears, in the dismal pride of his
arms! Wrath burns on his dark-brown face: his eyes roll in the fire of
his valour. Fingal beheld the son of Starno: he remembered Agandecca.
For Swaran with the tears of youth had mourned his white-bosomed
sister. He sent Ullin of songs to bid him to the feast of shells; for
pleasant on Fingal’s soul returned the memory of the first of his
loves!
Ullin came with aged steps, and spoke to Starno’s son. “O thou that
dwellest afar, surrounded like a rock, with thy waves! come to the
feast of the king, and pass the day in rest. To-morrow let us fight,
O Swaran, and break the echoing shields.” “To-day,” said Starno’s
wrathful son, “we break the echoing shields: to-morrow my feast shall
be spread; but Fingal shall lie on earth.” “To-morrow let his feast
be spread,” said Fingal with a smile. “To-day, O my sons! we shall
break the echoing shields. Ossian, stand thou near my arm. Gaul, lift
thy terrible sword. Fergus, bend thy crooked yew. Throw, Fillan, thy
lance through heaven. Lift your shields like the darkened moon. Be your
spears the meteors of death. Follow me in the path of my fame. Equal my
deeds in battle.”
As a hundred winds on Morven; as the streams of a hundred hills; as
clouds fly successive over heaven; as the dark ocean assails the shore
of the desert: so roaring, so vast, so terrible, the armies mixed on
Lena’s echoing heath. The groan of the people spread over the hills:
it was like the thunder of night, when the cloud bursts on Cona; and a
thousand ghosts shriek at once on the hollow wind. Fingal rushed on in
his strength, terrible as the spirit of Trenmor; when, in a whirl-wind,
he comes to Morven, to see the children of his pride. The oaks resound
on their mountains, and the rocks fall down before him. Dimly seen,
as lightens the night, he strides largely from hill to hill. Bloody
was the hand of my father, when he whirled the gleam of his sword. He
remembers the battles of his youth. The field is wasted in his course.
Ryno went on like a pillar of fire. Dark is the brow of Gaul. Fergus
rushed forward with feet of wind. Fillan like the mist of the hill.
Ossian like a rock came down. I exulted in the strength of the king.
Many were the deaths of my arm! dismal the gleam of my sword! My locks
were not then so grey; nor trembled my hands with age. My eyes were not
closed in darkness; my feet failed not in the race!
Who can relate the deaths of the people? Who the deeds of mighty
heroes? when Fingal, burning in his wrath, consumed the sons of
Lochlin? groans swelled on groans from hill to hill, till night had
covered all. Pale, staring like a herd of deer, the sons of Lochlin
convene on Lena.[97] We sat and heard the sprightly harp, at Lubar’s
gentle stream. Fingal himself was next to the foe. He listened to the
tales of his bards. His godlike race were in the song, the chiefs of
other times. Attentive, leaning on his shield, the king of Morven sat.
The wind whistled through his locks; his thoughts are of the days of
other years. Near him, on his bending spear, my young, my valiant Oscar
stood. He admired the king of Morven: his deeds were swelling in his
soul!
“Son of my son,” begun the king, “O Oscar, pride of youth! I saw the
shining of thy sword. I gloried in my race. Pursue the fame of our
fathers; be thou what they have been, when Trenmor lived, the first of
men, and Trathal the father of heroes! They fought the battle in their
youth. They are the song of bards. O Oscar! bend the strong in arm! but
spare the feeble hand. Be thou a stream of many tides against the foes
of thy people; but like the gale that moves the grass, to those who
ask thine aid. So Trenmor lived; such Trathal was; and such has Fingal
been. My arm was the support of the injured; the weak rested behind the
lightning of my steel.
“Oscar! I was young like thee, when lovely Fainasóllis came: that
sunbeam! that mild light of love! the daughter of Craca’s[98] king!
I then returned from Cona’s heath, and few were in my train. A
white-sailed boat appeared far off; we saw it like a mist, that rode
on ocean’s wind. It soon approached. We saw the fair. Her white breast
heaved with sighs. The wind was in her loose dark hair; her rosy cheek
had tears. “Daughter of beauty,” calm I said, “what sigh is in thy
breast? Can I, young as I am, defend thee, daughter of the sea? my
sword is not unmatched in war, but dauntless is my heart.”
“To thee I fly,” with sighs she said, “O prince of mighty men! To thee
I fly, chief of the generous shells, supporter of the feeble hand!
The king of Craca’s echoing isle owned me the sun-beam of his race.
Cromala’s hills have heard the sighs of love for unhappy Fainasóllis!
Sora’s chief beheld me fair; he loved the daughter of Craca. His sword
is a beam of light upon the warrior’s side. But dark is his brow, and
tempests are in his soul. I shun him, on the roaring sea, but Sora’s
chief pursues.”
“Rest thou,” I said, “behind my shield; rest in peace, thou beam of
light! The gloomy chief of Sora will fly, if Fingal’s arm is like his
soul. In some lone cave I might conceal thee, daughter of the sea, but
Fingal never flies. Where the danger threatens, I rejoice in the storm
of spears.” I saw the tears upon her cheek. I pitied Craca’s fair. Now,
like a dreadful wave afar, appeared the ship of stormy Borbar. His
masts high bended over the sea behind their sheets of snow. White roll
the waters on either side. The strength of ocean sounds. “Come thou,”
I said, “from the roar of ocean, thou rider of the storm! Partake the
feast within my hall. It is the house of strangers.”
The maid stood trembling by my side. He drew the bow. She fell.
“Unerring is thy hand,” I said, “but feeble was the foe!” We fought,
nor weak the strife of death! He sunk beneath my sword. We laid them in
two tombs of stone; the hapless lovers of youth! Such have I been in my
youth, O Oscar! be thou like the age of Fingal. Never search thou for
battle; nor shun it when it comes.
“Fillan and Oscar of the dark-brown hair! ye, that are swift in the
race! fly over the heath in my presence. View the sons of Lochlin. Far
off I hear the noise of their feet, like distant sounds in woods.
“Go, that they may not fly from my sword, along the waves of the north.
For many chiefs of Erin’s race lie here on the dark bed of death. The
children of war are low; the sons of echoing Cromla.”
The heroes flew like two dark clouds: two dark clouds that are the
chariots of ghosts; when air’s dark children come forth to frighten
hapless men. It was then that Gaul,[99] the son of Morni, stood like
a rock in night. His spear is glittering to the stars; his voice like
many streams.
“Son of battle,” cried the chief, “O Fingal, king of shells! let the
bards of many songs soothe Erin’s friends to rest. Fingal, sheath thou
thy sword of death; and let thy people fight. We wither away without
our fame; our king is the only breaker of shields! When morning rises
on our hills, behold, at a distance, our deeds. Let Lochlin feel the
sword of Morni’s son; that bards may sing of me. Such was the custom,
heretofore, of Fingal’s noble race. Such was thine own, thou king of
swords, in battles of the spear.”
“O son of Morni,” Fingal replied, “I glory in thy fame. Fight; but my
spear shall be near, to aid thee in the midst of danger. Raise, raise
the voice, ye sons of song! and lull me into rest. Here will Fingal
lie, amidst the wind of night. And if thou, Agandecca, art near, among
the children of thy land; if thou sittest on a blast of wind, among the
high-shrouded masts of Lochlin; come to my dreams,[100] my fair one.
Shew thy bright face to my soul.”
Many a voice and many a harp, in tuneful sounds arose. Of Fingal’s
noble deeds they sung; of Fingal’s noble race. And sometimes, on the
lovely sound, was heard the name of Ossian. I often fought, and often
won, in battles of the spear. But blind, and tearful, and forlorn, I
walk with little men! O Fingal, with thy race of war I now behold thee
not! The wild roes feed on the green tomb of the mighty king of Morven!
Blest be thy soul, thou king of swords, thou most renowned on the hills
of Cona!
FOOTNOTES:
[88] The second night, since the opening of the poem, continues; and
Cuthullin, Connal, and Carril, still sit in the place described in
the preceding book. The story of Agandecca (_vide_ “Comala.” _S._)
is introduced here with propriety, as great use is made of it in the
course of the poem, and as it, in some measure, brings about the
catastrophe.
[89] It is probable that the Don Lora, in the northern part of Antrim
County, opposite Morven, is here alluded to. _C._
[90] Starno was the father of Swaran as well as Agandecca. His fierce
and cruel character is well marked in other poems concerning the times.
[91] This passage most certainly alludes to the religion of Lochlin,
and _the stone of power_, here mentioned, is the image of one of the
deities of Scandinavia.
[92] All the north-west coast of Scotland probably went of old under
the name of Morven, which signifies a ridge of very high hills.
_M._--Ardven also appears to have been a name for Morven--now part of
Argyllshire. _C._
[93] This is a beautifully descriptive allusion to the Six-mile
waters--whose foam I have often witnessed with pleasure, and in idea
beheld the fair Agandecca whom the poet compared to it. _C._
[94] This is the only passage in the poem that has the appearance of
religion. But Cuthullin’s apostrophe to this spirit is accompanied with
a doubt, so that it is not easy to determine whether the hero meant a
superior being, or the ghosts of deceased warriors, who were supposed
in those times to rule the storms, and to transport themselves in a
gust of wind from one country to another.
[95] The Scandinavians being of course encamped on the shore, near
their ships in the bay of Carmona, having as yet gained no advantage
over Cuthullin, had naturally to ascend the hill to get to the heath of
Lena and the Irish army, whose position was near Cromla--the cave-hill.
_C._
[96] This is beautifully descriptive of the scene.--Fingal, from
the bow of his vessel, was at once enabled to judge of the state of
affairs--a very convincing proof of the proximity of Cromla and Lena to
the shore of Tura’s--Carrickfergus--bay. _C._
[97] It appears that Fingal had driven Lochlin from hill to hill,
over four or five miles of country, from Carmona to the banks of
Lubar--Six-mile water. _C._
[98] What the Craca here mentioned was, is not, at this distance of
time, easy to determine. The most probable opinion is, that it was one
of the Shetland isles. There is a story concerning a daughter of the
king of Craca in the sixth book.
[99] Gaul, the son of Morni, was chief of a tribe that disputed long
the pre-eminence with Fingal himself. They were reduced at last to
obedience, and Gaul, from an enemy, turned Fingal’s best friend and
greatest hero. His character is something like that of Ajax in the
Iliad; a hero of more strength than conduct in battle. He was very fond
of military fame, and here he demands the next battle to himself. The
poet, by an artifice, removes Fingal, that his return may be the more
magnificent.
[100] The poet prepares us for the dream of Fingal in the next book.
BOOK IV[101]
ARGUMENT
The action of the poem being suspended by night, Ossian takes that
opportunity to relate his own actions at the lake of Lego, and
his courtship of Everallin, who was the mother of Oscar, and had
died some time before the expedition of Fingal into Ireland. Her
ghost appears to him, and tells him that Oscar, who had been
sent, the beginning of the night, to observe the enemy, was
engaged with an advanced party, and almost overpowered. Ossian
relieves his son, and an alarm is given to Fingal of the approach
of Swaran. The king rises, calls his army together, and, as he
had promised the preceding night, devolves the command on Gaul,
the son of Morni, while he himself, after charging his sons to
behave gallantly and defend his people, retires to a hill, from
whence he could have a view of the battle. The battle joins;
the poet relates Oscar’s great actions. But when Oscar, in
conjunction with his father, conquered in one wing, Gaul, who was
attacked by Swaran in person, was on the point of retreating in
the other. Fingal sends Ullin his bard to encourage him with a
war song, but notwithstanding Swaran prevails; and Gaul and his
army are obliged to give way. Fingal, descending from the hill,
rallies them again; Swaran desists from the pursuit, possesses
himself of a rising ground, restores the ranks, and waits the
approach of Fingal. The king, having encouraged his men, gives
the necessary orders, and renews the battle. Cuthullin, who, with
his friend Connal, and Carril his bard, had retired to the cave
of Tura, hearing the noise, came to the brow of the hill, which
overlooked the field of battle, where he saw Fingal engaged with
the enemy. He, being hindered by Connal from joining Fingal, who
was himself upon the point of obtaining a complete victory, sends
Carril to congratulate that hero on his success.
Who comes with her songs from the hill, like the bow of the showery
Lena? It is the maid of the voice of love! The white-armed daughter of
Toscar! Often hast thou heard my song; often given the tear of beauty.
Dost thou come to the wars of thy people? to hear the actions of Oscar?
When shall I cease to mourn, by the streams of resounding Cona? My
years have passed away in battle. My age is darkened with grief!
Daughter of the hand of snow! I was not so mournful and blind. I was
not so dark and forlorn when Everallin loved me! Everallin with the
dark-brown hair, the white-bosomed daughter of Branno: A thousand
heroes sought the maid, she refused her love to a thousand. The sons of
the sword were despised: for graceful in her eyes was Ossian! I went,
in suit of the maid, to Lego’s sable surge.[102] Twelve of my people
were there, the sons of streamy Morven! We came to Branno, friend of
strangers! Branno of the sounding mail! “From whence,” he said, “are
the arms of steel? Not easy to win is the maid, who has denied the
blue-eyed sons of Erin! But blessed be thou, O son of Fingal! Happy is
the maid that waits thee! Though twelve daughters of beauty were mine,
thine were the choice, thou son of fame!”
He opened the hall of the maid, the dark-haired Everallin. Joy kindled
in our manly breasts. We blessed the maid of Branno. “Above us on the
hill appeared the people of stately Cormac. Eight were the heroes of
the chief. The heath flamed wide with their arms. There Colla; there
Durra of wounds; there mighty Toscar, and Tago; there Frestal, the
victorious, stood; Dairo of the happy deeds: Dala, the battle’s bulwark
in the narrow way! The sword flamed in the hand of Cormac. Graceful
was the look of the hero! Eight were the heroes of Ossian. Ullin,
stormy son of war. Mullo of the generous deeds. The noble, the graceful
Scelacha. Oglan, and Cerdal the wrathful. Dumariccan’s brows of death!
And why should Ogar be the last; so wide renowned on the hills of
Ardven?”
“Ogar met Dala the strong, face to face, on the field of heroes. The
battle of the chiefs was like wind on ocean’s foamy waves. The dagger
is remembered by Ogar; the weapon which he loved. Nine times he drowned
it in Dala’s side. The stormy battle turned. Three times I broke on
Cormac’s shield: three times he broke his spear. But unhappy youth
of love! I cut his head away. Five times I shook it by the lock. The
friends of Cormac fled. Whoever would have told me, lovely maid, when
then I strove in battle; that blind, forsaken, and forlorn I now should
pass the night; firm ought his mail to have been; unmatched his arm in
war!”
On[103] Lena’s gloomy heath, the voice of music died away. The
unconstant blast blew hard. The high oak shook its leaves around. Of
Everallin were my thoughts, when in all the light of beauty she came.
Her blue eyes rolling in tears. She stood on a cloud before my sight,
and spoke with feeble voice. “Rise, Ossian, rise, and save my son; save
Oscar, prince of men. Near the red oak of Lubar’s stream, he fights
with Lochlin’s sons.” She sunk into her cloud again. I covered me with
steel. My spear supported my steps; my rattling armour rung. I hummed,
as I was wont in danger, the songs of heroes of old. Like distant
thunder Lochlin heard. They fled; my son pursued.
I called him like a distant stream. Oscar, return over Lena. “No
further pursue the foe,” I said, “though Ossian is behind thee.” He
came! and pleasant to my ear was Oscar’s sounding steel. “Why didst
thou stop my hand,” he said, “till death had covered all? For dark and
dreadful by the stream they met thy son and Fillan! They watched the
terrors of the night. Our swords have conquered some. But as the winds
of night pour the ocean over the white sands of Mora, so dark advance
the sons of Lochlin, over Lena’s rustling heath! The ghosts of night
shriek afar: I have seen the meteors of death. Let me awake the king of
Morven, he that smiles in danger! He that is like the sun of heaven,
rising in a storm!”
Fingal had started from a dream, and leaned on Trenmor’s shield; the
dark-brown shield of his fathers; which they had lifted of old in war.
The hero had seen, in his rest, the mournful form of Agandecca. She
came from the way of the ocean. She slowly, lonely, moved over Lena.
Her face was pale like the mist of Cromla. Dark were the tears of her
cheek. She often raised her dim hand from her robe; her robe which was
of the clouds of the desert; she raised her dim hand over Fingal, and
turned away her silent eyes. “Why weeps the daughter of Starno?” said
Fingal with a sigh; “why is thy face so pale, fair wanderer of the
clouds?” She departed on the wind of Lena.[104] She left him in the
midst of the night. She mourned the sons of her people, that were to
fall by the hand of Fingal.
The hero started from rest. Still he beheld her in his soul. The sound
of Oscar’s steps approached. The king saw the grey shield on his side:
For the faint beam of the morning came over the waters of Ullin. “What
do the foes in their fear?” said the rising king of Morven; “or fly
they through ocean’s foam, or wait they the battle of steel? But why
should Fingal ask? I hear their voice on the early wind! Fly over
Lena’s heath: O Oscar, awake our friends!”
The king stood by the stone of Lubar.[105] Thrice he reared his
terrible voice. The deer started from the fountains of Cromla.
The rocks shook on all their hills. Like the noise of a hundred
mountain-streams, that burst, and roar, and foam! like the clouds that
gather to a tempest on the blue face of the sky! so met the sons of the
desert, round the terrible voice of Fingal. Pleasant was the voice of
the king of Morven to the warriors of his land. Often had he led them
to battle; often returned with the spoils of the foe!
“Come to battle,” said the king, “ye children of echoing Selma! Come
to the death of thousands. Comhal’s son will see the fight. My sword
shall wave on the hill the defence of my people in war. But never
may you need it, warriors: while the son of Morni fights, the chief
of mighty men! He shall lead my battle; that his fame will rise in
song! O ye ghosts of heroes dead! ye riders of the storm of Cromla!
receive my falling people with joy, and bear them to your hills. And
may the blast of Lena carry them over my seas, that they may come to my
silent dreams, and delight my soul in rest! Fillan and Oscar, of the
dark-brown hair! fair Ryno, with the pointed steel! advance with valour
to the fight. Behold the son of Morni! Let your swords be like his in
strife: behold the deeds of his hands. Protect the friends of your
father. Remember the chiefs of old. My children, I will see you yet,
though here you should fall in Erin. Soon shall our cold, pale ghosts
meet in a cloud on Cona’s eddying winds!”
Now like a dark and stormy cloud, edged round with the red lightning
of heaven; flying westward from the morning’s beam, the king of Selma
removed. Terrible is the light of his armour; two spears are in his
hand. His grey hair falls on the wind. He often looks back on the war.
Three bards attend the son of fame, to bear his words to the chiefs.
High on Cromla’s side he sat, waving the lightning of his sword, and as
he waved we moved.
Joy rises in Oscar’s face. His cheek is red. His eye sheds tears. The
sword is a beam of fire in his hand. He came, and smiling, spoke to
Ossian. “O ruler of the fight of steel! my father, hear thy son! Retire
with Morven’s mighty chief. Give me the fame of Ossian. If here I fall:
O chief, remember that breast of snow, the lonely sunbeam of my love,
the white-handed daughter of Toscar! For, with red cheek from the rock,
bending over the stream, her soft hair flies about her bosom, as she
pours the sigh for Oscar. Tell her I am on my hills, a lightly-bounding
son of the wind; tell her, that in a cloud, I may meet the lovely maid
of Toscar.” “Raise, Oscar, rather raise my tomb. I will not yield the
war to thee. The first and bloodiest in the strife, my arm shall teach
thee how to fight. But, remember, my son, to place this sword, this
bow, the horn of my deer, within that dark and narrow house, whose mark
is one grey stone! Oscar, I have no love to leave to the care of my
son. Everallin is no more, the lovely daughter of Branno!”
Such were our words, when Gaul’s loud voice came growing on the wind.
He waved on high the sword of his father. We rushed to death and
wounds. As waves, white-bubbling over the deep, come swelling, roaring
on; as rocks of ooze meet roaring waves; so foes attacked and fought.
Man met with man, and steel with steel. Shields sound, and warriors
fall. As a hundred hammers on the red son of the furnace, so rose, so
rung their swords!
Gaul rushed on, like a whirlwind in Ardven. The destruction of heroes
is on his sword. Swaran was like the fire of the desert in the echoing
heath of Gormal! How can I give to the song the death of many spears?
My sword rose high, and flamed in the strife of blood. Oscar, terrible
wert thou, my best, my greatest son! I rejoiced in my secret soul, when
his sword flamed over the slain. They fled amain through Lena’s heath.
We pursued and slew. As stones that bound from rock to rock; as axes
in echoing woods; as thunder rolls from hill to hill, in dismal broken
peals; so blow succeeded to blow, and death to death, from the hands of
Oscar and Ossian.
But Swaran closed round Morni’s son, as the strength of the tide
of Inistore. The king half-rose from his hill at the sight. He
half-assumed the spear. “Go, Ullin,[106] go, my aged bard,” begun
the king of Morven. “Remind the mighty Gaul of war. Remind him of
his fathers. Support the yielding fight with song; for song enlivens
war.” Tall Ullin went, with step of age, and spoke to the king of
swords. “Son[107] of the chief of generous steeds! high-bounding king
of spears. Strong arm in every perilous toil. Hard heart that never
yields. Chief of the pointed arms of death. Cut down the foe; let no
white sail bound round dark Inistore. Be thine arm like thunder, thine
eyes like fire, thy heart of solid rock. Whirl round thy sword as a
meteor at night; lift thy shield like the flame of death. Son of the
chief of generous steeds, cut down the foe. Destroy!” The hero’s heart
beat high. But Swaran came with battle. He cleft the shield of Gaul in
twain. The sons of Selma fled.
Fingal at once arose in arms. Thrice he reared his dreadful voice.
Cromla answered around.[108] The sons of the desert stood still. They
bent their blushing faces to earth, ashamed at the presence of the
king. He came, like a cloud of rain in the day of the sun, when slow it
rolls on the hills, and fields expect the shower. Silence attends its
slow progress aloft; but the tempest is soon to arise. Swaran beheld
the terrible king of Morven. He stopped in the midst of his course.
Dark he leaned on his spear, rolling his red eyes around. Silent and
tall, he seemed as an oak on the banks of Lubar, which had his branches
blasted of old by the lightning of heaven. It bends over the stream:
the grey moss whistles in the wind: so stood the king. Then slowly he
retired to the rising heath of Lena. His thousands pour around the
hero. Darkness gathers on the hill!
Fingal, like a beam from heaven, shone in the midst of his people. His
heroes gather around him. He sends forth the voice of his power. “Raise
my standards on high; spread them on Lena’s wind, like the flames of
an hundred hills! Let them sound on the winds of Erin and remind us of
the fight. Ye sons of the roaring streams, that pour from a thousand
hills, be near the king of Morven! attend to the words of his power!
Gaul, strongest arm of death! O Oscar, of the future fights! Connal,
son of the blue shields of Sora! Dermid of the dark-brown hair![109]
Ossian, king of many songs, be near your father’s arm!” We reared the
sun-beam[110] of battle; the standard of the king! Each hero exulted
with joy, as, waving, it flew on the wind. It was studded with gold
above, as the blue wide shell of the nightly sky. Each hero had his
standard too; and each his gloomy men!
“Behold,” said the king of generous shells, “how Lochlin divides on
Lena! They stand like broken clouds on a hill; or an half-consumed
grove of oaks; when we see the sky through its branches, and the meteor
passing behind! Let every chief among the friends of Fingal take a dark
troop of those that frown so high: Nor let a son of the echoing groves
bound on the waves of Inistore!”
“Mine,” said Gaul, “be the seven chiefs, that came from Lano’s lake.”
“Let Inistore’s dark king,” said Oscar, “come to the sword of Ossian’s
son.” “To mine the king of Iniscon,” said Connal, “heart of steel!”
“Or Mudan’s chief or I,” said brown-haired Dermid, “shall sleep on
clay-cold earth.” My choice though now so weak and dark, was Terman’s
battling king; I promised with my hand to win the hero’s dark-brown
shield. “Blest and victorious be my chiefs,” said Fingal of the mildest
look. “Swaran, king of roaring waves, thou art the choice of Fingal!”
Now, like an hundred different winds, that pour through many vales;
divided, dark the sons of Selma advanced. Cromla echoed around! “How
can I relate the deaths, when we closed in the strife of arms! O
daughter of Toscar! bloody were our hands! The gloomy ranks of Lochlin
fell, like the banks of the roaring Cona! Our arms were victorious on
Lena: each chief fulfilled his promise! Beside the murmur of Branno
thou didst often sit, O maid! thy white bosom rose frequent, like the
down of the swan when slow she swims on the lake, and sidelong winds
blow on her ruffled wing. Thou hast seen the sun retire, red and slow
behind his cloud: night gathering round on the mountain, while the
unfrequent blast roared in the narrow vales. At length the rain beats
hard: thunder rolls in peals. Lightning glances on the rocks! Spirits
ride on beams of fire! The strength of the mountain-streams comes
roaring down the hills. Such was the noise of battle, maid of the arms
of snow! Why, daughter of Toscar, why that tear? The maids of Lochlin
have cause to weep! The people of their country fell. Bloody were the
blue swords of the race of my heroes! But I am sad, forlorn, and blind:
no more the companion of heroes! Give, lovely maid, to me thy tears. I
have seen the tombs of all my friends!”
It was then, by Fingal’s hand, a hero fell, to his grief! Grey-haired
he rolled in the dust. He lifted his faint eyes to the king: “And is
it by me thou hast fallen,” said the son of Comhal, “thou friend of
Agandecca! I have seen thy tears for the maid of my love in the halls
of the bloody Starno! Thou hast been the foe of the foes of my love,
and hast thou fallen by my hand? Raise, Ullin, raise the grave of
Mathon; and give his name to Agandecca’s song. Dear to my soul hast
thou been, thou darkly-dwelling maid of Ardven!”
Cuthullin, from the cave of Cromla, heard the noise of the troubled
war.[111] He called to Connal chief of swords; to Carril of other
times. The grey-haired heroes heard his voice. They took their pointed
spears. They came, and saw the tide of battle, like ocean’s crowded
waves: when the dark wind blows from the deep, and rolls the billows
through the sandy vale! Cuthullin kindled at the sight. Darkness
gathered on his brow. His hand is on the sword of his fathers: his
red-rolling eyes on the foe. He thrice attempted to rush to battle.
He thrice was stopt by Connal. “Chief of the isle of mist,” he said,
“Fingal subdues the foe. Seek not a part of the fame of the king; he
himself is like the storm!”
“Then, Carril, go,” replied the chief, “go, greet the king of Morven.
When Lochlin falls away like a stream after rain: when the noise of the
battle is past. Then be thy voice sweet in his ear to praise the king
of Selma! Give him the sword of Câthba.[112] Cuthullin is not worthy to
lift the arms of his fathers! Come, O ye ghosts of the lonely Cromla!
ye souls of chiefs that are no more! be near the steps of Cuthullin;
talk to him in the cave of his grief. Never more shall I be renowned,
among the mighty in the land. I am a beam that has shone; a mist that
has fled away: when the blast of the morning came, and brightened the
shaggy side of the hill: Connal! talk of arms no more: departed is my
fame. My sighs shall be on Cromla’s wind; till my footsteps cease to be
seen. And thou, white-bosomed Bragela, mourn over the fall of my fame:
vanquished, I will never return to thee, thou sunbeam of my soul!”
FOOTNOTES:
[101] Fingal being asleep, and the action suspended by night, the poet
introduces the story of his courtship of Everallin, the daughter of
Branno. The episode is necessary to clear up several passages that
follow in the poem; at the same time that it naturally brings on the
action of the book, which may be supposed to begin about the middle of
the third night from the opening of the poem. This book, as many of
Ossian’s other compositions, is addressed to the beautiful Malvina, the
daughter of Toscar. She appears to have been in love with Oscar, and to
have affected the company of the father after the death of the son.
[102] This passage describes the situation of the seat of Branno, the
grandfather of Oscar.--The _Legon_ has no _sable surge_ until one
arrives in the neighbourhood of Lisburn--between that and Belfast it
glides gently along oozy and reedy shores. _C._
[103] The poet returns to his subject. If one could fix the time of the
year in which the action of the poem happened, from the scene described
here, I should be tempted to place it in autumn. The trees shed their
leaves, and the winds are variable, both which circumstances agree with
that season of the year. _M._--The above is highly probable, as it is
not likely that the Scandinavians would, in winter, venture across the
North Sea in the galleys or ships of those times--namely, wicker-work
canoes covered with hides. _C._
[104] It is remarkable, and also a proof of the genuineness and
authenticity of the Poems, that Ossian generally draws his similes from
objects around him--the fair spirit moved over _Lena_--pale as the mist
of _Cromla_, and departed on the winds of _Lena_. _C._
[105] The many large monumental stones in the neighbourhood of Lubar,
and on the heath of Lena, are further proofs of the authenticity of
Ossian.
[106] This Ullin--Ulster--was the chief Bard of the Royal House of
Ulster, Temora,--Connor--and accompanied Fingal in all his battles in
Ireland. _C._
[107] The custom of encouraging men in battle with extempore rhymes
has been carried down almost to our own times. Several of these war
songs are extant, but the most of them are only a group of epithets,
without either beauty or harmony, utterly destitute of poetical merit.
(Macpherson did not know Irish-Gaelic or the metrical artifices of the
bards. _S._)
[108] The armies must have been near the cave-hill--Cromla,--to enable
the voice of Fingal to echo through its rocks. _C._
[109] Diarmuid O’Duibhue, the _beau chevalier_ of the Fingalians, the
lover of Grainne.
[110] Fingal’s standard was distinguished by the name of _sun-beam_;
probably on account of its bright colour, and its being studded with
gold. To begin a battle is expressed, in old composition, by _lifting
of the sun-beam_.
[111] In the south side of the Cave-hill, which is very like the rock
of Gibraltar, but more lofty, there are some beautiful caves--I have
visited two of them--the third and the highest, from the craggy side of
_Cromla_, having given way, is now unapproachable. Warriors or Druids
have dwelt here. _C._
[112] Caithbat.
BOOK V
ARGUMENT
Cuthullin and Connal still remain on the hill. Fingal and Swaran
meet; the combat is described. Swaran is overcome, bound and
delivered over as a prisoner to the care of Ossian, and Gaul, the
son of Morni; Fingal, his younger sons, and Oscar, still pursue
the enemy. The episode of Orla, a chief of Lochlin, who was
mortally wounded in the battle, is introduced. Fingal, touched
with the death of Orla, orders the pursuit to be discontinued;
and calling his sons together, he is informed that Ryno, the
youngest of them, was slain. He laments his death, hears the
story of Lamderg and Gelchossa, and returns towards the place
where he had left Swaran. Carril, who had been sent by Cuthullin
to congratulate Fingal on his victory, comes in the meantime to
Ossian. The conversation of the two poets closes the action of
the fourth day.
On Cromla’s resounding side, Connal spoke to the chief of the noble
car. Why that gloom, son of Semo? Our friends are the mighty in fight.
Renowned art thou, O warrior! many were the deaths of thy steel. Often
has Bragela met, with blue-rolling eyes of joy, often has she met her
hero, returning in the midst of the valiant; when his sword was red
with slaughter; when his foes were silent in the fields of the tomb.
Pleasant to her ears were thy bards, when thy deeds arose in song.
But behold the king of Morven! He moves, below, like a pillar of fire.
His strength is like the stream of Lubar,[113] or the wind of the
echoing Cromla; when the branchy forests of night are torn from all
their rocks! Happy are thy people, O Fingal! thine arm shall finish
their wars. Thou art the first in their dangers; the wisest in the
days of their peace. Thou speakest, and thy thousands obey: armies
tremble at the sound of thy steel. Happy are thy people, O Fingal! king
of resounding Selma! Who is that so dark and terrible coming in the
thunder of his course? who but Starno’s son to meet the king of Morven?
Behold the battle of the chiefs! It is the storm of the ocean, when two
spirits meet far distant, and contend for the rolling of waves. The
hunter hears the noise on his hill. He sees the high billows advancing
to Ardven’s shore!
Such were the words of Connal when the heroes met in fight. There
was the clang of arms! their every blow like the hundred hammers of
the furnace! Terrible is the battle of the kings; dreadful the look
of their eyes. Their dark-brown shields are cleft in twain. Their
steel flies, broken, from their helms. They fling their weapons down.
Each rushes to his hero’s grasp: their sinewy arms bend round each
other: they turn from side to side, and strain and stretch their large
spreading limbs below. But when the pride of their strength arose, they
shook the hill with their heels. Rocks tumble from their places on
high; the green-headed bushes are overturned. At length the strength of
Swaran fell; the king of the groves is bound. Thus have I seen on Cona;
but Cona I behold no more! thus have I seen two dark hills, removed
from their place, by the strength of the bursting stream. They turn
from side to side in their fall; their tall oaks meet one another on
high. Then they tumble together with all their rocks and trees. The
streams are turned by their side. The red ruin is seen afar.
“Sons of distant Morven,” said Fingal, “guard the king of Lochlin! he
is strong as his thousand waves. His hand is taught to war. His race
is of the times of old. Gaul, thou first of my heroes; Ossian, king of
songs, attend. He is the friend of Agandecca; raise to joy his grief.
But, Oscar, Fillan, and Ryno, ye children of the race! pursue Lochlin
over Lena; that no vessel may hereafter bound on the dark-rolling waves
of Inistore!”
They flew sudden across the heath. He slowly moved, like a cloud of
thunder, when the sultry plain of summer is silent and dark; his sword
is before him as a sun-beam; terrible as the streaming meteor of night.
He came toward a chief of Lochlin. He spoke to the son of the wave.
“Who is that so dark and sad, at the rock of the roaring stream? He
cannot bound over its course: How stately is the chief! his bossy
shield is on his side; his spear like the tree of the desert! Youth of
the dark-red hair, art thou of the foes of Fingal?”
“I am a son of Lochlin,” he cries, “strong is my arm in war. My spouse
is weeping at home. Orla shall never return!” “Or fights or yields
the hero?” said Fingal of the noble deeds; “Foes do not conquer in my
presence: my friends are renowned in the hall. Son of the wave, follow
me, partake the feast of my shells: pursue the deer of my desert:
be thou the friend of Fingal.” “No,” said the hero; “I assist the
feeble. My strength is with the weak in arms. My sword has been always
unmatched, O warrior! let the king of Morven yield!” “I never yielded,
Orla! Fingal never yielded to man. Draw thy sword and choose thy foe.
Many are my heroes!”
“Does then the king refuse the fight?” said Orla of the dark-brown
shield. “Fingal is a match for Orla; and he alone of all his race!
But, king of Morven, if I shall fall; as one time the warrior must
die; raise my tomb in the midst: let it be the greatest on Lena.
Send, over the dark-blue wave, the sword of Orla to the spouse of
his love; that she may shew it to her son, with tears, to kindle his
soul to war.” “Son of the mournful tale,” said Fingal, “why dost thou
awaken my tears? One day the warriors must die, and the children see
their useless arms in the hall. But, Orla! thy tomb shall rise. Thy
white-bosomed spouse shall weep over thy sword.”
They fought on the heath of Lena. Feeble was the arm of Orla. The
sword of Fingal descended, and cleft his shield in twain. It fell and
glittered on the ground, as the moon on the ruffled stream. “King of
Morven,” said the hero, “lift thy sword and pierce my breast. Wounded
and faint from battle, my friends have left me here. The mournful tale
shall come to my love on the banks of the streamy Lota; when she is
alone in the wood; and the rustling blast in the leaves!”
“No!” said the king of Morven, “I will never wound thee, Orla. On the
banks of Lota let her see thee, escaped from the hands of war. Let thy
grey-haired father, who, perhaps, is blind with age; let him hear the
sound of thy voice, and brighten within his hall. With joy let the hero
rise, and search for his son with his hands!” “But never will he find
him, Fingal,” said the youth of the streamy Lota. “On Lena’s heath I
must die; foreign bards shall talk of me. My broad belt covers my wound
of death. I give it to the wind!”
The dark blood poured from his side, he fell pale on the heath of
Lena. Fingal bent over him as he dies, and called his younger chiefs.
“Oscar and Fillan, my sons, raise high the memory of Orla. Here let the
dark-haired hero rest, far from the spouse of his love. Here let him
rest in his narrow house, far from the sound of Lota. The feeble will
find his bow at home; but will not be able to bend it. His faithful
dogs howl on his hills; his boars, which he used to pursue, rejoice.
Fallen is the arm of battle! the mighty among the valiant is low! Exalt
the voice, and blow the horn, ye sons of the king of Morven! Let us
go back to Swaran, to send the night away on song. Fillan, Oscar, and
Ryno, fly over the heath of Lena. Where, Ryno, art thou, young son of
fame? Thou art not wont to be the last to answer thy father’s voice!”
“Ryno,” said Ullin, first of bards, “is with the awful forms of his
fathers. With Trathal, king of shields; with Trenmor of mighty deeds.
The youth is low, the youth is pale, he lies on Lena’s heath!” “Fell
the swiftest in the race,” said the king, “the first to bend the bow?
Thou scarce hast been known to me! why did young Ryno fall? But sleep
thou softly on Lena, Fingal shall soon behold thee. Soon shall my voice
be heard no more, and my footsteps cease to be seen. The bards will
tell of Fingal’s name. The stones will talk of me. But, Ryno, thou art
low indeed! thou hast not received thy fame. Ullin, strike the harp
for Ryno; tell what the chief would have been. Farewell, thou first in
every field! No more shall I direct thy dart! Thou that hast been so
fair! I behold thee not. Farewell.” The tear is on the cheek of the
king, for terrible was his son in war. His son! that was like a beam of
fire by night on a hill; when the forests sink down in its course, and
the traveller trembles at the sound! But the winds drive it beyond the
steep. It sinks from sight, and darkness prevails.
“Whose fame is in that dark-green tomb?” begun the king of generous
shells; “four stones with their heads of moss stand there! They mark
the narrow house of death. Near it let Ryno rest. A neighbour to the
brave let him lie. Some chief of fame is here, to fly, with my son, on
clouds. O Ullin, raise the songs of old. Awake their memory in their
tomb. If in the field they never fled, my son shall rest by their side.
He shall rest, far distant from Morven, on Lena’s resounding plains!”
“Here,” said the bard of song, “here rest the first of heroes. Silent
is Lamderg[114] in this place: dumb is Ullin, king of swords. And who,
soft smiling from her cloud, shews me her face of love? Why, daughter,
why so pale art thou, first of the maids of Cromla? Dost thou sleep
with the foes in battle, white-bosomed daughter of Tuathal? Thou hast
been the love of thousands, but Lamderg was thy love. He came to
Selma’s mossy towers, and, striking his dark buckler, spoke: “Where is
Gelchossa, my love, the daughter of the noble Tuathal? I left her in
the hall of Selma, when I fought with great Ulfada. “Return soon, O
Lamderg!” she said, “for here I sit in grief.” Her white breast rose
with sighs. Her cheek was wet with tears. But I see her not coming to
meet me; to soothe my soul after war. Silent is the hall of my joy! I
hear not the voice of the bard. Bran[115] does not shake his chains at
the gate, glad at the coming of Lamderg. Where is Gelchossa, my love,
the mild daughter of the generous Tuathal?””
“Lamderg!” says Ferchios, son of Aidon, “Gelchossa moves stately
on Cromla. She and the maids of the bow pursue the flying deer!”
“Ferchios!” replied the chief of Cromla, “no noise meets the ear of
Lamderg! No sound is in the woods of Lena. No deer fly in my sight.
No panting dog pursues. I see not Gelchossa, my love, fair as the
full moon setting on the hills. Go, Ferchios, go to Allad,[116] the
grey-haired son of the rock. His dwelling is in the circle of stones.
He may know of the bright Gelchossa!”
The son of Aidon went. He spoke to the ear of age. “Allad! dweller
of rocks: thou that tremblest alone! what saw thine eyes of age?” “I
saw,” answered Allad the old, “Ullin the son of Cairbar. He came,
in darkness, from Cromla. He hummed a surly song, like a blast in
a leafless wood. He entered the hall of Selma. “Lamderg,” he said,
“most dreadful of men, fight, or yield to Ullin.” “Lamderg,” replied
Gelchossa, “the son of battle, is not here. He fights Ulfada mighty
chief. He is not here, thou first of men! But Lamderg never yields. He
will fight the son of Cairbar!” “Lovely art thou,” said terrible Ullin,
“daughter of the generous Tuathal. I carry thee to Cairbar’s halls. The
valiant shall have Gelchossa. Three days I remain on Cromla, to wait
that son of battle, Lamderg. On the fourth Gelchossa is mine; if the
mighty Lamderg flies.””
“Allad!” said the chief of Cromla, “peace to thy dreams in the cave.
Ferchios, sound the horn of Lamderg, that Ullin may hear in his halls.”
Lamderg, like a roaring storm, ascended the hill from Selma. He hummed
a surly song as he went, like the noise of a falling stream. He darkly
stood upon the hill, like a cloud varying its form to the wind. He
rolled a stone, the sign of war. Ullin heard in Cairbar’s hall. The
hero heard, with joy, his foe. He took his father’s spear. A smile
brightens his dark-brown cheek, as he places his sword by his side. The
dagger glittered in his hand. He whistled as he went.
“Gelchossa saw the silent chief, as a wreath of mist ascending the
hill. She struck her white and heaving breast; and silent, tearful,
feared for Lamderg. “Cairbar, hoary chief of shells,” said the maid of
the tender hand, “I must bend the bow on Cromla. I see the dark-brown
hinds!” She hasted up the hill. In vain! the gloomy heroes fought.
Why should I tell to Selma’s king, how wrathful heroes fight? Fierce
Ullin fell. Young Lamderg came, all pale, to the daughter of generous
Tuathal! “What blood, my love?” she trembling said: “what blood runs
down my warrior’s side?” “It is Ullin’s blood,” the chief replied,
“thou fairer than the snow! Gelchossa, let me rest here a little
while.” The mighty Lamderg died! “And sleepest thou so soon on earth,
O chief of shady Selma?” Three days she mourned beside her love. The
hunters found her cold. They raised this tomb above the three. Thy son,
O king of Morven, may rest here with heroes!”
“And here my son shall rest,” said Fingal. “The voice of their fame is
in mine ears. Fillan and Fergus! bring hither Orla; the pale youth of
the stream of Lota! Not unequalled shall Ryno lie in earth, when Orla
is by his side. Weep, ye daughters of Morven! ye maids of the streamy
Lota, weep! Like a tree they grew on the hills. They have fallen like
the oak of the desert; when it lies across a stream, and withers in the
wind. Oscar! chief of every youth! thou seest how they have fallen.
Be thou like them, on earth renowned. Like them the song of bards.
Terrible were their forms in battle; but calm was Ryno in the days
of peace. He was like the bow of the shower seen far distant on the
stream; when the sun is setting on Mora; when silence dwells on the
hill of deer. Rest, youngest of my sons! rest, O Ryno! on Lena. We too
shall be no more. Warriors one day must fall!”[117]
Such was thy grief, thou king of swords, when Ryno lay on earth. What
must the grief of Ossian be, for thou thyself art gone! I hear not thy
distant voice on Cona. My eyes perceive thee not. Often forlorn and
dark I sit at thy tomb; and feel it with my hands. When I think I hear
thy voice, it is but the passing blast. Fingal has long since fallen
asleep, the ruler of the war!
Then Gaul and Ossian sat with Swaran, on the soft green banks of Lubar.
I touched the harp to please the king. But gloomy was his brow. He
rolled his red eyes towards Lena. The hero mourned his host. I raised
mine eyes to Cromla’s brow. I saw the son of generous Semo. Sad and
slow, he retired, from his hill, towards the lonely cave of Tura. He
saw Fingal victorious, and mixed his joy with grief. The sun is bright
on his armour. Connal slowly strode behind. They sunk behind the hill,
like two pillars of the fire of night: when winds pursue them over the
mountain, and the flaming heath resounds! Beside a stream of roaring
foam his cave is in a rock. One tree bends above it. The rushing winds
echo against its sides. Here rests the chief of Erin, the son of
generous Semo. His thoughts are on the battles he lost. The tear is on
his cheek. He mourned the departure of his fame, that fled like the
mist of Cona. O Bragela! thou art too far remote, to cheer the soul
of the hero. But let him see thy bright form in his mind: that his
thoughts may return to the lonely sunbeam of his love!
Who comes with the locks of age? It is the son of songs. “Hail, Carril
of other times! Thy voice is like the harp in the halls of Tura. Thy
words are pleasant as the shower which falls on the sunny field. Carril
of the times of old, why comest thou from the son of the generous Semo?”
“Ossian, king of swords,” replied the bard, “thou best can raise the
song. Long hast thou been known to Carril, thou ruler of war! Often
have I touched the harp to lovely Everallin. Thou too hast often joined
my voice, in Branno’s hall of generous shells. And often, amidst our
voices, was heard the mildest Everallin. One day she sung of Cormac’s
fall, the youth who died for her love. I saw the tears on her cheek,
and on thine, thou chief of men! Her soul was touched for the unhappy,
though she loved him not. How fair among a thousand maids was the
daughter of generous Branno!”
“Bring not, Carril,” I replied, “bring not her memory to my mind. My
soul must melt at the remembrance. My eyes must have their tears. Pale
in the earth is she, the softly-blushing fair of my love! But sit thou
on the heath, O bard! and let us hear thy voice. It is pleasant as the
gale of spring, that sighs on the hunter’s ear; when he awakens from
dreams of joy, and has heard the music of the spirits of the hill!”
FOOTNOTES:
[113] The Lubar--Six-mile water,--is the largest stream near
Cromla--Cave-hill,--and runs through the heath of Lena, at the south
foot of the hill Mora--it flows into Lochneagh,--the lake of roes of
Ossian! _C._
[114] Lamh-dhearg signifies _bloody hand_. Gelchossa, _white legged_.
Tuathal, _surly_. Ulfada, _long beard_. Ferchios, _the conqueror of
men_.
[115] Bran is a common name of greyhounds to this day. It is a custom
in the north of Scotland to give the names of the heroes mentioned in
this poem to their dogs; a proof that they are familiar to the ear, and
their fame generally known.
[116] Allad is a Druid: he is called the son of the rock, from his
dwelling in a cave; and the circle of stones here mentioned is the
pale of the Druidical temple. He is here consulted as one who had a
supernatural knowledge of things. From the Druids, no doubt, came the
ridiculous notion of the second sight which prevailed in the highlands
and isles.
[117] This beautiful, though mournful, tale or episode, is the
composition of the Irish bard Ullin--Ulster--the friend of Fingal. It
appears by this episode that whilst Lamderg fought with Ulfada--chief
of the O’Neills--his wife was carried off by Ullin, the son of Ulfada.
Ullin, or Ulster, was the title of the eldest son of the O’Neills,
kings of Ulster. _C._
BOOK VI
ARGUMENT
Night comes on. Fingal gives a feast to his army, at which Swaran
is present. The king commands Ullin his bard to give the _song
of peace_, a custom always observed at the end of a war. Ullin
relates the actions of Trenmor, great grandfather to Fingal, in
Scandinavia, and his marriage with Inibaca, the daughter of a
king of Lochlin, who was ancestor to Swaran; which consideration,
together with his being brother to Agandecca, with whom Fingal
was in love in his youth, induced the king to release him and
to permit him to return, with the remains of his army, into
Lochlin, upon his promise of never returning to Ireland in a
hostile manner. The night is spent in settling Swaran’s departure
in songs of bards, and in a conversation in which the story of
Grumal is introduced by Fingal. Morning comes. Swaran departs;
Fingal goes on a hunting party, and finding Cuthullin in the
cave of Cromla, comforts him, and sets sail, the next day, for
Scotland; which concludes the poem.
The clouds of night come rolling down. Darkness rests on the steeps of
Cromla. The stars of the north arise over the rolling of Erin’s waves:
they shew their heads of fire, through the flying mist of heaven. A
distant wind roars in the wood. Silent and dark is the plain of death!
Still on the dusky Lena arose in my ears the voice of Carril. He sung
of the friends of our youth; the days of former years; when we met on
the banks of the Lego: when we sent round the joy of the shell.[118]
Cromla answered to his voice. The ghosts of those he sung came in their
rustling winds. They were seen to bend with joy, towards the sound of
their praise!
Be thy soul blest, O Carril! in the midst of thy eddying winds. O that
thou wouldst come to my hall, when I am alone by night! And thou dost
come, my friend. I hear often thy light hand on my harp; when it hangs,
on the distant wall, and the feeble sound touches my ear. Why dost thou
not speak to me in my grief, and tell when I shall behold my friends?
But thou passest away in thy murmuring blast; the wind whistles through
the grey hair of Ossian!
Now, on the side of Mora,[119] the heroes gathered to the feast. A
thousand aged oaks are burning to the wind. The strength of the shells
goes round. The souls of warriors brighten with joy. But the king of
Lochlin is silent. Sorrow reddens in his eyes of pride. He often turned
towards Lena. He remembered that he fell. Fingal leaned on the shield
of his fathers. His grey locks slowly waved on the wind, and glittered
to the beam of night. He saw the grief of Swaran, and spoke to the
first of bards.
“Raise, Ullin, raise the song of peace. O soothe my soul from war! Let
mine ear forget, in the sound, the dismal noise of arms. Let a hundred
harps be near to gladden the king of Lochlin. He must depart from us
with joy. None ever went sad from Fingal. Oscar! the lightning of my
sword is against the strong in fight. Peaceful it lies by my side when
warriors yield in war.
“Trenmor,”[120] said the mouth of songs, “lived in the days of other
years. He bounded over the waves of the north: companion of the storm!
The high rocks of the land of Lochlin; its groves of murmuring sounds
appeared to the hero through mist; he bound his white-bosomed sails.
Trenmor pursued the boar, that roared through the woods of Gormal.
Many had fled from its presence: but it had rolled in death on the
spear of Trenmor. Three chiefs, who beheld the deed, told of the mighty
stranger. They told that he stood, like a pillar of fire, in the bright
arms of his valour. The king of Lochlin prepared the feast. He called
the blooming Trenmor. Three days he feasted at Gormal’s windy towers;
and received his choice in the combat. The land of Lochlin had no hero
that yielded not to Trenmor. The shell of joy went round with songs, in
praise of the king of Morven. He that came over the waves, the first of
mighty men!”
Now, when the fourth grey morn arose, the hero launched his ship.
He walked along the silent shore, and called for the rushing wind.
For loud and distant he heard the blast murmuring behind the groves.
Covered over with arms of steel, a son of the woody Gormal appeared.
Red was his cheek and fair his hair. His skin like the snow of Morven.
Mild rolled his blue and smiling eye, when he spoke to the king of
swords.
“Stay, Trenmor, stay, thou first of men, thou hast not conquered
Lonval’s son. My sword has often met the brave. The wise shun the
strength of my bow.” “Thou fair-haired youth,” Trenmor replied, “I will
not fight with Lonval’s son. Thine arm is feeble, sun-beam of youth!
Retire to Gormal’s dark-brown hinds.” “But I will retire,” replied the
youth, “with the sword of Trenmor; and exult in the sound of my fame.
The virgins shall gather with smiles around him who conquered mighty
Trenmor. They shall sigh with the sighs of love, and admire the length
of thy spear; when I shall carry it among thousands; when I lift the
glittering point to the sun.”
“Thou shalt never carry my spear,” said the angry king of Morven.
“Thy mother shall find thee pale on the shore; and, looking over the
dark-blue deep, see the sails of him that slew her son!” “I will not
lift the spear,” replied the youth, “my arm is not strong with years.
But, with the feathered dart, I have learned to pierce a distant foe.
Throw down that heavy mail of steel. Trenmor is covered from death.
I, first, will lay my mail on earth. Throw now thy dart, thou king of
Morven!” He saw the heaving of her breast. It was the sister of the
king. She had seen him in the hall: and loved his face of youth. The
spear dropt from the hand of Trenmor: he bent his red cheek to the
ground. She was to him a beam of light that meets the sons of the cave;
when they revisit the fields of the sun, and bend their aching eyes!
“Chief of the windy Morven,” begun the maid of the arms of snow, “let
me rest in thy bounding ship far from the love of Corlo. For he, like
the thunder of the desert, is terrible to Inibaca. He loves me in the
gloom of pride. He shakes ten thousand spears!” “Rest thou in peace,”
said the mighty Trenmor, “rest behind the shield of my fathers. I will
not fly from the chief, though he shakes ten thousand spears!” Three
days he waited on the shore. He sent his horn abroad. He called Corlo
to battle, from all his echoing hills. But Corlo came not to battle.
The king of Lochlin descends from his hall. He feasted on the roaring
shore. He gave the maid to Trenmor.
“King of Lochlin,” said Fingal, “thy blood flows in the veins of thy
foe. Our fathers met in battle, because they loved the strife of
spears. But often did they feast in the hall: and send round the joy of
the shell. Let thy face brighten with gladness, and thine ear delight
in the harp. Dreadful as the storm of thine ocean, thou hast poured thy
valour forth; thy voice has been like the voice of thousands when they
engage in war. Raise, to-morrow, raise thy white sails to the wind,
thou brother of Agandecca! Bright as the beam of noon, she comes on my
mournful soul. I have seen thy tears for the fair one. I spared thee
in the halls of Starno; when my sword was red with slaughter; when my
eye was full of tears for the maid. Or dost thou choose the fight? The
combat which thy fathers gave to Trenmor is thine! that thou mayest
depart renowned, like the sun setting in the west!”
“King of the race of Morven!” said the chief of resounding Lochlin,
“never will Swaran fight with thee, first of a thousand heroes! I
have seen thee in the halls of Starno: few were thy years beyond my
own. When shall I, I said to my soul, lift the spear like the noble
Fingal? We have fought heretofore, O warrior, on the side of the shaggy
Malmor; after my waves had carried me to thy halls, and the feast of a
thousand shells was spread. Let the bards send his name who overcame
to future years, for noble was the strife of Malmor! But many of the
ships of Lochlin have lost their youths on Lena. Take these, thou king
of Morven, and be the friend of Swaran! When thy sons shall come to
Gormal, the feast of shells shall be spread, and the combat offered on
the vale.”
“Nor ship,” replied the king, “shall Fingal take, nor land of many
hills. The desert is enough to me, with all its deer and woods. Rise
on thy waves again, thou noble friend of Agandecca! Spread thy white
sails to the beam of the morning; return to the echoing hills of
Gormal.” “Blest be thy soul, thou king of shells,” said Swaran of the
dark-brown shield. “In peace thou art the gale of spring. In war the
mountain-storm. Take now my hand in friendship, king of echoing Selma!
Let thy bards mourn those who fell. Let Erin give the sons of Lochlin
to earth. Raise high the mossy stones of their fame: that the children
of the north hereafter may behold the place where their fathers fought.
The hunter may say, when he leans on a mossy tomb, here Fingal and
Swaran fought, the heroes of other years. Thus hereafter shall he say,
and our fame shall last for ever!”
“Swaran,” said the king of hills, “to-day our fame is greatest. We
shall pass away like a dream. No sound will remain in our fields of
war. Our tombs will be lost in the heath. The hunter shall not know the
place of our rest. Our names may be heard in song. What avails it when
our strength hath ceased? O, Ossian, Carril, and Ullin! you know of
heroes that are no more. Give us the song of other years. Let the night
pass away on the sound, and morning return with joy.”
We gave the song to the kings. A hundred harps mixed their sound with
our voice. The face of Swaran brightened, like the full moon of heaven:
when the clouds vanish away, and leave her calm and broad in the midst
of the sky.
“Where, Carril,” said the great Fingal, “Carril of other times! Where
is the son of Semo, the king of the isle of mist? has he retired, like
the meteor of death, to the dreary cave of Cromla?” “Cuthullin,” said
Carril of other times, “lies in the dreary cave of Cromla. His hand
is on the sword of his strength. His thoughts on the battles he lost.
Mournful is the king of spears; till now unconquered in war. He sends
his sword to rest on the side of Fingal. For, like the storm of the
desert, thou hast scattered all his foes. Take, O Fingal! the sword of
the hero. His fame is departed like mist, when it flies, before the
rustling wind, along the brightening vale.”
“No,” replied the king, “Fingal shall never take his sword. His arm
is mighty in war: his fame shall never fail. Many have been overcome
in battle; whose renown arose from their fall. O Swaran! king of
resounding woods, give all thy grief away. The vanquished, if brave,
are renowned. They are like the sun in a cloud, when he hides his face
in the south, but looks again on the hills of grass!”
“Grumal was a chief of Cona. He sought the battle on every coast. His
soul rejoiced in blood; his ear in the din of arms. He poured his
warriors on Craca; Craca’s king met him from his grove: for then,
within the circle of Brumo,[121] he spoke to the stone of power. Fierce
was the battle of the heroes, for the maid of the breast of snow. The
fame of the daughter of Craca had reached Grumal at the streams of
Cona: he vowed to have the white-bosomed maid, or die on echoing Craca.
Three days they strove together, and Grumal on the fourth was bound.
Far from his friends they placed him in the horrid circle of Brumo;
where often, they said, the ghosts of the dead howled round the stone
of their fear. But he afterwards shone like a pillar of the light of
heaven. They fell by his mighty hand. Grumal had all his fame.
“Raise, ye bards of other times,” continued the great Fingal, “raise
high the praise of heroes: that my soul may settle on their fame;
that the mind of Swaran may cease to be sad.” They lay in the heath
of Mora. The dark winds rustled over the chiefs. A hundred voices, at
once, arose: a hundred harps were strung. They sung of other times; the
mighty chiefs of former years. When now shall I hear the bard? When
rejoice at the fame of my fathers? The harp is not strung on Morven.
The voice of music ascends not on Cona. Dead, with the mighty, is the
bard. Fame is in the desert no more.
Morning trembles with the beam of the east; it glimmers on Cromla’s
side. Over Lena is heard the horn of Swaran. The sons of the ocean
gather around. Silent and sad they rise on the wave. The blast of Erin
is behind their sails. White, as the mist of Morven, they float along
the sea. “Call,” said Fingal, “call my dogs, the long-bounding sons of
the chase. Call white-breasted Bran, and the surly strength of Luath!
Fillan, and Ryno; but he is not here! My son rests on the bed of death.
Fillan and Fergus! blow the horn, that the joy of the chase may arise:
that the deer of Cromla may hear and start at the lake of roes.”[122]
The shrill sound spreads along the wood. The sons of heathy Cromla
arise. A thousand dogs fly off at once, grey-bounding through the
heath. A deer fell by every dog; three by the white-breasted Bran. He
brought them, in their flight, to Fingal, that the joy of the king
might be great! One deer fell at the tomb of Ryno. The grief of Fingal
returned. He saw how peaceful lay the stone of him, who was the first
at the chase! “No more shalt thou rise, O my son! to partake of the
feast of Cromla. Soon will thy tomb be hid, and the grass grow rank on
thy grave. The sons of the feeble shall pass along. They shall not know
where the mighty lies.
“Ossian and Fillan, sons of my strength! Gaul, chief of the blue steel
of war! let us ascend the hill to the cave of Cromla. Let us find the
chief of the battles of Erin. Are these the walls of Muri? grey and
lonely they rise on the heath. The chief of shells is sad, and the
halls are silent and lonely. Come, let us find Cuthullin, and give him
all our joy. But is that Cuthullin, O Fillan, or a pillar of smoke
on the heath? The wind of Cromla is on my eyes. I distinguish not my
friend.”
“Fingal!” replied the youth, “it is the son of Semo! Gloomy and sad
is the hero! his hand is on his sword. Hail to the son of battle,
breaker of the shields!” “Hail to thee,” replied Cuthullin, “hail to
all the sons of Morven! Delightful is thy presence, O Fingal! it is
the sun on Cromla; when the hunter mourns his absence for a season, and
sees him between the clouds. Thy sons are like stars that attend thy
course. They give light in the night. It is not thus thou hast seen me,
O Fingal! returning from the wars of thy land: when the kings of the
world[123] had fled, and joy returned to the hill of hinds!” “Many are
thy words, Cuthullin,” said Connan[124] of small renown. “Thy words are
many, son of Semo, but where are thy deeds in arms? Why did we come,
over ocean, to aid thy feeble sword? Thou fliest to thy cave of grief,
and Connan fights thy battles. Resign to me these arms of light. Yield
them, thou chief of Erin.” “No hero,” replied the chief, “ever sought
the arms of Cuthullin! and had a thousand heroes sought them, it were
in vain, thou gloomy youth! I fled not to the cave of grief, till Erin
failed at her streams.”
“Youth of the feeble arm,” said Fingal, “Connan, cease thy words!
Cuthullin is renowned in battle; terrible over the world. Often have I
heard thy fame, thou stormy chief of Inis-fail. Spread now thy white
sails for the isle of mist. See Bragela leaning on her rock. Her tender
eye is in tears; the wind lifts her long hair from her heaving breast.
She listens to breezes of night, to hear the voice of thy rowers[125]:
to hear the song of the sea! the sound of thy distant harp!”
“Long shall she listen in vain. Cuthullin shall never return! How can I
behold Bragela, to raise the sigh of her breast? Fingal, I was always
victorious, in battles of other spears!” “And hereafter thou shalt be
victorious,” said Fingal, of generous shells. “The fame of Cuthullin
shall grow, like the branchy tree of Cromla. Many battles await thee, O
chief! Many shall be the wounds of thy hand! Bring hither, Oscar, the
deer! Prepare the feast of shells. Let our souls rejoice after danger,
and our friends delight in our presence!”
We sat. We feasted. We sung. The soul of Cuthullin rose. The strength
of his arm returned. Gladness brightened along his face. Ullin gave the
song; Carril raised the voice. I joined the bards, and sung of battles
of the spear. Battles! where I often fought. Now I fight no more! The
fame of my former deeds is ceased. I sit forlorn at the tombs of my
friends!
Thus the night passed away in song. We brought back the morning with
joy. Fingal arose on the heath, and shook his glittering spear. He
moved first towards the plains of Lena.[126] We followed in all our
arms.
“Spread the sail,” said the king, “seize the winds as they pour from
Lena.”[127] We rose on the wave with songs. We rushed, with joy,
through the foam of the deep.
FOOTNOTES:
[118] At the Hall of Branno, near Lisburn, where Ossian married that
chieftain’s daughter, the beautiful Everallin, the mother of Oscar. _C._
[119] Here is a convincing proof of _Mora_ being the little chain of
high hills which bounds the Heath of Lena to the west--parallel with
Cromla and Belfast Loch, the Legon River, etc.--at whose western foot
stood _Temora_--now _Connor_. _C._
[120] Trenmor was great grandfather to Fingal. The story is introduced
to facilitate the dismission of Swaran.
[121] This passage alludes to the religion of the king of Craca.
[122] The _lake of Roes_ is evidently Lochneagh, whose north-east end
is bounded by a part of the ridge of Lena.
[123] This is the only passage in the poem wherein the wars of Fingal
against the Romans are alluded to: the Roman emperor is distinguished
in old compositions by the title of _king of the world_.
[124] Connan was of the family of Morni. He is mentioned in several
other poems, and always appears with the same character. The poet
passed him over in silence till now, and his behaviour here deserves no
better usage.
[125] The practice of singing when they row is universal among the
inhabitants of the north-west coast of Scotland and the isles. It
deceives time, and inspirits the rowers.
[126] I understand that Fingal was on the side of _Mora_, beyond the
_Lubar_, consequently, it was necessary to “move towards the plain of
_Lena_,” over which he had to pass to embark.
[127] The winds which poured from Lena were the winds necessary to waft
Fingal to Morven. _C._
THE DEATH OF CUTHULLIN
THE DEATH OF CUTHULLIN
A Poem
ARGUMENT
Cuthullin, after the arms of Fingal had expelled Swaran from Ireland,
continued to manage the affairs of that kingdom as the guardian
of Cormac, the young king. In the third year of Cuthullin’s
administration, Torlath, the son of Cantéla, rebelled in
Connaught; and advanced to Temora to dethrone Cormac. Cuthullin
marched against him, came up with him at the lake of Lego,
and totally defeated his forces. Torlath fell in battle by
Cuthullin’s hand; but as he too eagerly pressed on the enemy, he
was mortally wounded. The affairs of Cormac, though, for some
time, supported by Nathos, as mentioned in the following poem,
fell into confusion at the death of Cuthullin. Cormac himself was
slain by the rebel Cairbar; and the re-establishment of the royal
family of Ireland by Fingal, furnishes the subject of the epic
poem of Temora.
“Is the wind on the shield of Fingal? Or is the voice of past times in
my hall? Sing on, sweet voice! for thou art pleasant. Thou carriest
away my night with joy. Sing on, O Bragela, daughter of car-borne
Sorglan!”
“It is the white wave of the rock, and not Cuthullin’s sails. Often do
the mists deceive me for the ship of my love! when they rise round some
ghost, and spread their grey skirts on the wind. Why dost thou delay
thy coming, son of the generous Semo? Four times has autumn returned
with its winds, and raised the seas of Togorma,[128] since thou hast
been in the roar of battles, and Bragela distant far! Hills of the isle
of mist! when will ye answer to his hounds? But ye are dark in your
clouds. Sad Bragela calls in vain. Night comes rolling down. The face
of ocean fails. The heath-cock’s head is beneath his wing. The hind
sleeps, with the hart of the desert. They shall rise with morning’s
light, and feed by the mossy stream. But my tears return with the sun.
My sighs come on with the night. When wilt thou come in thine arms, O
chief of Erin’s wars?”
“Pleasant is thy voice in Ossian’s ear, daughter of car-borne Sorglan!
But retire to the hall of shells; to the beam of the burning oak.
Attend to the murmur of the sea: it rolls at Dunscaith’s walls: let
sleep descend on thy blue eyes. Let the hero arise in thy dreams!”
Cuthullin sits at Lego’s lake, at the dark rolling of waters. Night
is around the hero. His thousands spread on the heath. A hundred oaks
burn in the midst. The feast of shells is smoking wide. Carril strikes
the harp beneath a tree. His grey locks glitter in the beam. The
rustling blast of night is near, and lifts his aged hair. His song is
of the blue Togorma, and of its chief, Cuthullin’s friend! “Why art
thou absent, Connal, in the day of the gloomy storm? The chiefs of the
south have convened, against the car-borne Cormac. The winds detain thy
sails. Thy blue waters roll around thee. But Cormac is not alone. The
son of Semo fights his wars! Semo’s son his battles fights! the terror
of the stranger! He that is like the vapour of death, slowly borne by
sultry winds. The sun reddens in his presence: the people fall around.”
Such was the song of Carril, when a son of the foe appeared. He threw
down his pointless spear. He spoke the words of Torlath, Torlath,
chief of heroes, at Lego’s sable surge![129] He that led his thousands
to battle, against car-borne Cormac, Cormac who was distant far,
in Temora’s[130] echoing halls: he learned to bend the bow of his
fathers; and to lift the spear. Nor long didst thou lift the spear,
mildly-shining beam of youth! death stands dim behind thee, like the
darkened half of the moon behind its growing light! Cuthullin rose
before the bard,[131] that came from generous Torlath. He offered him
the shell of joy. He honoured the son of songs. “Sweet voice on Lego!”
he said, “what are the words of Torlath? Comes he to our feast or
battle, the car-borne son of Cantéla?”[132]
“He comes to thy battle,” replied the bard, “to the sounding strife of
spears. When morning is grey on Lego, Torlath will fight on the plain.
Wilt thou meet him in thine arms, king of the isle of mist? Terrible is
the spear of Torlath! it is a meteor of night. He lifts it, and the
people fall! death sits in the lightning of his sword!” “Do I fear,”
replied Cuthullin, “the spear of car-borne Torlath? He is brave as a
thousand heroes: but my soul delights in war! The sword rests not by
the side of Cuthullin, bard of the times of old! Morning shall meet me
on the plain, and gleam on the blue arms of Semo’s son. But sit thou
on the heath, O bard! and let us hear thy voice. Partake of the joyful
shell: and hear the songs of Temora!”
“This is no time,” replied the bard, “to hear the song of joy: when
the mighty are to meet in battle, like the strength of the waves of
Lego. Why art thou so dark, Slimora![133] with all thy silent woods? No
star trembles on thy top. No moon-beam on thy side. But the meteors of
death are there: the grey watery forms of ghosts. Why art thou dark,
Slimora! with thy silent woods?” He retired, in the sound of his song.
Carril joined his voice. The music was like the memory of joys that are
past, pleasant and mournful to the soul. The ghosts of departed bards
heard on Slimora’s side. Soft sounds spread along the wood. The silent
valleys of night rejoice. So, when he sits in the silence of the day,
in the valley of his breeze, the humming of the mountain bee comes to
Ossian’s ear: the gale drowns it in its course; but the pleasant sound
returns again. Slant looks the sun on the field! gradual grows the
shade of the hill!
“Raise,” said Cuthullin, to his hundred bards, “the song of the noble
Fingal: that song which he hears at night, when the dreams of his rest
descend: when the bards strike the distant harp, and the faint light
gleams on Selma’s walls. Or let the grief of Lara rise: the sighs of
the mother of Calmar,[134] when he was sought, in vain, on his hills;
when she beheld his bow in the hall. Carril, place the shield of
Caithbat on that branch. Let the spear of Cuthullin be near; that the
sound of my battle may rise, with the grey beam of the east.” The hero
leaned on his father’s shield: the song of Lara rose! The hundred bards
were distant far: Carril alone is near the chief. The words of the song
were his: the sound of his harp was mournful.
“Alclétha[135] with the aged locks! mother of car-borne Calmar! why
dost thou look toward the desert to behold the return of thy son? These
are not his heroes, dark on the heath: nor is that the voice of Calmar.
It is but the distant grove, Alclétha! but the roar of the mountain
wind!” “Who[136] bounds over Lara’s stream, sister of the noble Calmar?
Does not Alclétha behold his spear? But her eyes are dim! Is it not the
son of Matha, daughter of my love?”
“It is but an aged oak, Alclétha!” replied the lovely weeping
Alona.[137] “It is but an oak, Alclétha, bent over Lara’s stream.
But who comes along the plain? sorrow is in his speed. He lifts high
the spear of Calmar. Alclétha, it is covered with blood!” “But it is
covered with the blood of foes,[138] sister of car-borne Calmar! His
spear never returned unstained with blood: nor his bow from the strife
of the mighty. The battle is consumed in his presence: he is a flame
of death, Alona! Youth[139] of the mournful speed! where is the son of
Alclétha? Does he return with his fame, in the midst of his echoing
shields? Thou art dark and silent! Calmar is then no more! Tell me not,
warrior, how he fell. I must not hear of his wound! Why dost thou look
towards the desert, mother of low-laid Calmar?”
Such was the song of Carril, when Cuthullin lay on his shield. The
bards rested on their harps. Sleep fell softly around. The son of Semo
was awake alone. His soul was fixed on war. The burning oaks began to
decay. Faint red light is spread around. A feeble voice is heard. The
ghost of Calmar came! He stalked dimly along the beam. Dark is the
wound in his side. His hair is disordered and loose. Joy sits pale on
his face. He seems to invite Cuthullin to his cave.
“Son of the cloudy night!” said the rising chief of Erin. “Why dost
thou bend thy dark eyes on me, ghost of the noble Calmar? Wouldst
thou frighten me, O Matha’s son! from the battles of Cormac? Thy hand
was not feeble in war: neither was thy voice for peace. How art thou
changed, chief of Lara! if thou now dost advise to fly! But, Calmar,
I never fled. I never feared the ghosts of night. Small is their
knowledge, weak their hands; their dwelling is in the wind. But my soul
grows in danger, and rejoices in the noise of steel. Retire thou to thy
cave. Thou art not Calmar’s ghost. He delighted in battle. His arm was
like the thunder of heaven!” He retired in his blast with joy for he
had heard the voice of his praise.
The faint beam of the morning rose. The sound of Caithbat’s buckler
spread. Green Erin’s warriors convened, like the roar of many streams.
The horn of war is heard over Lego. The mighty Torlath came. “Why dost
thou come with thy thousands, Cuthullin?” said the chief on Lego. “I
know the strength of thy arm. Thy soul is an unextinguished fire. Why
fight we not on the plain, and let our hosts behold our deeds? Let them
behold us like roaring waves, that tumble round a rock: the mariners
hasten away, and look on their strife with fear.”
“Thou risest, like the sun, on my soul,” replied the son of Semo.
“Thine arm is mighty, O Torlath! and worthy of my wrath. Retire, ye men
of Ullin, to Slimora’s shady side. Behold the chief of Erin, in the day
of his fame. Carril! tell to mighty Connal, if Cuthullin must fall,
tell him I accused the winds, which roar on Togorma’s waves. Never was
he absent in battle, when the strife of my fame arose. Let his sword
be before Cormac, like the beam of heaven. Let his counsel sound in
Temora, in the day of danger.”
He rushed, in the sound of his arms, like the terrible spirit of
Loda,[140] when he comes, in the roar of a thousand storms, and
scatters battles from his eyes. He sits on a cloud over Lochlin’s
seas. His mighty hand is on his sword. Winds lift his flaming locks!
The waning moon half lights his dreadful face. His features blended in
darkness arise to view. So terrible was Cuthullin in the day of his
fame. Torlath fell by his hand. His heroes mourned. They gather round
the chief, like the clouds of the desert. A thousand swords rose at
once; a thousand arrows flew; but the son of Semo stood like a rock in
the midst of a roaring sea. They fell around. He strode in blood. Dark
Slimora echoed wide. The sons of Ullin[141] came. The battle spread
over Lego.[142] The chief of Erin overcame. He returned over the field
with his fame. But pale he returned! The joy of his face was dark. He
rolled his eyes in silence. The sword hung, unsheathed, in his hand.
His spear bent at every step.
“Carril,” said the chief in secret, “the strength of Cuthullin fails.
My days are with the years that are past. No morning of mine shall
arise. They shall seek me at Temora, but I shall not be found. Cormac
will weep in his hall, and say, “Where is Erin’s chief?” But my name is
renowned! my fame in the song of bards. The youth will say in secret,
“O let me die as Cuthullin died! Renown clothed him like a robe. The
light of his fame is great.” Draw the arrow from my side. Lay Cuthullin
beneath that oak. Place the shield of Câthba near, that they may behold
me amidst the arms of my fathers!”
“And is the son of Semo fallen?” said Carril with a sigh. “Mournful are
Tura’s walls. Sorrow dwells at Dunscaith. Thy spouse is left alone in
her youth. The son[143] of thy love is alone! He shall come to Bragela,
and ask her why she weeps? He shall lift his eyes to the wall, and see
his father’s sword. “Whose sword is that?” he will say. The soul of his
mother is sad. Who is that, like the hart of the desert, in the murmur
of his course? His eyes looked wildly round in search of his friend.
Connal, son of Colgar, where hast thou been, when the mighty fell? Did
the seas of Togorma roll around thee? Was the wind of the south in thy
sails? The mighty have fallen in battle, and thou wast not there. Let
none tell it in Selma, nor in Morven’s woody land. Fingal will be sad,
and the sons of the desert mourn!”
By the dark rolling waves of Lego they raised the hero’s tomb.
Luath,[144] at a distance, lies. The song of bards rose over the dead.
“Blest[145] be thy soul, son of Semo! Thou wert mighty in battle.
Thy strength was like the strength of a stream: thy speed like the
eagle’s wing. Thy path in battle was terrible: the steps of death were
behind thy sword. Blest be thy soul, son of Semo, car-borne chief of
Dunscaith! Thou hast not fallen by the sword of the mighty, neither was
thy blood on the spear of the brave. The arrow came, like the sting of
death in a blast: nor did the feeble hand, which drew the bow, perceive
it. Peace to thy soul, in thy cave, chief of the isle of mist!”
“The mighty are dispersed at Temora: there is none in Cormac’s hall.
The king mourns in his youth. He does not behold thy return. The sound
of thy shield is ceased: his foes are gathering round. Soft be thy
rest in thy cave, chief of Erin’s wars! Bragela will not hope for thy
return, or see thy sails in ocean’s foam. Her steps are not on the
shore: nor her ear open to the voice of thy rowers. She sits in the
hall of shells. She sees the arms of him that is no more. Thine eyes
are full of tears, daughter of car-borne Sorglan! Blest be thy soul in
death, O chief of shady Tura!”[146]
FOOTNOTES:
[128] Togorma--_i.e._ _the island of blue waves_--one of the Hebrides,
was subject to Connal, the son of Caithbat, Cuthullin’s friend. He is
sometimes called the son of Colgar, from one of that name who was the
founder of the family. Connal, a few days before the news of Torlath’s
revolt came to Temora, had sailed to Togorma, his native isle; where he
was detained by contrary winds during the war in which Cuthullin was
killed.
[129] Here it appears evident that Torlath, the chief of Connaught, had
advanced as far as the _sable surge of the Lego_,--near Lisburn--where
he was met and killed by Cuthullin, who also died of the wounds
received in the battle--for the purpose of dethroning the young Cormac.
_C._
[130] The royal palace of the Irish kings; Teamhrath, according to
some of the bards. _M._--About sixteen miles distant from the scene of
battle on Lego’s lake. _C._
[131] The bards were the heralds of ancient times; and their persons
were sacred on account of their office. In later times they abused that
privilege; and as their persons were inviolable, they satirised and
lampooned so freely those who were not liked by their patrons, that
they became a public nuisance. Screened under the character of heralds,
they grossly abused the enemy when he would not accept the terms they
offered.
[132] Cean-teola’, _head of a family_.
[133] Slia’mor, _a great hill_. _M._--There is a very remarkable
hill a few miles from Connor--Temora--which still bears the name of
Slieumors--and it is a detached and very conspicuous link of the
chain of Mora hills that bound Te-Mora--Connor--to the south-east and
north-east. _C._
[134] Calmar, the son of Matha. His death is related at large in the
third book of Fingal. He was the only son of Matha; and the family
was extinct in him. The seat of the family was on the banks of the
river _Lara_, in the neighbourhood of _Lego_, and probably near the
place where Cuthullin lay; which circumstance suggested to him the
lamentation of Alclétha over her son.
[135] Ald-cla’tha, _decaying beauty_; probably a poetical name given to
the mother of Calmar by the bard himself.
[136] Alclétha speaks. Calmar had promised to return by a certain
day, and his mother and sister Alona are represented as looking, with
impatience, towards that quarter where they expected Calmar should
first make his appearance.
[137] Alùine, _exquisitely beautiful_.
[138] Alclétha speaks.
[139] She addresses herself to Larnir, Calmar’s friend, who had
returned with the news of his death.
[140] Loda, in the third book of Fingal, is mentioned as a place of
worship in Scandinavia: by the _spirit of Loda_, the poet probably
means Odin, the great deity of the northern nations. He is described
here with all his terrors.
[141] Ulster.
[142] The Legon is not knee deep at the place where I imagine the
battle was fought on its banks. _C._
[143] Conloch, who was afterwards very famous for his great exploits
in Ireland. He was so remarkable for his dexterity in handling the
javelin, that when a good marksman is described, it has passed into
a proverb, in the north of Scotland, _He is unerring as the arm of
Conloch_.
[144] It was of old the custom to bury the favourite dog near the
master. This was not peculiar to the ancient Scots, for we find it
practised by many other nations in their ages of heroism. There is a
stone shewn still at Dunscaith, in the Isle of Skye, to which Cuthullin
commonly bound his dog Luath. The stone goes by his name to this day.
[145] This is the song of the bards over Cuthullin’s tomb. Every stanza
closes with some remarkable title of the hero, which was always the
custom in funeral elegies.
[146] Cuthullin, it appears, acquired this appellation from his general
residence at Tura--Carrickfergus. _C._
LATHMON
LATHMON
A Poem
ARGUMENT
Lathmon, a British prince, taking advantage of Fingal’s absence on
an expedition in Ireland, made a descent on Morven, and advanced
within sight of Selma, the royal residence. Fingal arrived in the
meantime, and Lathmon retreated to a hill, where his army was
surprised by night, and himself taken prisoner by Ossian, and
Gaul the son of Morni. The poem opens with the first appearance
of Fingal on the coast of Morven, and ends, it may be supposed,
about noon the next day.
Selma, thy halls are silent. There is no sound in the woods of Morven.
The wave tumbles alone on the coast. The silent beam of the sun is on
the field. The daughters of Morven come forth, like the bow of the
shower; they look towards green Erin for the white sails of the king.
He had promised to return, but the winds of the north arose!
Who pours from the eastern hill, like a stream of darkness? It is the
host of Lathmon. He has heard of the absence of Fingal. He trusts in
the wind of the north. His soul brightens with joy. Why dost thou
come, O Lathmon? The mighty are not in Selma. Why comest thou with thy
forward spear? Will the daughters of Morven fight? But stop, O mighty
stream, in thy course! Does not Lathmon behold these sails? Why dost
thou vanish, Lathmon, like the mist of the lake? But the squally storm
is behind thee; Fingal pursues thy steps!
The king of Morven had started from sleep, as we rolled on the
dark-blue wave. He stretched his hand to his spear, his heroes rose
around. We knew that he had seen his fathers, for they often descended
to his dreams, when the sword of the foe rose over the land; and the
battle darkened before us. “Whither hast thou fled, O wind?” said
the king of Morven. “Dost thou rustle in the chambers of the south,
pursuest thou the shower in other lands? Why dost thou not come to
my sails? to the blue face of my seas? The foe is in the land of
Morven, and the king is absent far. But let each bind on his mail, and
each assume his shield. Stretch every spear over the wave; let every
sword be unsheathed. Lathmon[147] is before us with his host: he that
fled[148] from Fingal on the plains of Lona. But he returns, like a
collected stream, and his roar is between our hills.”
Such were the words of Fingal. We rushed into Carmona’s bay.[149]
Ossian ascended the hill. He thrice struck his bossy shield. The rock
of Morven replied: the bounding roes came forth. The foe was troubled
in my presence: he collected his darkened host. I stood, like a cloud
on the hill, rejoicing in the arms of my youth.
Morni[150] sat beneath a tree, at the roaring waters of Strumon[151]:
his locks of age are grey: he leans forward on his staff; young Gaul is
near the hero, hearing the battles of his father. Often did he rise, in
the fire of his soul, at the mighty deeds of Morni. The aged heard the
sound of Ossian’s shield: he knew the sign of war. He started at once
from his place. His grey hair parted on his back. He remembered the
deeds of other years.
“My son,” he said to fair-haired Gaul, “I hear the sound of war. The
king of Morven is returned, his signals are spread on the wind. Go to
the halls of Strumon; bring his arms to Morni. Bring the shield of my
father’s latter years, for my arm begins to fail. Take thou thy armour,
O Gaul! and rush to the first of thy battles. Let thine arm reach to
the renown of thy fathers. Be thy course in the field, like the eagle’s
wing. Why shouldst thou fear death, my son? the valiant fall with fame;
their shields turn the dark stream of danger away; renown dwells on
their aged hairs. Dost thou not see, O Gaul! how the steps of my age
are honoured? Morni moves forth, and the young meet him, with awe, and
turn their eyes with silent joy, on his course. But I never fled from
danger, my son! my sword lightened through the darkness of war. The
stranger melted before me: the mighty were blasted in my presence.”
Gaul brought the arms to Morni: the aged warrior is covered with steel.
He took his spear in his hand, which was stained with the blood of the
valiant. He came towards Fingal, his son attended his steps. The son of
Comhal arose before him with joy, when he came in his locks of age.
“Chief of roaring Strumon!” said the rising soul of Fingal; “do I
behold thee in arms, after thy strength has failed? Often has Morni
shone in fight, like the beam of the ascending sun; when he disperses
the storms of the hill, and brings peace to the glittering fields. But
why didst thou not rest in thine age? Thy renown is in the song. The
people behold thee, and bless the departure of mighty Morni. Why didst
thou not rest in thine age? The foe will vanish before Fingal!”
“Son of Comhal,” replied the chief, “the strength of Morni’s arm has
failed. I attempt to draw the sword of my youth, but it remains in its
place. I throw the spear, but it falls short of the mark. I feel the
weight of my shield. We decay like the grass of the hill: our strength
returns no more. I have a son, O Fingal! his soul has delighted in
Morni’s deeds; but his sword has not been lifted against a foe, neither
has his fame begun. I come with him to war; to direct his arm in
fight. His renown will be a light to my soul, in the dark hour of my
departure. O that the name of Morni were forgot among the people! that
the heroes would only say, “Behold the father of Gaul!””
“King of Strumon,” Fingal replied, “Gaul shall lift the sword in fight.
But he shall lift it before Fingal; my arm shall defend his youth. But
rest thou in the halls of Selma; and hear of our renown. Bid the harp
to be strung, and the voice of the bard to arise, that those who fall
may rejoice in their fame; and the soul of Morni brighten with joy.
Ossian! thou hast fought in battles: the blood of strangers is on thy
spear: thy course be with Gaul, in the strife; but depart not from the
side of Fingal! lest the foe should find you alone, and your fame fail
in my presence.”
“I saw[152] Gaul in his arms: my soul was mixed with his. The fire of
the battle was in his eyes! he looked to the foe with joy. We spoke
the words of friendship in secret; the lightning of our swords poured
together; for we drew them behind the wood, and tried the strength of
our arms on the empty air.”
Night came down on Morven. Fingal sat at the beam of the oak.[153]
Morni sat by his side with all his grey waving locks. Their words were
of other times, of the mighty deeds of their fathers. Three bards, at
times, touched the harp: Ullin was near with his song. He sung of the
mighty Comhal; but darkness[154] gathered on Morni’s brow. He rolled
his red eye on Ullin: at once ceased the song of the bard. Fingal
observed the aged hero, and he mildly spoke. “Chief of Strumon, why
that darkness? Let the days of other years be forgot. Our fathers
contended in war; but we meet together, at the feast. Our swords are
turned on the foe of our land; he melts before us on the field. Let the
days of our fathers be forgot, hero of mossy Strumon!”
“King of Morven,” replied the chief, “I remember thy father with joy.
He was terrible in battle; the rage of the chief was deadly. My eyes
were full of tears, when the king of heroes fell. The valiant fall, O
Fingal! the feeble remain on the hills! How many heroes have passed
away, in the days of Morni! Yet I did not shun the battle; neither did
I fly from the strife of the valiant. Now let the friends of Fingal
rest; for the night is around; that they may rise, with strength, to
battle against car-borne Lathmon. I hear the sound of his host like
thunder moving on the hills. Ossian! and fair-haired Gaul! ye are young
and swift in the race. Observe the foes of Fingal from that woody hill.
But approach them not; your fathers are not near to shield you. Let not
your fame fall at once. The valour of youth may fail!”
We heard the words of the chief with joy. We moved in the clang of our
arms. Our steps are on the woody hill. Heaven burns with all its stars.
The meteors of death fly over the field. The distant noise of the foe
reached our ears. It was then Gaul spoke, in his valour: his hand
half-unsheathed the sword.
“Son of Fingal!” he said, “why burns the soul of Gaul? My heart beats
high. My steps are disordered; my hand trembles on my sword. When I
look towards the foe, my soul lightens before me. I see their sleeping
host. Tremble thus the souls of the valiant in battles of the spear?
How would the soul of Morni rise if we should rush on the foe! Our
renown would grow in song. Our steps would be stately in the eyes of
the brave.”
“Son of Morni,” I replied, “my soul delights in war. I delight to shine
in battle alone, to give my name to the bards. But what if the foe
should prevail; can I behold the eyes of the king? They are terrible in
his displeasure, and like the flames of death. But I will not behold
them in his wrath! Ossian shall prevail or fall. But shall the fame
of the vanquished rise? They pass like a shade away. But the fame of
Ossian shall rise! his deeds shall be like his father’s! Let us rush in
our arms; son of Morni, let us rush to fight. Gaul, if thou shouldst
return, go to Selma’s lofty hall. Tell to Everallin that I fell with
fame; carry this sword to Branno’s daughter. Let her give it to Oscar,
when the years of his youth shall arise.”
“Son of Fingal,” Gaul replied with a sigh, “shall I return after Ossian
is low? what would my father say, what Fingal, the king of men? The
feeble would turn their eyes and say, “Behold Gaul, who left his friend
in his blood!” Ye shall not behold me, ye feeble, but in the midst
of my renown! Ossian, I have heard from my father the mighty deeds
of heroes; their mighty deeds when alone; for the soul increases in
danger.”
“Son of Morni,” I replied, and strode before him on the heath, “our
fathers shall praise our valour, when they mourn our fall. A beam of
gladness shall rise on their souls, when their eyes are full of tears.
They will say, “Our sons have not fallen unknown: they spread death
around them.” But why should we think of the narrow house? The sword
defends the brave. But death pursues the flight of the feeble; their
renown is never heard.”
We rushed forward through night: we came to the roar of a stream,
which bent its blue course round the foe, through trees that echoed
to its sound. We came to the bank of the stream, and saw the sleeping
host. Their fires were decayed on the plain; the lonely steps of their
scouts were distant far. I stretched my spear before me to support my
steps over the stream. But Gaul took my hand, and spoke the words of
the brave. “Shall the son of Fingal rush on the sleeping foe? Shall
he come like a blast by night, when it overturns the young trees in
secret? Fingal did not thus receive his fame, nor dwells renown on the
grey hairs of Morni, for actions like these. Strike, Ossian, strike the
shield, and let their thousands rise! Let them meet Gaul in his first
battle, that he may try the strength of his arm.”
My soul rejoiced over the warrior: my bursting tears came down. “And
the foe shall meet thee, Gaul!” I said: “the fame of Morni’s son shall
arise. But rush not too far, my hero: let the gleam of thy steel be
near to Ossian. Let our hands join in slaughter. Gaul! dost thou not
behold that rock? Its grey side dimly gleams to the stars. Should the
foe prevail, let our back be towards the rock. Then shall they fear to
approach our spears; for death is in our hands!”
I struck thrice my echoing shield. The starting foe arose. We rushed on
in the sound of our arms. Their crowded steps fly over the heath. They
thought that the mighty Fingal was come. The strength of their arms
withered away. The sound of their flight was like that of flame, when
it rushes through the blasted groves. It was then the spear of Gaul
flew in its strength; it was then his sword arose. Cremor fell; and
mighty Leth. Dunthormo struggled in his blood. The steel rushed through
Crotha’s side, as bent, he rose on his spear; the black stream poured
from the wound, and hissed on the half-extinguished oak. Cathmin saw
the steps of the hero behind him, he ascended a blasted tree; but the
spear pierced him from behind. Shrieking, panting, he fell. Moss and
withered branches pursue his fall, and strew the blue arms of Gaul.
Such were thy deeds, son of Morni, in the first of thy battles. Nor
slept the sword by thy side, thou last of Fingal’s race! Ossian rushed
forward in his strength; the people fell before him; as the grass
by the staff of the boy, when he whistles along the field, and the
grey-beard of the thistle falls. But careless the youth moves on; his
steps are towards the desert. Grey morning rose around us; the winding
streams are bright along the heath. The foe gathered on a hill; and the
rage of Lathmon rose. He bent the red eye of his wrath; he is silent
in his rising grief. He often struck his bossy shield; and his steps
are unequal on the heath. I saw the distant darkness of the hero, and I
spoke to Morni’s son.
“Car-borne chief of Strumon, dost thou behold the foe? they gather on
the hill in their wrath. Let our step be towards the king.[155] He
shall rise in his strength, and the host of Lathmon vanish. Our fame
is around us, warrior, the eyes of the aged[156] will rejoice. But
let us fly, son of Morni, Lathmon descends the hill.” “Then let our
steps be slow,” replied the fair-haired Gaul, “lest the foe say, with
a smile, “Behold the warriors of night. They are like ghosts, terrible
in darkness; they melt away before the beam of the east.” Ossian take
the shield of Gormar who fell beneath thy spear. The aged heroes will
rejoice beholding the deeds of their sons.”
Such were our words on the plain, when Sulmath[157] came to car-borne
Lathmon: Sulmath, chief of Dutha, at the dark-rolling stream of
Duvranna.[158] “Why dost thou not rush, son of Nuath, with a thousand
of thy heroes? Why dost thou not descend with thy host, before the
warriors fly? Their blue arms are beaming to the rising light, and
their steps are before us on the heath!”
“Son of the feeble hand,” saith Lathmon, “shall my host descend! They
are but two, son of Dutha! shall a thousand lift their steel! Nuath
would mourn, in his hall, for the departure of his fame. His eyes would
turn from Lathmon, when the tread of his feet approached. Go thou to
the heroes, chief of Dutha! I behold the stately steps of Ossian. His
fame is worthy of my steel! let us contend in fight.”
The noble Sulmath came. I rejoiced in the words of the king. I raised
the shield on my arm; Gaul placed in my hand the sword of Morni. We
returned to the murmuring stream; Lathmon came down in his strength.
His dark host rolled, like clouds, behind him: but the son of Nuath was
bright in his steel.
“Son of Fingal,” said the hero, “thy fame has grown on our fall. How
many lie there of my people by thy hand, thou king of men! Lift now thy
spear against Lathmon; lay the son of Nuath low! Lay him low among his
warriors, or thou thyself must fall! It shall never be told in my halls
that my people fell in my presence; that they fell in the presence of
Lathmon when his sword rested by his side: the blue eyes of Cutha would
roll in tears; her steps be lonely in the vales of Dunlathmon!”
“Neither shall it be told,” I replied, “that the son of Fingal fled.
Were his steps covered with darkness, yet would not Ossian fly! his
soul would meet him and say, “Does the bard of Selma fear the foe?” No!
he does not fear the foe. His joy is in the midst of battle!”
Lathmon came on with his spear. He pierced the shield of Ossian. I felt
the cold steel by my side. I drew the sword of Morni. I cut the spear
in twain. The bright point fell glittering on earth. The son of Nuath
burnt in his wrath. He lifted high his sounding shield. His dark eyes
rolled above it, as bending forward, it shone like a gate of brass: but
Ossian’s spear pierced the brightness of its bosses, and sunk in a tree
that rose behind. The shield hung on the quivering lance! but Lathmon
still advanced! Gaul foresaw the fall of the chief. He stretched his
buckler before my sword; when it descended, in a stream of light, over
the king of Dunlathmon.
Lathmon beheld the son of Morni. The tear started from his eye. He
threw the sword of his fathers on earth, and spoke the words of the
brave. “Why should Lathmon fight against the first of men? Your souls
are beams from heaven; your swords the flames of death. Who can equal
the renown of the heroes, whose deeds are so great in youth! O that
ye were in the halls of Nuäth, in the green dwelling of Lathmon! Then
would my father say that his son did not yield to the weak. But who
comes, a mighty stream, along the echoing heath? The little hills are
troubled before him; a thousand ghosts are on the beams of his steel;
the ghosts of those who are to fall[159] by the arm of the king of
resounding Morven. Happy art thou, O Fingal! thy sons shall fight thy
wars. They go forth before thee; they return with the steps of their
renown!”
Fingal came, in his mildness, rejoicing in secret over the deeds of
his son. Morni’s face brightened with gladness; his aged eyes looked
faintly through tears of joy. We came to the halls of Selma. We sat
around the feast of shells. The maids of songs came into our presence,
and the mildly blushing Everallin! Her hair spreads on her neck of
snow, her eye rolls in secret on Ossian. She touched the harp of music;
we blessed the daughter of Branno.
Fingal rose in his place, and spoke to Lathmon, king of spears. The
sword of Trenmor shook by his side, as high he raised his mighty arm.
“Son of Nuäth,” he said, “why dost thou search for fame in Morven? We
are not of the race of the feeble; our swords gleam not over the weak.
When did we rouse thee, O Lathmon! with the sound of war? Fingal does
not delight in battle, though his arm is strong! My renown grows on the
fall of the haughty. The light of my steel pours on the proud in arms.
The battle comes, and the tombs of the valiant rise; the tombs of my
people rise, O my fathers! I at last must remain alone! But I will
remain renowned; the departure of my soul shall be a stream of light.
Lathmon! retire to thy place! Turn thy battles to other lands! The race
of Morven are renowned; their foes are the sons of the unhappy!”
FOOTNOTES:
[147] It is said, by tradition, that it was the intelligence of
Lathmon’s invasion that occasioned Fingal’s return from Ireland; though
Ossian, more poetically, ascribes the cause of Fingal’s knowledge to
his dream.
[148] He alludes to a battle wherein Fingal had defeated Lathmon.
[149] Here there is evidently the loss or omission of a fragment of the
poem, which should describe the embarkation and passage from _Carmona’s
Bay_--near Carrickfergus--to Morven, on the opposite shore! _C._
[150] Morni was chief of a numerous tribe, in the days of Fingal, and
his father Comhal. The last-mentioned hero was killed in battle against
Morni’s tribe; but the valour and conduct of Fingal reduced them, at
last, to obedience. We find the two heroes perfectly reconciled in this
poem.
[151] Stru’-moné, _stream of the hill_. Here the proper name of a
rivulet in the neighbourhood of Selma. _M._
[152] Ossian speaks. The contrast between the old and young heroes is
strongly marked. The circumstance of the latter’s drawing their swords
is well imagined, and agrees with the impatience of young soldiers,
just entered upon action.
[153] Moss, fir, and oak are yet burned by many of the natives of the
north of Ireland.--This poor entertainment in his native Morven but
ill accords with the high-sounding titles of the translator--“smooth
pillars, etc., in the Hall of Fingal!”
[154] Ullin had chosen ill the subject of his song. The _darkness which
gathered on Morni’s brow_, did not proceed from any dislike he had to
Comhal’s name, though they were foes, but from his fear that the song
would awaken Fingal to a remembrance of the feuds which had subsisted
of old between the families. Fingal’s speech on this occasion abounds
with generosity and good sense.
[155] Fingal.
[156] Fingal and Morni.
[157] Suil-mhath, _a man of good eye-sight_.
[158] Dubh-bhranna, _dark mountain-stream_. A river in Scotland, which
falls into the sea at Banff, still retains the name of Duvran. If
that is meant in this passage, Lathmon must have been a prince of the
Pictish nation, or those Caledonians who inhabited of old the eastern
coast of Scotland.
[159] It was thought, in Ossian’s time, that each person had his
attending spirit. The traditions concerning this opinion are dark and
unsatisfactory.
OITHONA
OITHONA
A Poem
ARGUMENT
Gaul, the son of Morni, attended Lathmon into his own country, after
his being defeated in Morven, as related in the preceding poem.
He was kindly entertained by Nuäth, the father of Lathmon, and
fell in love with his daughter Oithona. The lady was no less
enamoured of Gaul, and a day was fixed for their marriage. In the
meantime Fingal, preparing for an expedition into the country of
the Britons, sent for Gaul. He obeyed, and went; but not without
promising to Oithona to return, if he survived the war, by a
certain day. Lathmon, too, was obliged to attend his father Nuäth
in his wars, and Oithona was left alone at Dunlathmon, the seat
of the family. Dunrommath, lord of Uthal, supposed to be one of
the Orkneys, taking advantage of the absence of her friends, came
and carried off by force Oithona, who had formerly rejected his
love, into Tromáthon, a desert island, where he concealed her in
a cave.
Gaul returned on the day appointed; heard of the rape, and sailed to
Tromáthon, to revenge himself on Dunrommath. When he landed, he
found Oithona disconsolate and resolved not to survive the loss
of her honour. She told him the story of her misfortunes, and
she scarce ended, when Dunrommath with his followers appeared
at the farther end of the island. Gaul prepared to attack him,
recommending to Oithona to retire till the battle was over. She
seemingly obeyed; but she secretly armed herself, rushed into the
thickest of the battle, and was mortally wounded. Gaul pursuing
the flying enemy, found her just expiring on the field: he
mourned over her, raised her tomb, and returned to Morven. Thus
is the story handed down by tradition; nor is it given with any
material difference in the poem, which opens with Gaul’s return
to Dunlathmon, after the rape of Oithona.
Darkness dwells around Dunlathmon, though the moon shows half her face
on the hill. The daughter of night turns her eyes away; she beholds
the approaching grief. The son of Morni is on the plain: there is no
sound in the hall. No long-streaming beam of light comes trembling
through the gloom. The voice of Oithona[160] is not heard amidst
the noise of the streams of Duvranna. “Whither art thou gone in thy
beauty, dark-haired daughter of Nuäth? Lathmon is in the field of the
valiant, but thou didst promise to remain in the hall till the son
of Morni returned. Till he returned from Strumon, to the maid of his
love! The tear was on thy cheek at his departure; the sigh rose in
secret in thy breast. But thou dost not come forth with songs, with the
lightly-trembling sound of the harp!”
Such were the words of Gaul, when he came to Dunlathmon’s towers.
The gates were open and dark. The winds were blustering in the hall.
The trees strowed the threshold with leaves; the murmur of night was
abroad. Sad and silent, at a rock, the son of Morni sat; his soul
trembled for the maid; but he knew not whither to turn his course! The
son[161] of Leth stood at a distance, and heard the winds in his bushy
hair. But he did not raise his voice, for he saw the sorrow of Gaul!
Sleep descended on the chiefs. The visions of night arose. Oithona
stood, in a dream, before the eyes of Morni’s son. Her hair was loose
and disordered: her lovely eye rolled deep in tears. Blood stained her
snowy arm. The robe half hid the wound of her breast. She stood over
the chief, and her voice was feebly heard. “Sleeps the son of Morni,
he that was lovely in the eyes of Oithona? Sleeps Gaul at the distant
rock, and the daughter of Nuäth low? The sea rolls round the dark isle
of Tromáthon. I sit in my tears in the cave! Nor do I sit alone, O
Gaul! the dark chief of Cuthal is there. He is there in the rage of his
love. What can Oithona do?”
A rougher blast rushed through the oak. The dream of night departed.
Gaul took his aspen spear. He stood in the rage of his soul. Often did
his eyes turn to the east. He accused the lagging light. At length
the morning came forth. The hero lifted up the sail. The winds came
rustling from the hill; he bounded on the waves of the deep. On the
third day arose Tromáthon[162] like a blue shield in the midst of the
sea. The white wave roared against its rocks; sad Oithona sat on the
coast! She looked on the rolling waters, and her tears came down. But
when she saw Gaul in his arms, she started and turned her eyes away.
Her lovely cheek is bent and red: her white arm trembles by her side.
Thrice she strove to fly from his presence; thrice her steps failed her
as she went!
“Daughter of Nuäth,” said the hero, “why dost thou fly from Gaul? Do
my eyes send forth the flame of death? Darkens hatred in my soul? Thou
art to me the beam of the east, rising in a land unknown. But thou
coverest thy face with sadness, daughter of car-borne Nuäth! Is the foe
of Oithona near? My soul burns to meet him in fight. The sword trembles
by the side of Gaul, and longs to glitter in his hand. Speak, daughter
of Nuäth! dost thou not behold my tears?”
“Young chief of Strumon,” replied the maid, “why comest thou over the
dark-blue wave, to Nuäth’s mournful daughter? Why did I not pass away
in secret, like the flower of the rock, that lifts its fair head unseen
and strows its withered leaves on the blast? Why didst thou come, O
Gaul! to hear my departing sigh? I vanish in my youth; my name shall
not be heard. Or it will be heard with grief; the tears of Nuäth must
fall. Thou wilt be sad, son of Morni! for the departed fame of Oithona.
But she shall sleep in the narrow tomb, far from the voice of the
mourner. Why didst thou come, chief of Strumon! to the sea-beat rocks
of Tromáthon?”
“I came to meet thy foes, daughter of car-borne Nuäth! the death
of Cuthal’s chief darkens before me; or Morni’s son shall fall!
Oithona! when Gaul is low, raise my tomb on that oozy rock. When the
dark-bounding ship shall pass, call the sons of the sea! call them,
and give this sword, to bear it hence to Morni’s hall. The grey-haired
chief will then cease to look towards the desert, for the return of his
son!”
“Shall the daughter of Nuäth live?” she replied with a bursting sigh.
“Shall I live in Tromáthon, and the son of Morni low? My heart is not
of that rock; nor my soul careless as that sea, which lifts its blue
waves to every wind, and rolls beneath the storm! The blast which shall
lay thee low, shall spread the branches of Oithona on earth. We shall
wither together, son of car-borne Morni! The narrow house is pleasant
to me, and the grey stone of the dead: for never more will I leave
thy rocks, O sea-surrounded Tromáthon! Night[163] came on with her
clouds, after the departure of Lathmon, when he went to the wars of his
fathers, to the moss-covered rock of Duthormoth. Night came on. I sat
in the hall at the beam of the oak! The wind was abroad in the trees. I
heard the sound of arms. Joy rose in my face. I thought of thy return.
It was the chief of Cuthal, the red-haired strength of Dunrommath. His
eyes rolled in fire: the blood of my people was on his sword. They who
defended Oithona fell by the gloomy chief! What could I do? My arm was
weak. I could not lift the spear. He took me in my grief; amidst my
tears he raised the sail. He feared the returning Lathmon, the brother
of unhappy Oithona! But behold he comes with his people! the dark wave
is divided before him! Whither wilt thou turn thy steps, son of Morni?
Many are the warriors of thy foe!”
“My steps never turned from battle,” Gaul said, and unsheathed his
sword. “Shall I then begin to fear, Oithona, when thy foes are near? Go
to thy cave, my love, till our battle cease on the field. Son of Leth,
bring the bows of our fathers! the sounding quiver of Morni! Let our
three warriors bend the yew. Ourselves will lift the spear. They are an
host on the rock! our souls are strong in war!”
Oithona went to the cave. A troubled joy rose on her mind, like the red
path of lightning on a stormy cloud! Her soul was resolved; the tear
was dried from her wildly-looking eye. Dunrommath slowly approached.
He saw the son of Morni. Contempt contracted his face, a smile is on
his dark-brown cheek; his red eye rolled, half-concealed, beneath his
shaggy brows!
“Whence are the sons of the sea?” begun the gloomy chief. “Have the
winds driven you on the rocks of Tromáthon? Or come you in search of
the white-handed maid? The sons of the unhappy, ye feeble men, come to
the hand of Dunrommath! His eyes spare not the weak; he delights in the
blood of strangers. Oithona is a beam of light, and the chief of Cuthal
enjoys it in secret; wouldst thou come on its loveliness, like a cloud,
son of the feeble hand? Thou mayest come, but shalt thou return to the
halls of thy fathers?” “Dost thou not know me,” said Gaul, “red-haired
chief of Cuthal? Thy feet were swift on the heath, in the battle of
car-borne Lathmon; when the sword of Morni’s son pursued his host, in
Morven’s woody land. Dunrommath! thy words are mighty, for thy warriors
gather behind thee. But do I fear them, son of pride? I am not of the
race of the feeble!”
Gaul advanced in his arms; Dunrommath shrunk behind his people. But the
spear of Gaul pierced the gloomy chief; his sword lopped off his head,
as it bended in death. The son of Morni shook it thrice by the lock:
the warriors of Dunrommath fled. The arrows of Morven pursued them: ten
fell on the mossy rocks. The rest lift the sounding sail, and bound on
the troubled deep. Gaul advanced towards the cave of Oithona. He beheld
a youth leaning on a rock. An arrow had pierced his side; his eye
rolled faintly beneath his helmet. The soul of Morni’s son was sad, he
came and spoke the words of peace.
“Can the hand of Gaul heal thee, youth of the mournful brow? I have
searched for the herbs of the mountains; I have gathered them on the
secret banks of their streams. My hand has closed the wound of the
brave, their eyes have blessed the son of Morni. Where dwelt thy
fathers, warrior? Were they of the sons of the mighty? Sadness shall
come, like night, on thy native streams. Thou art fallen in thy youth!”
“My fathers,” replied the stranger, “were of the race of the mighty;
but they shall not be sad; for my fame is departed like morning mist.
High walls rise on the banks of Duvranna; and see their mossy towers
in the stream; a rock ascends behind them with its bending pines. Thou
mayest behold it far distant. There my brother dwells. He is renowned
in battle: give him this glittering helm.”
The helmet fell from the hand of Gaul. It was the wounded Oithona! She
had armed herself in the cave and came in search of death. Her heavy
eyes are half closed; the blood pours from her heaving side. “Son of
Morni!” she said, “prepare the narrow tomb. Sleep grows, like darkness,
on my soul. The eyes of Oithona are dim! O had I dwelt at Duvranna, in
the bright beam of my fame! then had my years come on with joy; the
virgins would then bless my steps. But I fall in youth, son of Morni!
my father shall blush in his hall!”
She fell pale on the rock of Tromáthon. The mournful warrior raised her
tomb. He came to Morven; we saw the darkness of his soul. Ossian took
the harp in the praise of Oithona. The brightness of the face of Gaul
returned. But his sigh rose at times in the midst of his friends; like
blasts that shake their unfrequent wings, after the stormy winds are
laid!
FOOTNOTES:
[160] Oi-thona, _the virgin of the wave_.
[161] Morlo, the son of Leth, is one of Fingal’s most famous heroes. He
and three other men attended Gaul on his expedition to Tromáthon.
[162] Tróm-thón, _heavy or deep-sounding wave_.
[163] Oithona relates how she was carried away by Dunrommath.
THE BATTLE OF LORA
THE BATTLE OF LORA
A Poem
ARGUMENT
Fingal, on his return from Ireland, after he had expelled Swaran from
that kingdom, made a feast to all his heroes; he forgot to invite
Ma-ronnan and Aldo, two chiefs, who had not been along with him
in his expedition. They resented his neglect; and went over to
Erragon, king of Sora, a country of Scandinavia, the declared
enemy of Fingal. The valour of Aldo soon gained him a great
reputation in Sora: and Lorma, the beautiful wife of Erragon,
fell in love with him. He found means to escape with her and
come to Fingal, who resided then in Selma, on the western coast.
Erragon invaded Scotland, and was slain in battle by Gaul the son
of Morni, after he had rejected terms of peace offered him by
Fingal. In this war Aldo fell, in a single combat, by the hands
of his rival Erragon, and the unfortunate Lorma afterwards died
of grief. _M._
Son of the distant land, who dwellest in the secret cell! do I hear the
sound of thy grove? or is it thy voice of songs? The torrent was loud
in my ear; but I heard a tuneful voice. Dost thou praise the chiefs of
thy land or the spirits[164] of the wind? But, lonely dweller of rocks!
look thou on that heathy plain. Thou seest green tombs, with their
rank, whistling grass: with their stones of mossy heads. Thou seest
them, son of the rock, but Ossian’s eyes have failed.
A mountain-stream comes roaring down, and sends its waters round a
green hill. Four mossy stones, in the midst of withered grass, rear
their heads on the top. Two trees, which the storms have bent, spread
their whistling branches around. This is thy dwelling, Erragon[165];
this thy narrow house: the sound of thy shells has been long forgot in
Sora. Thy shield is become dark in thy hall. Erragon, king of ships!
chief of distant Sora! how hast thou fallen on our mountains? How is
the mighty low? Son of the secret cell! dost thou delight in songs?
Hear the battle of Lora. The sound of its steel is long since past. So,
thunder on the darkened hill roars and is no more. The sun returns with
his silent beams. The glittering rocks and green heads of the mountains
smile.
The bay of Cona received our ships[166] from Erin’s rolling waves.
Our white sheets hung loose to the masts. The boisterous winds roared
behind the groves of Morven. The horn of the king is sounded; the deer
start from their rocks. Our arrows flew in the woods. The feast of the
hill is spread. Our joy was great on our rocks, for the fall of the
terrible Swaran. Two heroes were forgot at our feast. The rage of their
bosoms burned. They rolled their red eyes in secret. The sigh bursts
from their breasts. They were seen to talk together, and to throw their
spears on earth. They were two dark clouds in the midst of our joy;
like pillars of mist on the settled sea. They glitter to the sun, but
the mariners fear a storm.
“Raise my white sails,” said Ma-ronnan, “raise them to the winds of the
west. Let us rush, O Aldo! through the foam of the northern wave. We
are forgot at the feast: but our arms have been red in blood. Let us
leave the hills of Fingal, and serve the king of Sora. His countenance
is fierce. War darkens around his spear. Let us be renowned, O Aldo, in
the battles of other lands!”
They took their swords, their shields of thongs. They rushed to Lumar’s
resounding bay. They came to Sora’s haughty king, the chief of bounding
steeds. Erragon had returned from the chase. His spear was red in
blood. He bent his dark face to the ground; and whistled as he went. He
took the strangers to his feasts: they fought and conquered in his wars.
Aldo returned with his fame towards Sora’s lofty walls. From her tower
looked the spouse of Erragon, the humid, rolling eyes of Lorma. Her
yellow hair flies on the wind of ocean. Her white breast heaves, like
snow on heath when the gentle winds arise, and slowly move it in the
light. She saw young Aldo, like the beam of Sora’s setting sun. Her
soft heart sighed. Tears filled her eyes. Her white arm supported her
head. Three days she sat within the hall, and covered her grief with
joy. On the fourth she fled with the hero, along the troubled sea. They
came to Cona’s mossy towers, to Fingal, king of spears.
“Aldo of the heart of pride!” said Fingal, rising in wrath: “shall I
defend thee from the rage of Sora’s injured king? Who will now receive
my people into their halls? Who will give the feast of strangers,
since Aldo of the little soul has dishonoured my name in Sora? Go to
thy hills, thou feeble hand! Go, hide thee in thy caves. Mournful is
the battle we must fight with Sora’s gloomy king. Spirit of the noble
Trenmor! When will Fingal cease to fight? I was born in the midst of
battles,[167] and my steps must move in blood to the tomb, but my hand
did not injure the weak, my steel did not touch the feeble in arms. I
behold thy tempests, O Morven! which will overturn my halls when my
children are dead in battle, and none remains to dwell in Selma. Then
will the feeble come, but they will not know my tomb. My renown is only
in song. My deeds shall be as a dream to future times!”
His people gathered around Erragon, as the storms round the ghosts of
night, when he calls them from the top of Morven, and prepares to pour
them on the land of the stranger. He came to the shore of Cona. He sent
his bard to the king, to demand the combat of thousands: or the land of
many hills. Fingal sat in his hall with the friends of his youth around
him. The young heroes were at the chase, far distant in the desert.
The grey-haired chiefs talked of other times; of the actions of their
youth; when the aged Nartmor[168] came, the chief of streamy Lora.
“This is no time,” said Nartmor, “to hear the songs of other years:
Erragon frowns on the coast, and lifts ten thousand swords. Gloomy is
the king among his chiefs! he is like the darkened moon, amidst the
meteors of night; when they sail along her skirts, and give the light
that has failed o’er her orb.” “Come,” said Fingal, “from thy hall,
come, daughter of my love: come from thy hall, Bosmina,[169] maid of
streamy Morven! Nartmor, take the steeds of the strangers. Attend the
daughter of Fingal! Let her bid the king of Sora to our feast, to
Selma’s shaded wall. Offer him, O Bosmina! the peace of heroes, and
the wealth of generous Aldo. Our youths are far distant. Age is on our
trembling hands!”
She came to the host of Erragon, like a beam of light to a cloud. In
her right hand was seen a sparkling shell. In her left an arrow of
gold. The first, the joyful mark of peace. The latter, the sign of war.
Erragon brightened in her presence, as a rock before the sudden beams
of the sun, when they issue from a broken cloud, divided by the roaring
wind.
“Son of the distant Sora,” began the mildly blushing maid, “come to
the feast of Morven’s king, to Selma’s shaded walls. Take the peace of
heroes, O warrior! Let the dark sword rest by thy side. Choosest thou
the wealth of kings? Then hear the words of generous Aldo. He gives to
Erragon an hundred steeds, the children of the rein; an hundred maids
from distant lands; an hundred hawks with fluttering wing, that fly
across the sky. An hundred girdles[170] shall also be thine, to bind
high-bosomed maids. The friends of the births of heroes. The cure of
the sons of toil. Ten shells studded with gems shall shine in Sora’s
towers: the bright water trembles on their stars, and seems to be
sparkling wine. They gladdened once the kings of the world,[171] in the
midst of their echoing halls. These, O hero! shall be thine! or thy
white-bosomed spouse. Lorma shall roll her bright eyes in thy halls;
though Fingal loves the generous Aldo. Fingal! who never injured a
hero, though his arm is strong!”
“Soft voice of Cona!” replied the king, “tell him, he spreads his feast
in vain. Let Fingal pour his spoils around me. Let him bend beneath my
power. Let him give me the swords of his fathers; the shields of other
times; that my children may behold them in my halls, and say, “These
are the arms of Fingal.”” “Never shall they behold them in thy hall!”
said the rising pride of the maid. “They are in the hands of heroes,
who never yielded in war. King of echoing Sora! the storm is gathering
on our hills. Dost thou not foresee the fall of thy people, son of the
distant land?”
She came to Selma’s silent halls. The king beheld her down-cast eyes.
He rose from his place, in his strength. He shook his aged locks.
He took the sounding mail of Trenmor, the dark-brown shield of his
fathers. Darkness filled Selma’s hall, when he stretched his hand to
his spear: the ghosts of thousands were near, and foresaw the death
of the people. Terrible joy rose in the face of the aged heroes. They
rushed to meet the foe. Their thoughts are on the deeds of other years:
and on the fame that rises from death.
Now at Trathal’s ancient tomb the dogs of the chase appeared. Fingal
knew that his young heroes followed. He stopped in the midst of his
course. Oscar appeared the first; then Morni’s son, and Némi’s race.
Fercuth[172] shewed his gloomy form. Dermid spread his dark hair on
wind. Ossian came the last. I hummed the song of other times. My spear
supported my steps over the little streams. My thoughts were of mighty
men. Fingal struck his bossy shield; and gave the dismal sign of war.
A thousand swords at once unsheathed, gleam on the waving heath. Three
grey-haired sons of song raise the tuneful, mournful voice. Deep and
dark with sounding steps, we rush, a gloomy ridge, along: like the
shower of a storm, when it pours on a narrow vale.
The king of Morven sat on his hill. The sun-beam of battle flew on the
wind. The friends of his youth are near, with all their waving locks of
age. Joy rose in the hero’s eyes when he beheld his sons in war: when
he saw us amidst the lightning of swords, mindful of the deeds of our
fathers. Erragon came on, in his strength, like the roar of a winter
stream. The battle falls around his steps: death dimly stalks along by
his side.
“Who comes,” said Fingal, “like the bounding roe! like the hart of
echoing Cona? His shield glitters on his side. The clang of his armour
is mournful. He meets with Erragon in the strife! Behold the battle
of the chiefs! It is like the contending of ghosts in a gloomy storm.
But fallest thou, son of the hill, and is thy white bosom stained with
blood? Weep, unhappy Lorma, Aldo is no more!” The king took the spear
of his strength. He was sad for the fall of Aldo. He bent his deathful
eyes on the foe: but Gaul met the king of Sora. Who can relate the
fight of the chiefs? The mighty stranger fell.
“Sons of Cona!” Fingal cried aloud, “stop the hand of death. Mighty
was he that is low. Much is he mourned in Sora! The stranger will come
towards his hall, and wonder why it is so silent. The king is fallen,
O stranger. The joy of his house is ceased. Listen to the sound of his
woods. Perhaps his ghost is murmuring there! But he is far distant on
Morven, beneath the sword of a foreign foe.” Such were the words of
Fingal, when the bard raised the song of peace. We stopped our uplifted
swords. We spared the feeble foe. We laid Erragon in a tomb. I raised
the voice of grief. The clouds of night came rolling down. The ghost of
Erragon appeared to some. His face was cloudy and dark; an half-formed
sigh is in his breast. “Blest be thy soul, O king of Sora! thine arm
was terrible in war!”
“Lorma sat in Aldo’s hall. She sat at the light of a flaming oak. The
night came down, but he did not return. The soul of Lorma is sad. What
detains thee, hunter of Cona? thou didst promise to return. Has the
deer been distant far? Do the dark winds sigh, round thee, on the
heath? I am in the land of strangers: who is my friend but Aldo? Come
from thy sounding hills, O my best beloved!”
Her eyes are turned toward the gate. She listens to the rustling blast.
She thinks it is Aldo’s tread. Joy rises in her face. But sorrow
returns again, like a thin cloud on the moon. “Wilt thou not return,
my love? Let me behold the face of the hill. The moon is in the east.
Calm and bright is the breast of the lake! When shall I behold his dogs
returning from the chase? When shall I hear his voice, loud and distant
on the wind? Come from thy sounding hills, hunter of woody Cona!” His
thin ghost appeared, on a rock, like a watery beam of feeble light:
when the moon rushes sudden from between two clouds, and the midnight
shower is on the field. She followed the empty form over the heath. She
knew that her hero fell. I heard her approaching cries on the wind,
like the mournful voice of the breeze, when it sighs on the grass of
the cave!
She came. She found her hero. Her voice was heard no more. Silent she
rolled her eyes. She was pale, and wildly sad. Few were her days on
Cona. She sunk into the tomb. Fingal commanded his bards: they sung
over the death of Lorma. The daughters of Morven mourned her, for one
day in the year, when the dark winds of autumn returned.
Son of the distant land![173] Thou dwellest in the field of fame! O
let thy song arise, at times, in praise of those who fell. Let their
thin ghosts rejoice around thee; and the soul of Lorma come on a feeble
beam,[174] when thou liest down to rest, and the moon looks into thy
cave. Then shalt thou see her lovely; but the tear is still on her
cheek!
FOOTNOTES:
[164] Alluding to the religious hymns of the Culdees.
[165] Erragon, or Ferg-thonn, signifies _the rage of the waves_;
probably a poetical name given him by Ossian himself.
[166] This was at Fingal’s return from his war against Swaran. Cona is
evidently Campbelltown. _C._
[167] Comhal, the father of Fingal, was slain in battle, against the
tribe of Morni, the very day that Fingal was born; so that he may, with
propriety, be said to have been _born in the midst of battles_.
[168] Neart-mór, _great strength_. Lora, _noisy_. _M._--Probably one of
the little rivers in Argyleshire, which tumble into the sea opposite
the Hebrides, where it is likely the ships of the Scandinavian king
were first discovered, hovering on the coast. _C._
[169] Bos-mhina, _soft and tender hand_. She was the youngest of
Fingal’s children.
[170] Sanctified girdles, till very lately, were kept in many families
in the north of Scotland; they were bound about women in labour, and
were supposed to alleviate their pains, and to accelerate the birth.
They were impressed with several mystical figures, and the ceremony
of binding them about the woman’s waist was accompanied with words
and gestures which shewed the custom to have come originally from the
Druids.
[171] The Roman emperors.
[172] Fear-cuth, the same with Fergus, _the man of the word_, or a
commander of an army. _M._--This was a patronymic of Fingal’s family
from the first Fergus, who went to govern Caledonia from Ireland. _C._
[173] The poet addresses himself to the Culdee.
[174] Be thou on a moon-beam, O Morna, near the window of my rest; when
my thoughts are of peace; and the din of arms is past.--+Fingal+, Book
I.
CARRIC-THURA
CARRIC-THURA
A Poem
ARGUMENT
Fingal, returning from an expedition which he had made into the
Roman province, resolved to visit Cathulla, king of Inistore,
and brother to Comala, whose story is related, at large, in
the dramatic poem, “Comala.” Upon his coming in sight of
Carric-thura, the palace of Cathulla, he observed a flame on
its top, which, in those days, was a signal of distress. The
wind drove him into a bay, at some distance from Carric-thura,
and he was obliged to pass the night on the shore. Next day he
attacked the army of Frothal, king of Sora, who had besieged
Cathulla in his palace of Carric-thura, and took Frothal himself
prisoner, after he had engaged him in a single combat. The
deliverance of Carric-thura is the subject of the poem; but
several other episodes are interwoven with it. It appears from
tradition that this poem was addressed to a Culdee, or one of the
first Christian missionaries, and that the story of the _Spirit
of Loda_, supposed to be the ancient Odin of Scandinavia, was
introduced by Ossian in opposition to the Culdee’s doctrine. Be
this as it will, it lets us into Ossian’s notions of a superior
being; and shows that he was not addicted to the superstition
which prevailed all the world over, before the introduction of
Christianity.
Hast[175] thou left thy blue course in heaven, golden-haired son of the
sky! The west has opened its gates; the bed of thy repose is there. The
waves come to behold thy beauty. They lift their trembling heads. They
see thee lovely in thy sleep; they shrink away with fear. Rest, in thy
shadowy cave, O sun! let thy return be in joy.
But let a thousand lights arise to the sound of the harps of Selma; let
the beam spread in the hall, the king of shells is returned! The strife
of Carun[176] is past, like sounds that are no more. Raise the song, O
bards! the king is returned, with his fame!
Such were the words of Ullin, when Fingal returned from war: when he
returned in the fair blushing of youth, with all his heavy locks. His
blue arms were on the hero: like a light cloud on the sun, when he
moves in his robes of mist, and shows but half his beams. His heroes
follow the king: the feast of shells is spread. Fingal turns to his
bards, and bids the song to rise.
Voices of echoing Cona! he said, O bards of other times! Ye on whose
souls the blue hosts of our fathers rise! strike the harp in my hall;
and let me hear the song! Pleasant is the joy of grief: it is like the
shower of spring, when it softens the branch of the oak, and the young
leaf rears its green head. Sing on, O bards; to-morrow we lift the
sail. My blue course is through the ocean, to Carric-thura’s walls;
the mossy walls of Sarno, where Comala dwelt. There the noble Cathulla
spreads the feast of shells. The boars of his woods are many; the sound
of the chase shall arise!
Cronnan,[177] son of the song! said Ullin. Minona, graceful at the
harp! raise the tale of Shilric, to please the king of Morven. Let
Vinvela come in her beauty, like the showery bow, when it shows its
lovely head on the lake, and the setting sun is bright. She comes, O
Fingal! her voice is soft but sad.
VINVELA.[178]
My love is a son of the hill. He pursues the flying deer. His grey dogs
are panting round him; his bow-string sounds in the wind. Dost thou
rest by the fount of the rock, or by the noise of the mountain-stream?
The rushes are nodding to the wind, the mist flies over the hill. I
will approach my love unseen; I will behold him from the rock. Lovely I
saw thee first by the aged oak of Branno;[179] thou wert returning tall
from the chase; the fairest among thy friends.
SHILRIC.
What voice is that I hear? that voice like the summer-wind! I sit not
by the nodding rushes; I hear not the fount of the rock. Afar, Vinvela,
afar, I go to the wars of Fingal. My dogs attend me no more. No more
I tread the hill. No more from on high I see thee, fair moving by the
stream of the plain; bright as the bow of heaven; as the moon on the
western wave.
VINVELA.
Then thou art gone, O Shilric! I am alone on the hill! The deer are
seen on the brow; void of fear they graze along. No more they dread
the wind; no more the rustling tree. The hunter is far removed! he is
in the field of graves. Strangers! sons of the waves! spare my lovely
Shilric!
SHILRIC.
If fall I must in the field, raise high my grave, Vinvela. Grey stones,
and heaped-up earth, shall mark me to future times. When the hunter
shall sit by the mound, and produce his food at noon, “Some warrior
rests here,” he will say; and my fame shall live in his praise.
Remember me, Vinvela, when low on earth I lie!
VINVELA.
Yes! I will remember thee; alas! my Shilric will fall! What shall I do,
my love! when thou art for ever gone? Through these hills I will go at
noon: I will go through the silent heath. There I will see the place of
thy rest, returning from the chase. Alas! my Shilric will fall; but I
will remember Shilric.
And I remember the chief, said the king of woody Morven; he consumed
the battle in his rage. But now my eyes behold him not. I met him, one
day, on the hill; his cheek was pale; his brow was dark. The sigh was
frequent in his breast: his steps were towards the desert. But now he
is not in the crowd of my chiefs, when the sounds of my shields arise.
Dwells he in the narrow house,[180] the chief of high Carmora?[181]
Cronnan! said Ullin of other times, raise the song of Shilric; when he
returned to his hills, and Vinvela was no more. He leaned on her grey
mossy stone; he thought Vinvela lived. He saw her fair-moving[182] on
the plain: but the bright form lasted not; the sun-beam fled from the
field, and she was seen no more. Hear the song of Shilric, it is soft,
but sad!
I sit by the mossy fountain; on the top of the hill of winds. One
tree is rustling above me. Dark waves roll over the heath. The lake
is troubled below. The deer descends from the hill. No hunter at a
distance is seen. It is mid-day: but all is silent. Sad are my thoughts
alone. Didst thou but appear, O my love! a wanderer on the heath! thy
hair floating on the wind behind thee; thy bosom heaving on the sight;
thine eyes full of tears for thy friends, whom the mist of the hill
had concealed! Thee I would comfort, my love, and bring thee to thy
father’s house!
But is it she that there appears, like a beam of light on the heath?
bright as the moon in autumn, as the sun in a summer-storm, comest
thou, O maid, over rocks, over mountains to me? She speaks! but how
weak her voice! like the breeze in the reeds of the lake.
“Returnest thou safe from the war? Where are thy friends, my love? I
heard of thy death on the hill; I heard and mourned thee, Shilric!”
“Yes, my fair, I return; but I alone of my race. Thou shalt see them
no more: their graves I raised on the plain. But why art thou on the
desert hill? Why on the heath alone?”
“Alone I am, O Shilric! alone in the winter house. With grief for thee
I fell. Shilric, I am pale in the tomb.”
She fleets, she sails away; as mist before the wind! and wilt thou not
stay, Vinvela? Stay and behold my tears! fair thou appearest, Vinvela!
fair thou wast, when alive!
By the mossy fountain I will sit; on the top of the hill of winds.
When mid-day is silent around, O talk with me, Vinvela! come on the
light-winged gale! on the breeze of the desert, come! Let me hear thy
voice, as thou passest, when mid-day is silent around!
Such was the song of Cronnan, on the night of Selma’s joy. But morning
rose in the east; the blue waters rolled in light. Fingal bade his
sails to rise; the winds came rustling from their hills. Inistore rose
to sight, and Carric-thura’s mossy towers! But the sign of distress
was on their top[183]: the warning flame edged with smoke. The king of
Morven struck his breast; he assumed at once his spear. His darkened
brow bends forward to the coast: he looks back to the lagging winds.
His hair is disordered on his back. The silence of the king is terrible!
Night came down on the sea; Rotha’s bay received the ship. A rock
bends along the coast with all its echoing wood. On the top is the
circle[184] of Loda, the mossy stone of power! A narrow plain spreads
beneath, covered with grass and aged trees, which the midnight winds in
their wrath had torn from the shaggy rock. The blue course of a stream
is there; the lonely blast of ocean pursues the thistle’s beard. The
flame of three oaks arose: the feast is spread around: but the soul of
the king is sad, for Carric-thura’s chief distrest.
The wan, cold moon rose in the east. Sleep descended on the youths.
Their blue helmets glitter to the beam; the fading fires decay. But
sleep did not rest on the king: he rose in the midst of his arms, and
slowly ascended the hill, to behold the flame of Sarno’s tower.
The flame was dim and distant; the moon hid her red face in the east. A
blast came from the mountain, on its wings was the spirit of Loda. He
came to his place in his terrors,[185] and shook his dusky spear. His
eyes appear like flames in his dark face! his voice is like distant
thunder. Fingal advanced his spear in night, and raised his voice on
high.
Son of night, retire: call thy winds, and fly! Why dost thou come to my
presence, with thy shadowy arms? Do I fear thy gloomy form, spirit of
dismal Loda? Weak is thy shield of clouds: feeble is that meteor, thy
sword! The blast rolls them together; and thou thyself art lost. Fly
from my presence, son of night! call thy winds and fly!
Dost thou force me from my place? replied the hollow voice. The people
bend before me. I turn the battle in the field of the brave. I look
on the nations, and they vanish; my nostrils pour the blast of death.
I come abroad on the winds: the tempests are before my face. But my
dwelling is calm above the clouds; the fields of my rest are pleasant.
Dwell in thy pleasant fields, said the king: Let Comhal’s son be
forgot. Do my steps ascend, from my hills, into thy peaceful plains?
Do I meet thee with a spear, on thy cloud, spirit of dismal Loda? Why
then dost thou frown on me? Why shake thine airy spear? Thou frownest
in vain: I never fled from the mighty in war. And shall the sons of the
wind frighten the king of Morven? No: he knows the weakness of their
arms!
Fly to thy land, replied the form: receive the wind, and fly! The
blasts are in the hollow of my hand: the course of the storm is mine.
The king of Sora is my son, he bends at the stone of my power. His
battle is around Carric-thura; and he will prevail! Fly to thy land,
son of Comhal, or feel my flaming wrath!
He lifted high his shadowy spear! He bent forward his dreadful height.
Fingal, advancing, drew his sword; the blade of dark-brown Luno.[186]
The gleaming path of the steel winds through the gloomy ghost. The
form fell shapeless into air, like a column of smoke, which the staff
of the boy disturbs, as it rises from the half-extinguished furnace.
The spirit of Loda shrieked, as, rolled into himself, he rose on the
wind. Inistore shook at the sound. The waves heard it on the deep. They
stopped, in their course, with fear: the friends of Fingal started at
once: and took their heavy spears. They missed the king: they rose in
rage; all their arms resound!
The moon came forth in the east. Fingal returned in the gleam of his
arms. The joy of his youths was great, their souls settled, as a sea
from a storm. Ullin raised the song of gladness. The hills of Inistore
rejoiced. The flame of the oak arose; and the tales of heroes are told.
But Frothal, Sora’s wrathful king, sits in sadness beneath a tree. The
host spreads round Carric-thura. He looks towards the walls with rage.
He longs for the blood of Cathulla, who, once, overcame him in war.
When Annir reigned[187] in Sora, the father of sea-borne Frothal, a
storm arose on the sea, and carried Frothal to Inistore. Three days he
feasted in Sarno’s halls, and saw the slow-rolling eyes of Comala. He
loved her in the flame of youth, and rushed to seize the white-armed
maid. Cathulla met the chief. The gloomy battle rose. Frothal was bound
in the hall; three days he pined alone. On the fourth, Sarno sent him
to his ship, and he returned to his land. But wrath darkened in his
soul against the noble Cathulla. When Annir’s stone[188] of fame arose,
Frothal came in his strength. The battle burned round Carric-thura,
and Sarno’s mossy walls.
Morning rose on Inistore. Frothal struck his dark brown shield. His
chiefs started at the sound; they stood, but their eyes were turned
to the sea. They saw Fingal coming in his strength; and first the
noble Thubar spoke. “Who comes like the stag of the desert, with all
his herd behind him? Frothal, it is a foe! I see his forward spear.
Perhaps it is the king of Morven, Fingal the first of men. His deeds
are well-known in Lochlin; the blood of his foes is in Starno’s halls.
Shall I ask the peace[189] of kings? His sword is the bolt of heaven!”
“Son of the feeble hand,” said Frothal, “shall my days begin in a
cloud? Shall I yield before I have conquered, chief of streamy Tora?
The people would say in Sora, Frothal flew forth like a meteor; but a
darkness has met him; and his fame is no more. No, Thubar, I will never
yield; my fame shall surround me like light. No, I will never yield,
chief of streamy Tora!”
He went forth with the stream of his people, but they met a rock:
Fingal stood unmoved, broken they rolled back from his side. Nor did
they safely fly; the spear of the king pursued their steps. The field
is covered with heroes. A rising hill preserved the foe.
Frothal saw their flight. The rage of his bosom rose. He bent his
eyes to the ground, and called the noble Thubar. “Thubar! my people
are fled. My fame has ceased to arise. I will fight the king; I feel
my burning soul! Send a bard to demand the combat. Speak not against
Frothal’s words. But, Thubar! I love a maid: she dwells by Thano’s
stream, the white bosomed daughter of Herman, Utha with soft-rolling
eyes. She feared the low-laid Comala; her secret sighs rose when I
spread the sail. Tell to Utha of harps, that my soul delighted in her!”
Such were his words, resolved to fight. The soft sigh of Utha was near!
She had followed her hero, in the armour of a man. She rolled her eye
on the youth, in secret, from beneath her steel. She saw the bard as
he went; the spear fell thrice from her hand. Her loose hair flew on
the wind. Her white breast rose, with sighs. She raised her eyes to the
king. She would speak, but thrice she failed.
Fingal heard the words of the bard; he came in the strength of his
steel. They mixed their deathful spears: they raised the gleam of
their arms. But the sword of Fingal descended and cut Frothal’s shield
in twain. His fair side is exposed; half bent he foresees his death.
Darkness gathered on Utha’s soul. The tear rolled down her cheek. She
rushed to cover the chief with her shield, but a fallen oak met her
steps. She fell on her arm of snow; her shield, her helmet flew wide.
Her white bosom heaved to the sight; her dark-brown hair is spread on
earth.
Fingal pitied the white-armed maid: he stayed the uplifted sword. The
tear was in the eye of the king, as, bending forward, he spoke. “King
of streamy Sora! fear not the sword of Fingal. It was never stained
with the blood of the vanquished; it never pierced a fallen foe. Let
thy people rejoice by thy native streams. Let the maids of thy love
be glad. Why shouldst thou fall in thy youth, king of streamy Sora?”
Frothal heard the words of Fingal, and saw the rising maid: they[190]
stood in silence, in their beauty, like two young trees of the plain,
when the shower of spring is on their leaves, and the loud winds are
laid.
Daughter of Herman, said Frothal, didst thou come from Tora’s streams;
didst thou come, in thy beauty, to behold thy warrior low? But he was
low before the mighty, maid of the slow-rolling eye! The feeble did
not overcome the son of car-borne Annir! Terrible art thou, O king
of Morven! in battles of the spear. But, in peace, thou art like the
sun, when he looks through a silent shower: the flowers lift their
fair heads before him; the gales shake their rustling wings. O that
thou wert in Sora! that my feast were spread! The future kings of Sora
would see thy arms and rejoice. They would rejoice at the fame of their
fathers, who beheld the mighty Fingal!
Son of Annir, replied the king, the fame of Sora’s race shall be heard!
When chiefs are strong in war, then does the song arise! But if their
swords are stretched over the feeble: if the blood of the weak has
stained their arms; the bard shall forget them in the song, and their
tombs shall not be known. The stranger shall come and build there, and
remove the heaped-up earth. An half-worn sword shall rise before him;
bending above it, he will say, “These are the arms of the chiefs of
old, but their names are not in song.” Come thou, O Frothal! to the
feast of Inistore; let the maid of thy love be there; let our faces
brighten with joy!
Fingal took his spear, moving in the steps of his might. The gates of
Carric-thura are opened wide. The feast of shells is spread. The soft
sound of music arose. Gladness brightened in the hall. The voice of
Ullin was heard; the harp of Selma was strung. Utha rejoiced in his
presence, and demanded the song of grief; the big tear hung in her eye,
when the soft Crimora[191] spoke. Crimora the daughter of Rinval, who
dwelt at Lotha’s[192] roaring stream! The tale was long, but lovely;
and pleased the blushing Utha.
CRIMORA.[193]
Who cometh from the hill, like a cloud tinged with the beam of the
west? Whose voice is that, loud as the wind, but pleasant as the harp
of Carril?[194] It is my love in the light of steel: but sad is his
darkened brow! Live the mighty race of Fingal? Or what darkens in
Connal’s soul?[195]
CONNAL.
They live. They return from the chase, like a stream of light. The sun
is on their shields. Like a ridge of fire they descend the hill. Loud
is the voice of the youth; the war, my love, is near! To-morrow the
dreadful Dargo comes to try the force of our race. The race of Fingal
he defies; the race of battle and wounds!
CRIMORA.
Connal, I saw his sails like grey mist on the dark-brown wave. They
slowly came to land. Connal, many are the warriors of Dargo!
CONNAL.
Bring me thy father’s shield; the bossy, iron shield of Rinval; that
shield like the full-orbed moon, when she moves darkened through heaven.
CRIMORA.
That shield I bring, O Connal! but it did not defend my father. By the
spear of Gormar he fell. Thou may’st fall, O Connal!
CONNAL.
Fall I may! But raise my tomb, Crimora! Grey stones, a mound of earth,
shall send my name to other times. Bend thy red eye over my grave, beat
thy mournful heaving breast. Though fair thou art, my love, as the
light; more pleasant than the gale of the hill; yet I will not here
remain. Raise my tomb, Crimora!
CRIMORA.
Then give me those arms that gleam; that sword, and that spear of
steel. I shall meet Dargo with Connal, and aid him in the fight.
Farewell, ye rocks of Ardven! ye deer! and ye streams of the hill! We
shall return no more. Our tombs are distant far!
“And did they return no more?” said Utha’s bursting sigh. “Fell the
mighty in battle, and did Crimora live? Her steps were lonely; her soul
was sad for Connal. Was he not young and lovely; like the beam of the
setting sun?”
Ullin saw the virgin’s tear, he took the softly-trembling harp: the
song was lovely, but sad, and silence was in Carric-thura.
Autumn is dark on the mountains; grey mist rests on the hills. The
whirlwind is heard on the heath. Dark rolls the river through the
narrow plain. A tree stands alone on the hill, and marks the slumbering
Connal. The leaves whirl round with the wind, and strew the grave of
the dead. At times are seen here the ghosts of the departed, when the
musing hunter alone stalks slowly over the heath.
Who can reach the source of thy race, O Connal! who recount thy
fathers? Thy family grew like an oak on the mountain, which meeteth the
wind with its lofty head. But now it is torn from the earth. Who shall
supply the place of Connal? Here was the din of arms! here the groans
of the dying. Bloody are the wars of Fingal, O Connal! It was here thou
didst fall. Thine arm was like a storm; thy sword a beam of the sky;
thy height a rock on the plain; thine eyes a furnace of fire. Louder
than a storm was thy voice, in the battles of thy steel. Warriors fell
by thy sword, as the thistle by the staff of a boy. Dargo the mighty
came on, darkening in his rage. His brows were gathered into wrath. His
eyes like two caves in a rock. Bright rose their swords on each side:
loud was the clang of their steel.
The daughter of Rinval was near; Crimora bright in the armour of man;
her yellow hair is loose behind, her bow is in her hand. She followed
the youth to the war, Connal her much-beloved. She drew the string on
Dargo; but erring she pierced her Connal. He falls like an oak on the
plain; like a rock from the shaggy hill. What shall she do, hapless
maid? He bleeds; her Connal dies! All the night long she cries, and
all the day, “O Connal, my love, and my friend!” With grief the sad
mourner dies! Earth here incloses the loveliest pair on the hill. The
grass grows between the stones of the tomb; I often sit in the mournful
shade. The wind sighs through the grass; their memory rushes on my
mind. Undisturbed you now sleep together; in the tomb of the mountain
you rest alone!
“And soft be their rest,” said Utha, “hapless children of streamy
Lotha! I will remember them with tears, and my secret song shall rise;
when the wind is in the groves of Tora, when the stream is roaring
near. Then shall they come on my soul, with all their lovely grief!”
Three days feasted the kings: on the fourth their white sails arose.
The winds of the north drove Fingal to Morven’s woody land. But the
spirit of Loda sat, in his cloud, behind the ships of Frothal. He hung
forward with all his blasts, and spread the white-bosomed sails. The
wounds of his form were not forgot; he still feared[196] the hand of
the king!
FOOTNOTES:
[175] The song of Ullin, with which the poem opens, is in a lyric
measure. It was usual with Fingal, when he returned from his
expeditions, to send his bards singing before him. This species of
triumph is called, by Ossian, the _song of victory_.
[176] Ossian has celebrated the _strife of Crona_ in a particular
poem. This poem is connected with it, but it was impossible for the
translator to procure that part which relates to Crona with any degree
of purity.
[177] One should think that the parts of Shilric and Vinvela were
represented by Cronnan and Minona, whose very names denote that they
were singers who performed in public. Cronnan signifies a _mournful
sound_, Minona, or Min-’ónn, _soft air_. All the dramatic poems of
Ossian appear to have been presented before Fingal, upon solemn
occasions.
[178] Bhin-bheul, _a woman with a melodious voice_. _Bh_ in the Gaelic
language has the same sound with the _v_ in English.
[179] Bran, or Branno, signifies a _mountain-stream_: it is here some
river known by that name in the days of Ossian. There are several small
rivers in the north of Scotland still retaining the name of Bran--in
particular, one which falls into the Tay at Dunkeld.
[180] The grave.
[181] Carn-mór, _a high rocky hill_.
[182] The distinction which the ancient Scots made between good and
bad spirits was, that the former appeared sometimes in the day-time in
lonely, unfrequented places, but the latter never but by night, and in
a dismal, gloomy scene.
[183] The houses of the ancient, and many of the modern, Scots and
Irish, were covered with turf--as stone and lime buildings were unknown
in these countries--at least in Ireland, until the Romans introduced
them partially.--Hence I think “mossy towers” is a poetical phrase of
the translator. _C._
[184] _The circle of Loda_ is supposed to be a place of worship among
the Scandinavians, as the spirit of Loda is thought to be the same with
their god Odin.
[185] He is described, in a simile, in the poem concerning the death of
Cuthullin.
[186] The famous sword of Fingal, made by Lun, or Luno, a smith of
Lochlin. (I wonder if Lên is meant, the smith of the Celtic gods. _W.
S._)
[187] Annir was also the father of Erragon, who was king after the
death of his brother Frothal. The death of Erragon is the subject of
_the battle of Lora_, a poem in this collection.
[188] That is, after the death of Annir. To erect the stone of one’s
fame, was, in other words, to say that the person was dead.
[189] Honourable terms of peace.
[190] Frothal and Utha.
[191] There is a propriety in introducing this episode, as the
situations of Crimora and Utha were so similar.
[192] Lotha was the ancient name of one of the great rivers in the
north of Scotland. The only one of them that still retains a name of
a like sound is Lochy in Inverness-shire; but whether it is the river
mentioned here, the translator will not pretend to say.
[193] Cri-móra, _a woman of a great soul_.
[194] Perhaps the Carril mentioned here is the same with Carril the son
of Kinfena, Cuthullin’s bard. The name itself is proper to any bard, as
it signifies _a sprightly and harmonious sound_.
[195] Connal, the son of Diaran, was one of the most famous heroes of
Fingal; he was slain in a battle against Dargo, a Briton; but whether
by the hand of the enemy, or that of his mistress, tradition does not
determine.
[196] The story of Fingal and the spirit of Loda, supposed to be the
famous Odin, is the most extravagant fiction in all Ossian’s poems. It
is not, however, without precedents in the best poets; and it must be
said for Ossian that he says nothing but what perfectly agreed with
the notions of the times concerning ghosts. They thought the souls of
the dead were material, and consequently susceptible of pain. Whether
a proof could be drawn from this passage that Ossian had no notion of
a divinity, I shall leave to others to determine: it appears, however,
that he was of opinion that superior beings ought to take no notice of
what passed among men.
CARTHON
CARTHON
A Poem
ARGUMENT
This poem is complete, and the subject of it, as of most of Ossian’s
compositions, tragical. In the time of Comhal, the son of
Trathal, and father of the celebrated Fingal, Clessámmor, the
son of Thaddu, and brother of Morna, Fingal’s mother, was driven
by a storm into the river Clyde, on the banks of which stood
Balclutha, a town belonging to the Britons between the walls. He
was hospitably received by Reuthámir, the principal man in the
place, who gave him Moina his only daughter in marriage. Reuda,
the son of Cormo, a Briton who was in love with Moina, came to
Reuthámir’s house, and behaved haughtily towards Clessámmor.
A quarrel ensued, in which Reuda was killed; the Britons, who
attended him, pressed so hard on Clessámmor, that he was obliged
to throw himself into the Clyde, and swim to his ship. He hoisted
sail, and the wind being favourable, bore him out to sea. He
often endeavoured to return, and carry off his beloved Moina by
night; but the wind continuing contrary, he was forced to desist.
Moina, who had been left with child by her husband, brought
forth a son, and died soon after.--Reuthámir named the child
Carthon--_i.e._ _the murmur of waves_, from the storm which
carried off Clessámmor his father, who was supposed to have been
cast away. When Carthon was three years old, Comhal, the father
of Fingal, in one of his expeditions against the Britons, took
and burnt Balclutha. Reuthámir was killed in the attack: and
Carthon was carried safe away by his nurse, who fled farther into
the country of the Britons. Carthon, coming to man’s estate, was
resolved to revenge the fall of Balclutha on Comhal’s posterity.
He set sail from the Clyde, and, falling on the coast of Morven,
defeated two of Fingal’s heroes who came to oppose his progress.
He was, at last, unwittingly killed by his father Clessámmor,
in a single combat. This story is the foundation of the present
poem, which opens on the night preceding the death of Carthon, so
that what passed before is introduced by way of episode. The poem
is addressed to Malvina, the daughter of Toscar.
A tale of the times of old! The deeds of days of other years!
The murmur of thy streams, O Lora![197] brings back the memory of
the past. The sound of thy woods, Garmallar, is lovely in mine ear.
Dost thou not behold, Malvina, a rock with its head of heath? Three
aged pines bend from its face; green is the narrow plain at its feet;
there the flower of the mountain grows, and shakes its white head in
the breeze. The thistle is there alone, shedding its aged beard. Two
stones, half sunk in the ground, shew their heads of moss. The deer
of the mountain avoids the place, for he beholds a dim ghost standing
there.[198] The mighty lie, O Malvina! in the narrow plain of the rock.
A tale of the times of old! the deeds of days of other years!
Who comes from the land of strangers, with his thousands around him?
The sun-beam pours its bright stream before him; his hair meets the
wind of his hills. His face is settled from war. He is calm as the
evening beam that looks, from the cloud of the west, on Cona’s silent
vale. Who is it but Comhal’s son,[199] the king of mighty deeds! He
beholds his hills with joy, he bids a thousand voices rise. “Ye have
fled over your fields, ye sons of the distant land! The king of the
world sits in his hall, and hears of his people’s flight. He lifts his
red eye of pride; he takes his father’s sword. Ye have fled over your
fields, sons of the distant land!”
Such were the words of the bards, when they came to Selma’s halls. A
thousand lights[200] from the stranger’s land rose, in the midst of the
people. The feast is spread around; the night passed away in joy. Where
is the noble Clessámmor?[201] said the fair-haired Fingal. Where is
the brother of Morna, in the hour of my joy? Sullen and dark he passes
his days in the vale of echoing Lora: but, behold, he comes from the
hill, like a steed in his strength, who finds his companions in the
breeze; and tosses his bright mane in the wind. Blest be the soul of
Clessámmor, why so long from Selma?
Returns the chief, said Clessámmor, in the midst of his fame? Such
was the renown of Comhal in the battles of his youth. Often did we
pass over Carun to the land of the strangers: our swords returned, not
unstained with blood: nor did the kings of the world rejoice. Why do
I remember the times of our war? My hair is mixed with grey. My hand
forgets to bend the bow: I lift a lighter spear. O that my joy would
return, as when I first beheld the maid; the white-bosomed daughter of
strangers, Moina,[202] with the dark-blue eyes!
Tell, said the mighty Fingal, the tale of thy youthful days. Sorrow,
like a cloud on the sun, shades the soul of Clessámmor. Mournful are
thy thoughts, alone on the banks of the roaring Lora. Let us hear the
sorrow of thy youth and the darkness of thy days!
“It was in the days of peace,” replied the great Clessámmor, “I came,
in my bounding ship, to Balclutha’s[203] walls of towers. The winds
had roared behind my sails, and Clutha’s[204] streams received my
dark-bosomed ship. Three days I remained in Reuthámir’s halls, and saw
his daughter, that beam of light. The joy of the shell went round, and
the aged hero gave the fair. Her breasts were like foam on the wave,
and her eyes like stars of light: her hair was dark as the raven’s
wing: her soul was generous and mild. My love for Moina was great: my
heart poured forth in joy.
“The son of a stranger came; a chief who loved the white-bosomed Moina.
His words were mighty in the hall; he often half-unsheathed his sword.
Where, said he, is the mighty Comhal, the restless wanderer[205] of
the heath? Comes he, with his host, to Balclutha, since Clessámmor is
so bold? My soul, I replied, O warrior! burns in a light of its own. I
stand without fear in the midst of thousands, though the valiant are
distant far. Stranger! thy words are mighty, for Clessámmor is alone.
But my sword trembles by my side, and longs to glitter in my hand.
Speak no more of Comhal, son of the winding Clutha!”
“The strength of his pride arose. We fought; he fell beneath my sword.
The banks of Clutha heard his fall; a thousand spears glittered around.
I fought: the strangers prevailed: I plunged into the stream of Clutha.
My white sails rose over the waves, and I bounded on the dark-blue sea.
Moina came to the shore, and rolled the red eye of her tears: her loose
hair flew on the wind: and I heard her mournful, distant cries. Often
did I turn my ship; but the winds of the east prevailed. Nor Clutha
ever since have I seen, nor Moina of the dark-brown hair. She fell in
Balclutha, for I have seen her ghost. I knew her as she came through
the dusky night, along the murmur of Lora: she was like the new moon,
seen through the gathered mist, when the sky pours down its flaky snow,
and the world is silent and dark.”
Raise,[206] ye bards, said the mighty Fingal, the praise of unhappy
Moina. Call her ghost, with your songs, to our hills; that she may
rest with the fair of Morven, the sun-beams of other days, the delight
of heroes of old. 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. And let the blast
of the desert come! we shall be renowned in our day! The mark of my arm
shall be in battle; my name in the song of bards. Raise the song; send
round the shell: let joy be heard in my hall. When thou, sun of heaven,
shalt fail! if thou shalt fail, thou mighty light! if thy brightness is
for a season, like Fingal; our fame shall survive thy beams!
Such was the song of Fingal, in the day of his joy. His thousand bards
leaned forward from their seats, to hear the voice of the king. It was
like the music of harps on the gale of the spring. Lovely were thy
thoughts, O Fingal! why had not Ossian the strength of thy soul? But
thou standest alone, my father! Who can equal the king of Selma?
The night passed away in song; morning returned in joy. The mountains
shewed their grey heads; the blue face of ocean smiled. The white wave
is seen tumbling round the distant rock; a mist rose slowly, from the
lake. It came, in the figure of an aged man, along the silent plain.
Its large limbs did not move in steps; for a ghost supported it in mid
air. It came towards Selma’s hall, and dissolved in a shower of blood.
The king alone beheld the sight; he foresaw the death of the people. He
came, in silence, to his hall; and took his father’s spear. The mail
rattled on his breast. The heroes rose around. They looked in silence
on each other, marking the eyes of Fingal. They saw battle in his face:
the death of armies on his spear. A thousand shields, at once, are
placed on their arms; they drew a thousand swords. The hall of Selma
brightened around. The clang of arms ascends. The grey dogs howl in
their place. No word is among the mighty chiefs. Each marked the eyes
of the king; and half assumed his spear.
Sons of Morven, began the king, this is no time to fill the shell.
The battle darkens near us; death hovers over the land. Some ghost,
the friend of Fingal, has forewarned us of the foe. The sons of the
stranger come from the darkly-rolling sea. For, from the water came the
sign of Morven’s gloomy danger. Let each assume his heavy spear, each
gird on his father’s sword. Let the dark helmet rise on every head;
the mail pour its lightning from every side. The battle gathers like a
storm; soon shall ye hear the roar of death.
The hero moved on before his host, like a cloud before a ridge of green
fire when it pours on the sky of night, and mariners foresee a storm.
On Cona’s rising heath they stood; the white-bosomed maids beheld them
above like a grove; they foresaw the death of the youth, and looked
towards the sea with fear. The white wave deceived them for distant
sails; the tear is on their cheek! The sun rose on the sea, and we
beheld a distant fleet. Like the mist of ocean they came: and poured
their youth upon the coast. The chief was among them, like the stag in
the midst of the herd. His shield is studded with gold; stately strode
the king of spears. He moved towards Selma: his thousands moved behind.
“Go, with a song of peace,” said Fingal; “go, Ullin, to the king of
swords. Tell him that we are mighty in war; that the ghosts of our foes
are many. But renowned are they who have feasted in my halls! they
shew the arms[207] of my fathers in a foreign land: the sons of the
strangers wonder, and bless the friends of Morven’s race; for our names
have been heard afar: the kings of the world shook in the midst of
their host.”[208]
Ullin went with his song. Fingal rested on his spear: he saw the mighty
foe in his armour: he blessed the stranger’s son. “How stately art
thou, son of the sea!” said the king of woody Morven. “Thy sword is a
beam of fire by thy side: thy spear is a pine that defies the storm.
The varied face of the moon is not broader than thy shield. Ruddy is
thy face of youth! soft the ringlets of thy hair! But this tree may
fall; and his memory be forgot! The daughter of the stranger will be
sad, looking to the rolling sea: the children will say, ‘We see a
ship; perhaps it is the king of Balclutha.’ The tear starts from their
mother’s eye. Her thoughts are of him who sleeps in Morven!”
Such were the words of the king, when Ullin came to the mighty Carthon;
he threw down the spear before him; he raised the song of peace. “Come
to the feast of Fingal, Carthon, from the rolling sea! partake of the
feast of the king, or lift the spear of war! The ghosts of our foes
are many: but renowned are the friends of Morven! Behold that field, O
Carthon; many a green hill rises there, with mossy stones and rustling
grass: these are the tombs of Fingal’s foes, the sons of the rolling
sea!”
“Dost thou speak to the weak in arms!” said Carthon, “bard of the woody
Morven? Is my face pale for fear, son of the peaceful song? Why, then,
dost thou think to darken my soul with the tales of those who fell? My
arm has fought in battle; my renown is known afar. Go to the feeble in
arms, bid them yield to Fingal. Have not I seen the fallen Balclutha?
And shall I feast with Comhal’s son? Comhal! who threw his fire in the
midst of my father’s hall! I was young, and knew not the cause why the
virgins wept. The columns of smoke pleased mine eye, when they rose
above my walls! I often looked back, with gladness, when my friends
fled along the hill. But when the years of my youth came on, I beheld
the moss of my fallen walls: my sigh arose with the morning, and my
tears descended with night. Shall I not fight, I said to my soul,
against the children of my foes? And I will fight, O bard! I feel the
strength of my soul.”
His people gathered around the hero, and drew at once their shining
swords. He stands, in the midst, like a pillar of fire; the tear
half-starting from his eye; for he thought of the fallen Balclutha; the
crowded pride of his soul arose. Sidelong he looked up to the hill,
where our heroes shone in arms; the spear trembled in his hand: bending
forward, he seemed to threaten the king.
Shall I, said Fingal to his soul, meet, at once, the youth? Shall I
stop him, in the midst of his course, before his fame shall arise? But
the bard, hereafter, may say, when he sees the tomb of Carthon: Fingal
took his thousands to battle, before the noble Carthon fell. No, bard
of the times to come! thou shalt not lessen Fingal’s fame. My heroes
will fight the youth, and Fingal behold the war. If he overcomes, I
rush, in my strength, like the roaring stream of Cona. Who, of my
chiefs, will meet the son of the rolling sea? Many are his warriors on
the coast: and strong is his ashen spear!
Cathul[209] rose, in his strength, the son of the mighty Lormar: three
hundred youths attend the chief, the race[210] of his native streams.
Feeble was his arm against Carthon, he fell; and his heroes fled.
Connal[211] resumed the battle, but he broke his heavy spear: he lay
bound on the field: Carthon pursued his people.
Clessámmor! said the king[212] of Morven, where is the spear of thy
strength? Wilt thou behold Connal bound; thy friend, at the stream of
Lora? Rise, in the light of thy steel, companion of valiant Comhal!
Let the youth of Balclutha feel the strength of Morven’s race. He rose
in the strength of his steel, shaking his grisly locks. He fitted the
shield to his side; he rushed, in the pride of valour.
Carthon stood on a rock: he saw the hero rushing on. He loved the
dreadful joy of his face: his strength, in the locks of age! “Shall I
lift that spear,” he said, “that never strikes, but once, a foe? Or
shall I, with the words of peace, preserve the warrior’s life? Stately
are his steps of age! lovely the remnant of his years! Perhaps it is
the husband of Moina; the father of car-borne Carthon. Often have I
heard that he dwelt at the echoing stream of Lora.”[213]
Such were his words, when Clessámmor came, and lifted high his spear.
The youth received it on his shield, and spoke the words of peace.
“Warrior of the aged locks! Is there no youth to lift the spear? Hast
thou no son to raise the shield before his father, to meet the arm of
youth? Is the spouse of thy love no more? or weeps she over the tombs
of thy sons? Art thou of the kings of men? What will be the fame of my
sword shouldst thou fall?”
It will be great, thou son of pride! begun the tall Clessámmor. I have
been renowned in battle; but I never told my name[214] to a foe. Yield
to me, son of the wave, then shalt thou know that the mark of my sword
is in many a field. “I never yielded, king of spears! replied the noble
pride of Carthon: I have also fought in war; I behold my future fame.
Despise me not, thou chief of men! my arm, my spear is strong. Retire
among thy friends, let younger heroes fight.” Why dost thou wound my
soul? replied Clessámmor, with a tear. Age does not tremble on my hand;
I still can lift the sword. Shall I fly in Fingal’s sight; in the sight
of him I love? Son of the sea! I never fled: exalt thy pointed spear.
They fought, like two contending winds, that strive to roll the wave.
Carthon bade his spear to err; he still thought that the foe was the
spouse of Moina. He broke Clessámmor’s beamy spear in twain; he seized
his shining sword. But as Carthon was binding the chief, the chief drew
the dagger of his fathers. He saw the foe’s uncovered side; and opened
there a wound.
Fingal saw Clessámmor low: he moved in the sound of his steel. The host
stood silent, in his presence; they turned their eyes to the king.
He came, like the sullen noise of a storm, before the winds arise:
the hunter hears it in the vale, and retires to the cave of the rock.
Carthon stood in his place: the blood is rushing down his side: he saw
the coming down of the king; his hopes of fame arose;[215] but pale was
his cheek: his hair flew loose, his helmet shook on high: the force of
Carthon failed; but his soul was strong.
Fingal beheld the hero’s blood; he stopped the uplifted spear. “Yield,
king of swords!” said Comhal’s son; “I behold thy blood. Thou hast been
mighty in battle; and thy fame shall never fade.” Art thou the king so
far renowned? replied the car-borne Carthon. Art thou that light of
death, that frightens the kings of the world? But why should Carthon
ask? for he is like the stream of his hills; strong as a river, in his
course: swift as the eagle of heaven. O that I had fought with the
king; that my fame might be great in song! that the hunter, beholding
my tomb, might say he fought with the mighty Fingal. But Carthon dies
unknown; he has poured out his force on the weak.
But thou shalt not die unknown, replied the king of woody Morven: my
bards are many, O Carthon! their songs descend to future times. The
children of years to come shall hear the fame of Carthon; when they sit
round the burning oak,[216] and the night is spent in songs of old.
The hunter, sitting in the heath, shall hear the rustling blast; and,
raising his eyes, behold the rock where Carthon fell. He shall turn to
his son and shew the place where the mighty fought: “There the King of
Balclutha fought, like the strength of a thousand streams.”
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, 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.
“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 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 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 rock they lie; a dim ghost defends their
tomb. There lovely Moina is often seen; when the sun-beam darts on the
rock, and all around is dark. There she is seen, Malvina! but not like
the daughters of the hill. Her 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 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 ghost of
Morven! But there he lies a goodly oak, which sudden blasts overturned!
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 the bards, in the day of their mourning: Ossian often
joined their voice; and added to their song. My soul has been 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 he, on clouds, with 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!
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? 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 for ever the
same; rejoicing in the brightness of thy course. When the world is dark
with tempests; when 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 the west. But thou art perhaps, like me, for a season; thy years
will have an end. Thou shalt sleep in the clouds, careless of the voice
of the morning. Exult then, O sun! in the strength of thy youth: Age is
dark and unlovely; it is like the glimmering light of the moon, when it
shines through broken clouds, and the mist is on the hills; the blast
of the north is on the plain, the traveller shrinks in the midst of his
journey.
FOOTNOTES:
[197] There is a mountain in the north of Ireland near the seat of Lady
Antrim--now called Don-Lora--_i.e._ _Hill of Lora_. _C._
[198] It was the opinion of the times that deer saw the ghosts of the
dead. To this day, when beasts suddenly start without any apparent
cause, the vulgar think that they see the spirits of the deceased.
[199] Fingal returns here from an expedition against the Romans, which
was celebrated by Ossian in a poem called _the Strife of Crona_.
[200] Probably wax-lights, which are often mentioned as carried, among
other booty, from the Roman province.
[201] Clessamh-mór, _mighty deeds_.
[202] Moina, _soft in temper and person_. We find the British names in
this poem derived from the Gaelic, which is a proof that the ancient
language of the whole island was one and the same.
[203] Balclutha--_i.e._ _the town of Clyde_, probably the _Alcluth_ of
Bede.
[204] Clutha, or Cluath, the Gaelic name of the river Clyde; the
signification of the word is _bending_, in allusion to the winding
course of that river. From Clutha is derived its Latin name, Glotta.
[205] The word in the original here rendered by _restless wanderer_
is _Scuta_, which is the true origin of the _Scoti_ of the Romans; an
opprobrious name imposed by the Britons, on the Caledonians, on account
of the continual incursions into their country.
[206] The title of this poem, in the original, is _Duan na
nlaoi_--_i.e._ _The Poem of the Hymns_: probably on account of its many
digressions from the subject, all which are in a lyric measure, as this
song of Fingal. Fingal is celebrated by the Irish historians for his
wisdom in making laws, his poetical genius, and his foreknowledge of
events. O’Flaherty goes so far as to say that Fingal’s laws were extant
in his own time.
[207] It was a custom among the ancient Scots to exchange arms with
their guests, and those arms were preserved long in the different
families, as monuments of the friendship which subsisted between their
ancestors.
[208] This is doubtless an allusion to the defeat of the Romans by
Fingal, on the banks of the Carron before mentioned. _C._
[209] Cath’huil, _the eye of battle_.
[210] It appears, from this passage, that clanship was established in
the days of Fingal, though not on the same footing with the present
tribes in the north of Scotland.
[211] This Connal is very much celebrated, in ancient poetry, for his
wisdom and valour; there is a small tribe still subsisting, in the
North, who pretend they are descended from him.
[212] Fingal did not then know that Carthon was the son of Clessámmor.
[213] This opposes my conjectures that the Lora here alluded to is in
Antrim County, but the name is applicable to many places in Scotland.
_C._
[214] To tell one’s name to an enemy was reckoned, in those days of
heroism, a manifest evasion of fighting him: for if it was at once
known that friendship subsisted, of old, between the ancestors of the
combatants, the battle immediately ceased; and the ancient amity of
their forefathers was renewed. _A man who tells his name to his enemy_
was of old an ignominious term for a coward.
[215] This expression admits of a double meaning, either that Carthon
hoped to acquire glory by killing Fingal; or to be rendered famous
by falling by his hand. The last is the most probable, as Carthon is
already wounded.
[216] In the north of Scotland, till very lately, they burnt a large
trunk of an oak at their festivals; it was called _the trunk of the
feast_. Time had so much consecrated the custom, that the vulgar
thought it a kind of sacrilege to disuse it.
OINA-MORUL
OINA-MORUL
A Poem
ARGUMENT
After an address to Malvina, the daughter of Toscar, Ossian
proceeds to relate his own expedition to Fuärfed, an island of
Scandinavia. Mal-orchol, king of Fuärfed, being hard pressed in
war by Ton-thormod, chief of Sar-dronlo (who had demanded, in
vain, the daughter of Mal-orchol in marriage), Fingal sent Ossian
to his aid. Ossian, on the day after his arrival, came to battle
with Ton-thormod, and took him prisoner. Mal-orchol offers his
daughter Oina-morul to Ossian; but he, discovering her passion
for Ton-thormod, generously surrenders her to her lover, and
brings about a reconciliation between the two kings.
As flies the inconstant sun, over Larmon’s grassy hill, so pass the
tales of old, along my soul by night! When bards are removed to their
place: when harps are hung in Selma’s hall; then comes a voice to
Ossian, and awakes his soul! It is the voice of years that are gone!
they roll before me, with all their deeds! I seize the tales as they
pass, and pour them forth in song. Nor a troubled stream is the song
of the king, it is like the rising of music from Lutha of the strings.
Lutha of many strings, not silent are thy streamy rocks, when the white
hands of Malvina move upon the harp! Light of the shadowy thoughts,
that fly across my soul, daughter of Toscar of helmets, wilt thou not
hear the song? We call back, maid of Lutha, the years that have rolled
away!
It was in the days of the king, while yet my locks were young, that I
marked Con-cathlin,[217] on high, from ocean’s nightly wave. My course
was towards the isle of Fuärfed, woody dweller of seas! Fingal had sent
me to the aid of Mal-orchol, king of Fuärfed wild: for war was around
him, and our fathers had met at the feast.
In Col-coiled, I bound my sails; I sent my sword to Mal-orchol of
shells. He knew the signal of Albion, and his joy arose. He came
from his own high hall, and seized my hand in grief. “Why comes the
race of heroes to a falling king? Ton-thormod of many spears is the
chief of wavy Sar-dronlo. He saw and loved my daughter, white-bosomed
Oina-morul. He sought; I denied the maid! for our fathers had been
foes. He came, with battle, to Fuärfed; my people are rolled away. Why
comes the race of heroes to a falling king?”
I come not, I said, to look, like a boy, on the strife. Fingal
remembers Mal-orchol, and his hall for strangers. From his waves, the
warrior descended on thy woody isle. Thou wert no cloud before him. Thy
feast was spread with songs. For this my sword shall rise; and thy foes
perhaps may fail. Our friends are not forgot in their danger, though
distant is our land.
“Descendant of the daring Trenmor, thy words are like the voice of
Cruth-loda, when he speaks, from his parting cloud, strong dweller
of the sky! Many have rejoiced at my feast; but they all have forgot
Mal-orchol. I have looked towards all the winds; but no white sails
were seen. But steel[218] resounds in my hall; and not the joyful
shells. Come to my dwelling, race of heroes! dark-skirted night is
near. Hear the voice of songs, from the maid of Fuärfed wild.”
We went. On the harp arose the white hands of Oina-morul. She waked
her own sad tale, from every trembling string. I stood in silence; for
bright in her locks was the daughter of many isles! Her eyes were two
stars, looking forward through a rushing shower. The mariner marks
them on high, and blesses the lovely beams. With morning we rushed to
battle, to Tormul’s resounding stream: the foe moved to the sound of
Ton-thormod’s bossy shield. From wing to wing the strife was mixed.
I met Ton-thormod in fight. Wide flew his broken steel. I seized the
king in war. I gave his hand, bound fast with thongs, to Mal-orchol,
the giver of shells. Joy rose at the feast of Fuärfed, for the foe had
failed. Ton-thormod turned his face away, from Oina-morul of isles!
Son of Fingal, began Mal-orchol, not forgot shalt thou pass from me.
A light shall dwell in thy ship, Oina-morul of slow-rolling eyes. She
shall kindle gladness, along thy mighty soul. Nor unheeded shall the
maid move in Selma, through the dwelling of kings!
In the hall I lay in night. Mine eyes were half-closed in sleep. Soft
music came to mine ear: it was like the rising breeze, that whirls, at
first, the thistle’s beard; then flies, dark shadowy, over the grass.
It was the maid of Fuärfed wild! she raised the nightly song; she knew
that my soul was a stream, that flowed at pleasant sounds. “Who looks,”
she said, “from his rock on ocean’s closing mist? His long locks, like
the raven’s wing, are wandering on the blast. Stately are his steps in
grief! The tears are in his eyes! His manly breast is heaving over his
bursting soul! Retire, I am distant far; a wanderer in lands unknown.
Though the race of kings are around me, yet my soul is dark. Why have
our fathers been foes, Ton-thormod, love of maids?”
“Soft voice of the streamy isle,” I said, “why dost thou mourn by
night? The race of daring Trenmor are not the dark in soul. Thou
shalt not wander, by streams unknown, blue-eyed Oina-morul! Within
this bosom is a voice; it comes not to other ears: it bids Ossian
hear the hapless, in their hour of woe. Retire, soft singer by night!
Ton-thormod shall not mourn on his rock!”
With morning I loosed the king. I gave the long-haired maid. Mal-orchol
heard my words, in the midst of his echoing halls. “King of Fuärfed
wild, why should Ton-thormod mourn? He is of the race of heroes, and
a flame in war. Your fathers have been foes, but now their dim ghosts
rejoice in death. They stretch their hands of mist to the same shell
in Loda. Forget their rage, ye warriors! it was the cloud of other
years.”
Such were the deeds of Ossian, while yet his locks were young: though
loveliness, with a robe of beams, clothed the daughter of many isles.
We call back, maid of Lutha, the years that have rolled away!
FOOTNOTES:
[217] Con-cathlin, _mild beam of the wave_. What star was so called
of old is not easily ascertained. Some now distinguish the pole-star
by that name. A song, which is still in repute among the seafaring
part of the Highlanders, alludes to this passage of Ossian. The writer
commends the knowledge of Ossian in sea affairs, a merit which,
perhaps, few of us moderns will allow him, or any in the age in which
he lived. One thing is certain, that the Caledonians often made their
way through the dangerous and tempestuous seas of Scandinavia; which
is more, perhaps, than the more polished nations subsisting in those
times dared to venture. In estimating the degree of knowledge of arts
among the ancients, we ought not to bring it into comparison with the
improvements of modern times. Our advantages over them proceed more
from accident than any merit of ours.
[218] There is a severe satire couched in this expression against
the guests of Mal-orchol. Had his feast been still spread, had joy
continued in his hall, his former parasites would not have failed to
resort to him. But as the time of festivity was past, their attendance
also ceased. The sentiments of a certain old bard are agreeable to this
observation. He, poetically, compares a great man to a fire kindled in
a desert place. “Those that pay court to him,” says he, “are rolling
large around him, like the smoke about the fire. This smoke gives the
fire a great appearance at a distance, but it is but an empty vapour
itself, and varying its form at every breeze. When the trunk which
fed the fire is consumed, the smoke departs on all the winds.--So the
flatterers forsake their chief, when his power declines.” I have chosen
to give a paraphrase, rather than a translation, of this passage, as
the original is verbose and frothy, notwithstanding the sentimental
merit of the author. He was one of the less ancient bards, and their
compositions are not nervous enough to bear a literal translation.
COLNA-DONA
COLNA-DONA
A Poem
ARGUMENT
Fingal despatches Ossian and Toscar, the son of Conloch and father of
Malvina, to raise a stone, on the banks of the stream of Crona,
to perpetuate the memory of a victory which he had obtained
in that place. When they were employed in that work, Car-ul,
a neighbouring chief, invited them to a feast. They went: and
Toscar fell desperately in love with Colna-dona, the daughter
of Car-ul. Colna-dona became no less enamoured of Toscar. An
incident at a hunting party brings their loves to a happy issue.
Col-amon[219] of troubled streams, dark wanderer of distant vales, I
behold thy course, between trees, near Car-ul’s echoing halls! There
dwelt bright Colna-dona, the daughter of the king. Her eyes were
rolling stars; her arms were white as the foam of streams. Her breast
rose slowly to sight, like ocean’s heaving wave. Her soul was a stream
of light. Who, among the maids, was like the love of heroes?
Beneath the voice of the king, we moved to Crona[220] of the streams,
Toscar of grassy Lutha, and Ossian, young in fields. Three bards
attended with songs. Three bossy shields were borne before us: for we
were to rear the stone, in memory of the past. By Crona’s mossy course,
Fingal had scattered his foes: he had rolled away the strangers, like
a troubled sea. We came to the place of renown: from the mountains
descended night. I tore an oak from its hill, and raised a flame on
high. I bade my fathers to look down, from the clouds of their hall;
for, at the fame of their race, they brighten in the wind.
I took a stone from the stream, amidst the song of bards. The blood
of Fingal’s foes hung curdled in its ooze. Beneath, I placed, at
intervals, three bosses from the shields of foes, as rose or fell the
sound of Ullin’s nightly song. Toscar laid a dagger in earth, a mail of
sounding steel. We raised the mould around the stone, and bade it speak
to other years.
Oozy daughter of streams, that now art reared on high, speak to the
feeble, O stone! after Selma’s race have failed! Prone, from the
stormy night, the traveller shall lay him by thy side: thy whistling
moss shall sound in his dreams; the years that were past shall return.
Battles rise before him, blue-shielded kings descend to war: the
darkened moon looks from heaven, on the troubled field. He shall burst,
with morning, from dreams, and see the tombs of warriors round. He
shall ask about the stone, and the aged shall reply, “This grey stone
was raised by Ossian, a chief of other years!”
From Col-amon came a bard, from Car-ul, the friend of strangers. He
bade us to the feast of kings, to the dwelling of bright Colna-dona.
We went to the hall of harps. There Car-ul brightened between his aged
locks, when he beheld the sons of his friends, like two young branches,
before him.
“Sons of the mighty,” he said, “ye bring back the days of old, when
first I descended from waves, on Selma’s streamy vale! I pursued
Duthmocarglos, dweller of ocean’s wind. Our fathers had been foes, we
met by Clutha’s winding waters. He fled along the sea, and my sails
were spread behind him. Night deceived me, on the deep. I came to the
dwelling of kings, to Selma of high-bosomed maids. Fingal came forth
with his bards, and Conloch, arm of death. I feasted three days in the
hall, and saw the blue eyes of Erin, Ros-crána, daughter of heroes,
light of Cormac’s race. Nor forgot did my steps depart: the kings gave
their shields to Car-ul: they hang, on high, in Col-amon, in memory of
the past. Sons of the daring kings, ye bring back the days of old!”
Car-ul kindled the oak of feasts. He took two bosses from our shields.
He laid them in earth, beneath a stone, to speak to the hero’s race.
“When battle,” said the king, “shall roar, and our sons are to meet in
wrath. My race, shall look, perhaps, on this stone, when they prepare
the spear. Have not our fathers met in peace? they will say, and lay
aside the shield.”
Night came down. In her long locks moved the daughter of Car-ul.
Mixed with the harp arose the voice of white-armed Colna-dona. Toscar
darkened in his place, before the love of heroes. She came on his
troubled soul, like a beam to the dark-heaving ocean: when it bursts
from a cloud, and brightens the foamy side of a wave.[221]
* * * * *
With morning we awaked the woods; and hung forward on the path of the
roes. They fell by their wonted streams. We returned through Crona’s
vale. From the wood a youth came forward, with a shield and pointless
spear. “Whence,” said Toscar of Lutha, “is the flying beam? Dwells
there peace at Col-amon, round bright Colna-dona of harps?”
“By Col-amon of streams,” said the youth, “bright Colna-dona dwelt.
She dwelt; but her course is now in deserts, with the son of the king;
he that seized with love her soul as it wandered through the hall.”
“Stranger of tales,” said Toscar, “hast thou marked the warrior’s
course? He must fall: give thou that bossy shield!” In wrath he took
the shield. Fair behind it rose the breasts of a maid, white as the
bosom of a swan, rising graceful on swift-rolling waves. It was
Colna-dona of harps, the daughter of the king! Her blue eyes had rolled
on Toscar, and her love arose!
FOOTNOTES:
[219] Colna-dona signifies _the love of heroes_. Col-amon, _narrow
river_. Car-ul, _dark-eyed_. Col-amon, the residence of Car-ul, was
in the neighbourhood of Agricola’s wall, towards the south. Car-ul
seems to have been of the race of those Britons who are distinguished
by the name of Maiatæ, by the writers of Rome. Maiatæ is derived from
two Gaelic words, Mor, _a plain_, and +Aitich+, _inhabitants_; so that
the signification of Maiatæ is _the inhabitants of the plain country_,
a name given to the Britons, who were settled in the Lowlands, in
contradistinction to the Caledonians (_i.e._ +Cael-don+, _the Gauls of
the hills_), who were possessed of the more mountainous division of
North Britain.
[220] Crona, _murmuring_, was the name of a small stream which
discharged itself into the river Carron. It is often mentioned by
Ossian, and the scenes of many of his poems are on its banks. The
enemies whom Fingal defeated here are not mentioned. They were,
probably, the provincial Britons. That tract of country between the
Friths of Forth and Clyde has been, through all antiquity, famous
for battles and rencounters between the different nations who were
possessed of North and South Britain. Stirling, a town situated there,
derives its name from that very circumstance. It is a corruption of the
Gaelic name, +Strila+--_i.e._ _the hill, or rock, of contention_.
[221] Here an episode is entirely lost; or, at least, is handed down so
imperfectly, that it does not deserve a place in the poem.
CROMA
CROMA
A Poem
ARGUMENT
Malvina, the daughter of Toscar, is overheard by Ossian lamenting the
death of Oscar her lover. Ossian, to divert her grief, relates
his own actions in an expedition which he undertook, at Fingal’s
command, to aid Crothar the petty king of Croma, a country in
Ireland, against Rothmar, who invaded his dominions. The story
is delivered down thus in tradition: Crothar king of Croma being
blind with age, and his son too young for the field, Rothmar the
chief of Tromolo, resolved to avail himself of the opportunity
offered of annexing the dominions of Crothar, to his own. He
accordingly marched into the country subject to Crothar, but
which he held of Arth or Artho, who was, at the time, supreme
king of Ireland.
Crothar being, on account of his age and blindness, unfit for
action, sent for aid to Fingal king of Scotland; who ordered his
son Ossian to the relief of Crothar. But before his arrival,
Fovar-gormo, the son of Crothar, attacking Rothmar, was slain
himself, and his forces totally defeated. Ossian renewed the war;
came to battle, killed Rothmar, and routed his army. Croma being
thus delivered of its enemies, Ossian returned to Scotland. _M._
There is a district of country in Down County, commencing on the
_Legon_, above Belfast, and after intersecting the villages of
Newton-Breda and Castlereagh, runs into Strangford Loch. It is
called _Cromac_, and may have been the Croma of Ossian. _C._
“It was the voice of my love! seldom art thou in the dreams of Malvina!
Open your airy halls, O fathers of Toscar of shields! Unfold the gates
of your clouds: the steps of Malvina are near. I have heard a voice in
my dream. I feel the fluttering of my soul. Why didst thou come, O
blast! from the dark-rolling face of the lake? Thy rustling wing was
in the tree; the dream of Malvina fled. But she beheld her love, when
his robe of mist flew on the wind. A sun-beam was on his skirts, they
glittered like the gold of the stranger. It was the voice of my love!
seldom comes he to my dreams!”
“But thou dwellest in the soul of Malvina, son of mighty Ossian! My
sighs arise with the beam of the east; my tears descend with the drops
of night. I was a lovely tree, in thy presence, Oscar, with all my
branches round me; but thy death came like a blast from the desert, and
laid my green head low. The spring returned with its showers; no leaf
of mine arose! The virgins saw me silent in the hall; they touched the
harp of joy. The tear was on the cheek of Malvina: the virgins beheld
me in my grief. Why art thou sad? they said; thou first of the maids
of Lutha! Was he lovely as the beam of the morning, and stately in thy
sight?”
Pleasant is thy song in Ossian’s ear, daughter of streamy Lutha! Thou
hast heard the music of departed bards, in the dream of thy rest, when
sleep fell on thine eyes, at the murmur of Moruth.[222] When thou didst
return from the chase, in the day of the sun, thou hast heard the music
of bards, and thy song is lovely! It is lovely, O Malvina! but it melts
the soul. There is a joy in grief when peace dwells in the breast of
the sad. But sorrow wastes the mournful, O daughter of Toscar! and
their days are few! They fall away, like the flower on which the sun
hath looked in his strength after the mildew has passed over it, when
its head is heavy with the drops of night. Attend to the tale of
Ossian, O maid! He remembers the days of his youth!
The king commanded; I raised my sails, and rushed into the bay of
Croma; into Croma’s sounding bay in lovely Inisfail.[223] High on the
coast arose the towers of Crothar king of spears; Crothar renowned in
the battles of his youth; but age dwelt then around the chief. Rothmar
had raised the sword against the hero; and the wrath of Fingal burned.
He sent Ossian to meet Rothmar in war, for the chief of Croma was the
friend of his youth. I sent the bard before me with songs. I came
into the hall of Crothar. There sat the chief amidst the arms of his
fathers, but his eyes had failed. His grey locks waved around a staff,
on which the warrior leaned. He hummed the song of other times, when
the sound of our arms reached his ears. Crothar rose, stretched his
aged hand, and blessed the son of Fingal.
“Ossian!” said the hero, “the strength of Crothar’s arm has failed. O
could I lift the sword, as on the day that Fingal fought at Strutha! He
was the first of men! but Crothar had also his fame. The king of Morven
praised me; he placed on my arm the bossy shield of Calthar, whom the
king had slain in his wars. Dost thou not behold it on the wall, for
Crothar’s eyes have failed? Is thy strength like thy father’s, Ossian?
let the aged feel thine arm!”
I gave my arm to the king; he felt it with his aged hands. The sigh
rose in his breast, and his tears came down. “Thou art strong, my son,”
he said, “but not like the king of Morven! But who is like the hero
among the mighty in war! Let the feast of my hall be spread; and let my
bards exalt the song. Great is he that is within my walls, ye sons of
echoing Croma!” The feast is spread. The harp is heard; and joy is in
the hall. But it was joy covering a sigh, that darkly dwelt in every
breast. It was like the faint beam of the moon spread on a cloud in
heaven. At length the music ceased, and the aged king of Croma spoke.
He spoke without a tear, but sorrow swelled in the midst of his voice.
“Son of Fingal! behold’st thou not the darkness of Crothar’s joy?
My soul was not sad at the feast, when my people lived before me. I
rejoiced in the presence of strangers, when my son shone in the hall.
But, Ossian, he is a beam that is departed. He left no streak of light
behind. He is fallen, son of Fingal! in the wars of his father. Rothmar
the chief of grassy Tromlo heard that these eyes had failed; he heard
that my arms were fixed in the hall, and the pride of his soul arose!
He came towards Croma; my people fell before him. I took my arms in my
wrath, but what could sightless Crothar do? My steps were unequal; my
grief was great. I wished for the days that were past. Days! wherein
I fought; and won in the field of blood. My son returned from the
chase; the fair-haired Fovar-gormo.[224] He had not lifted his sword in
battle, for his arm was young. But the soul of the youth was great; the
fire of valour burnt in his eyes. He saw the disordered steps of his
father, and his sigh arose. “King of Croma,” he said, “is it because
thou hast no son; is it for the weakness of Fovar-gormo’s arm that thy
sighs arise? I begin, my father, to feel my strength; I have drawn the
sword of my youth; and I have bent the bow. Let me meet this Rothmar,
with the sons of Croma: let me meet him, O my father! I feel my burning
soul!” “And thou shalt meet him,” I said, “son of the sightless
Crothar! But let others advance before thee, that I may hear the tread
of thy feet at thy return; for my eyes behold thee not, fair-haired
Fovar-gormo!” He went, he met the foe; he fell. Rothmar advances to
Croma. He who slew my son is near, with all his pointed spears.”
This is no time to fill the shell, I replied, and took my spear! My
people saw the fire of my eyes; they all arose around. Through night we
strode along the heath. Grey morning rose in the east. A green narrow
vale appeared before us; nor wanting was its winding stream. The dark
host of Rothmar are on its banks, with all their glittering arms. We
fought along the vale. They fled, Rothmar sunk beneath my sword! Day
had not descended in the west, when I brought his arms to Crothar. The
aged hero felt them with his hands; and joy brightened over all his
thoughts.
The people gather to the hall. The shells of the feast are heard. Ten
harps are strung, five bards advance, and sing, by turns, the praise of
Ossian; they poured forth their burning souls, and the string answered
to their voice. The joy of Croma was great: for peace returned to the
land. The night came on with silence; the morning returned with joy. No
foe came in darkness, with his glittering spear. The joy of Croma was
great: for the gloomy Rothmar had fallen.
I raised my voice for Fovar-gormo, when they laid the chief in earth.
The aged Crothar was there, but his sigh was not heard. He searched for
the wound of his son, and found it in his breast. Joy rose in the face
of aged. He came and spoke to Ossian. “King of spears!” he said, “my
son has not fallen without his fame. The young warrior did not fly; but
met death, as he went forward in his strength. Happy are they who die
in youth, when their renown is heard! The feeble will not behold them
in the hall; or smile at their trembling hands. Their memory shall be
honoured in song; the young tear of the virgin will fall. But the aged
wither away, by degrees; the fame of their youth, while yet they live,
is all forgot. They fall in secret. The sigh of their son is not heard.
Joy is around their tomb; the stone of their fame is placed without
a tear. Happy are they who die in youth, when their renown is around
them!”
FOOTNOTES:
[222] Mor’-ruth, _great stream_. _M._--There is a Moruth, which falls
into Belfast Loch, and is now named Con’s water, traditionally from
“_Con_--O’Niell--of the hundred fights.” _C._
[223] _Inisfail_, one of the ancient names of Ireland.
[224] Faobhar-gorm, _the blue point of steel_.
CALTHON AND COLMAL
CALTHON AND COLMAL
A Poem
ARGUMENT
This piece, as many more of Ossian’s compositions, is addressed
to one of the first Christian missionaries. The story of the
poem is handed down, by tradition, thus: In the country of the
Britons between the walls, two chiefs lived in the days of
Fingal--Dunthalmo, lord of Teutha, supposed to be the Tweed;
and Rathmor, who dwelt at Clutha, well known to be the river
Clyde. Rathmor was not more renowned for his generosity and
hospitality than Dunthalmo was infamous for his cruelty and
ambition. Dunthalmo, through envy, or on account of some private
feuds which subsisted between the families, murdered Rathmor at a
feast; but being afterwards touched with remorse, he educated the
two sons of Rathmor, Calthon and Colmar, in his own house. They
growing up to man’s estate, dropped some hints that they intended
to revenge the death of their father, upon which Dunthalmo shut
them up in two caves on the banks of Teutha, intending to take
them off privately. Colmal, the daughter of Dunthalmo, who was
secretly in love with Calthon, helped him to make his escape from
prison, and fled with him to Fingal, disguised in the habit of
a young warrior, and implored his aid against Dunthalmo. Fingal
sent Ossian with three hundred men to Colmar’s relief. Dunthalmo,
having previously murdered Colmar, came to a battle with Ossian;
but he was killed by that hero, and his army totally defeated.
Calthon married Colmal, his deliverer; and Ossian returned to Morven.
Pleasant is the voice of thy song, thou lonely dweller of the rock!
It comes on the sound of the stream, along the narrow vale. My soul
awakes, O stranger! in the midst of my hall. I stretch my hand, to the
spear, as in the days of other years. I stretch my hand, but it is
feeble; and the sigh of my bosom grows. Wilt thou not listen, son of
the rock! to the song of Ossian? My soul is full of other times; the
joy of my youth returns. Thus the sun appears in the west, after the
steps of his brightness have moved behind a storm: the green hills
lift their dewy heads; the blue stream rejoices in the vale. The aged
hero comes forth on his staff; his grey hair glitters in the beam.
Dost thou not behold, son of the rock! a shield in Ossian’s hall? It
is marked with the strokes of battle; and the brightness of its bosses
has failed. That shield the great Dunthalmo bore, the chief of streamy
Teutha. Dunthalmo bore it in battle, before he fell by Ossian’s spear.
Listen, son of the rock! to the tale of other years!
Rathmor was a chief of Clutha. The feeble dwelt in his hall. The gates
of Rathmor were never shut; his feast was always spread. The sons of
the stranger came. They blessed the generous chief of Clutha. Bards
raised the song, and touched the harp: joy brightened on the face of
the sad! Dunthalmo came, in his pride, and rushed into the combat of
Rathmor. The chief of Clutha overcame: the rage of Dunthalmo rose. He
came, by night, with his warriors; the mighty Rathmor fell. He fell in
his halls, where his feast was often spread for strangers.
Colmar and Calthon were young, the sons of car-borne Rathmor. They
came in the joy of youth, into their father’s hall. They behold him in
his blood; their bursting tears descend. The soul of Dunthalmo melted,
when he saw the children of youth. He brought them to Alteutha’s[225]
walls: they grew in the house of their foe. They bent the bow in his
presence; and came forth to his wars. They saw the fallen walls of
their fathers; they saw the green thorn in the hall. Their tears rushed
forth in secret. At times their faces were sad. Dunthalmo beheld their
grief; his darkening soul designed their death. He closed them in two
caves, on the echoing banks of Teutha. The sun did not come there
with his beams; nor the moon of heaven by night. The sons of Rathmor
remained in darkness, and foresaw their death.
The daughter of Dunthalmo wept in silence, the fair-haired, blue-eyed
Colmal.[226] Her eye had rolled in secret on Calthon; his loveliness
swelled in her soul. She trembled for her warrior; but what could
Colmal do? Her arm could not lift the spear; nor was the sword formed
for her side. Her white breast never rose beneath a mail. Neither was
her eye the terror of heroes. What canst thou do, O Colmal! for the
falling chief? Her steps are unequal; her hair is loose: her eyes
look wildly through her tears. She came, by night, to the hall.[227]
She armed her lovely form in steel; the steel of a young warrior, who
fell in the first of his battles. She came to the cave of Calthon, and
loosed the thong from his hands.
“Arise, son of Rathmor,” she said, “arise, the night is dark! Let us
fly to the king of Selma,[228] chief of fallen Clutha! I am the son of
Lamgal, who dwelt in thy father’s hall. I heard of thy dark dwelling
in the cave, and my soul arose. Arise, son of Rathmor, arise, the night
is dark!” “Blest voice!” replied the chief, “comest thou from the
clouds to Calthon? The ghost of his fathers have often descended in
his dreams, since the sun has retired from his eyes, and darkness has
dwelt around him. Or art thou the son of Lamgal, the chief I often saw
in Clutha? But shall I fly to Fingal, and Colmar my brother low? Will
I fly to Morven, and the hero closed in night? No; give me that spear,
son of Lamgal, Calthon will defend his brother!”
“A thousand warriors,” replied the maid, “stretch their spears round
car-borne Colmar. What can Calthon do against a host so great? Let us
fly to the king of Morven, he will come with war. His arm is stretched
forth to the unhappy; the lightning of his sword is round the weak.
Arise, thou son of Rathmor! the shadows will fly away. Arise, or thy
steps may be seen, and thou must fall in youth!”
The sighing hero rose; his tears descend for car-borne Colmar. He came
with the maid to Selma’s hall; but he knew not that it was Colmal. The
helmet covered her lovely face. Her bosom heaved beneath the steel.
Fingal returned from the chase, and found the lovely strangers. They
were like two beams of light, in the midst of the hall of shells. The
king heard the tale of grief; and turned his eyes around. A thousand
heroes half-rose before him; claiming the war of Teutha. I came with my
spear from the hill; the joy of battle rose in my breast; for the king
spoke to Ossian in the midst of a thousand chiefs.
“Son of my strength,” began the king, “take thou the spear of Fingal.
Go to Teutha’s rushing stream, and save the car-borne Colmar. Let thy
fame return before thee like a pleasant gale; that my soul may rejoice
over my son, who renews the renown of our fathers. Ossian, be thou a
storm in war; but mild when the foe is low! It was thus my fame arose,
O my son! be thou like Selma’s chief. When the haughty come to my
halls, my eyes behold them not. But my arm is stretched forth to the
unhappy. My sword defends the weak.”
I rejoiced in the words of the king. I took my rattling arms.
Diaran[229] rose at my side, and Dargo[230] king of spears. Three
hundred youths followed our steps; the lovely strangers were at my
side. Dunthalmo heard the sound of our approach. He gathered the
strength of Teutha. He stood on a hill with his host. They were like
rocks broken with thunder, when their bent trees are singed and
bare, and the streams of their chinks have failed. The stream of
Teutha rolled, in its pride, before the gloomy foe. I sent a bard
to Dunthalmo, to offer the combat on the plain, but he smiled in the
darkness of his pride. His unsettled host moved on the hill; like the
mountain-cloud, when the blast has entered its womb, and scatters the
curling gloom on every side.
They brought Colmar to Teutha’s bank, bound with a thousand thongs. The
chief is sad, but stately. His eye is on his friends; for we stood, in
our arms, whilst Teutha’s waters rolled between. Dunthalmo came with
his spear, and pierced the hero’s side: he rolled on the bank in his
blood. We heard his broken sighs. Calthon rushed into the stream: I
bounded forward on my spear. Teutha’s race fell before us. Night came
rolling down. Dunthalmo rested on a rock, amidst an aged wood. The rage
of his bosom burned against the car-borne Calthon. But Calthon stood in
his grief; he mourned the fallen Colmar; Colmar slain in youth, before
his fame arose!
I bade the song of woe to rise, to soothe the mournful chief; but he
stood beneath a tree, and often threw his spear on earth. The humid
eye of Colmal rolled near in a secret tear; she foresaw the fall of
Dunthalmo, or of Clutha’s warlike chief. Now half the night had passed
away. Silence and darkness were on the field. Sleep rested on the
eyes of the heroes: Calthon’s settling soul was still. His eyes were
half-closed, but the murmur of Teutha had not yet failed in his ear.
Pale, and showing his wounds, the ghost of Colmar came: he bent his
head over the hero, and raised his feeble voice!
“Sleeps the son of Rathmor in his night, and his brother low? Did we
not ride in the chase together? Pursued we not the dark-brown hinds?
Colmar was not forgot till he fell: till death had blasted his youth.
I lie pale beneath the rock of Lona. O let Calthon rise! the morning
comes with its beams; Dunthalmo will dishonour the fallen.” He passed
away in his blast. The rising Calthon saw the steps of his departure.
He rushed in the sound of his steel. Unhappy Colmal rose. She followed
her hero through night, and dragged her spear behind. But when Calthon
came to Lona’s rock, he found his fallen brother. The rage of his bosom
rose; he rushed among the foe. The groans of death ascend. They close
around the chief. He is bound in the midst, and brought to gloomy
Dunthalmo. The shout of joy arose; and the hills of night replied.
I started at the sound: and took my father’s spear. Diaran rose at
my side; and the youthful strength of Dargo. We missed the chief of
Clutha, and our souls were sad. I dreaded the departure of my fame. The
pride of my valour rose! “Sons of Morven!” I said, “it is not thus our
fathers fought. They rested not on the field of strangers, when the
foe was not fallen before them. Their strength was like the eagles of
heaven; their renown is in the song. But our people fall by degrees.
Our fame begins to depart. What shall the king of Morven say if Ossian
conquers not at Teutha? Rise in your steel, ye warriors! follow the
sound of Ossian’s course. He will not return, but renowned, to the
echoing walls of Selma.”
Morning rose on the blue waters of Teutha. Colmal stood before me in
tears. She told of the chief of Clutha: thrice the spear fell from
her hand. My wrath turned against the stranger; for my soul trembled
for Calthon. “Son of the feeble hand,” I said, “do Teutha’s warriors
fight with tears? The battle is not won with grief; nor dwells the sigh
in the soul of war. Go to the deer of Carmun, to the lowing herds of
Teutha. But leave these arms, thou son of fear! A warrior may lift them
in fight.”
I tore the mail from her shoulders. Her snowy breast appeared. She bent
her blushing face to the ground. I looked in silence to the chiefs. The
spear fell from my hand; the sigh of my bosom rose! But when I heard
the name of the maid, my crowding tears rushed down. I blessed the
lovely beam of youth, and bade the battle move!
Why, son of the rock, should Ossian tell how Teutha’s warriors died?
They are now forgot in their land; their tombs are not found on the
heath. Years came on with their storms. The green mounds are mouldered
away. Scarce is the grave of Dunthalmo seen, or the place where he
fell by the spear of Ossian. Some grey warrior, half blind with age,
sitting by night at the flaming oak of the hall, tells now my deeds to
his sons, and the fall of the dark Dunthalmo. The faces of youth bend
sidelong towards his voice. Surprise and joy burn in their eyes! I
found Calthon bound to an oak; my sword cut the thongs from his hands.
I gave him the white-bosomed Colmal. They dwelt in the halls of Teutha.
FOOTNOTES:
[225] Al-theutha, or rather Baltheutha, _the town of Tweed_, the name
of Dunthalmo’s seat. It is observable that all the names in this poem
are derived from the Gaelic language; which is a proof that it was once
the universal language of the whole island.
[226] Caol-mhal, _a woman with small eye-brows_. Small eye-brows were a
distinguishing part of beauty in Ossian’s time, and he seldom fails to
give them to the fine women of his poems.
[227] That is, the hall where the arms taken from enemies were hung up
as trophies. Ossian is very careful to make his stories probable; for
he makes Colmal put on the arms of a youth killed in his first battle,
as more proper for a young woman, who cannot be supposed strong enough
to carry the armour of a full-grown warrior.
[228] Fingal.
[229] Diaran, father of that Connal who was unfortunately killed by
Crimora, his mistress.
[230] Dargo, the son of Collath, is celebrated in other poems by
Ossian. He is said to have been killed by a boar at a hunting party.
The lamentation of his mistress, or wife, Mingala, over his body, is
extant; but whether it is of Ossian’s composition, I cannot determine.
It is generally ascribed to him, and has much of his manner; but some
traditions mention it as an imitation by some later bard. As it has
some poetical merit, I have subjoined it.
The spouse of Dargo comes in tears: for Dargo was no more!
The heroes sigh over Lartho’s chief; and what shall sad Mingala do?
The dark soul vanished like morning mist, before the king of spears;
but the generous glowed in his presence like the morning star.
Who was the fairest and most lovely? Who but Collath’s stately son?
Who sat in the midst of the wise, but Dargo of the mighty deeds?
Thy hand touched the trembling harp! thy voice was soft as summer
winds. Ah me! what shall the heroes say? for Dargo fell before a
boar. Pale is the lovely cheek; the look of which was firm in danger!
Why hast thou failed on our hills? thou fairer than the beams of the
sun.
The daughter of Adonfin was lovely in the eyes of the valiant; she
was lovely in their eyes, but she chose to be the spouse of Dargo.
But thou art alone, Mingala! the night is coming with its clouds;
where is the bed of thy repose? Where but in the tomb of Dargo?
Why dost thou lift the stone, O bard! why dost thou shut the narrow
house? Mingala’s eyes are heavy, bard! she must sleep with Dargo.
Last night I heard the song of joy in Lartho’s lofty hall. But
silence dwells around my bed. Mingala rests with Dargo.
TEMORA
TEMORA
An Epic Poem
BOOK I
ARGUMENT
Cairbar, the son of Borbar-duthul, lord of Atha in Connaught, the
most potent chief of the race of the Firbolg, having murdered at
Temora, the royal palace, Cormac the son of Artho, the young king
of Ireland, usurped the throne. Cormac was lineally descended
from Conar the son of Trenmor, the great grandfather of Fingal,
king of those Caledonians who inhabited the western coast of
Scotland. Fingal resented the behaviour of Cairbar, and resolved
to pass over into Ireland, with an army, to re-establish the
royal family on the Irish throne. Early intelligence of his
designs coming to Cairbar, he assembled some of his tribes in
Ulster, and at the same time ordered his brother Cathmor to
follow him speedily with an army, from Temora. Such was the
situation of affairs when Caledonian invaders appeared on the
coast of Ulster.
The poem opens in the morning. Cairbar is represented as retired
from the rest of the army, when one of his scouts brought him
news of the landing of Fingal. He assembles a council of his
chiefs. Foldath the chief of Moma haughtily despises the enemy;
and is reprimanded warmly by Malthos. Cairbar, after hearing
their debate, orders a feast to be prepared, to which, by his
bard Olla, he invites Oscar the son of Ossian, resolving to pick
a quarrel with that hero, and so have some pretext for killing
him. Oscar came to the feast; the quarrel happened; the followers
of both fought, and Cairbar and Oscar fell by mutual wounds.
The noise of the battle reached Fingal’s army. The king came on
to the relief of Oscar, and the Irish fell back to the army of
Cathmor, who was advanced to the banks of the river Lubor, on
the heath of Moilena. Fingal, after mourning over his grandson,
ordered Ullin, the chief of his bards, to carry his body to
Morven, to be there interred. Night coming on, Althan, the son of
Conachar, relates to the king the particulars of the murder of
Cormac. Fillan, the son of Fingal, is sent to observe the motions
of Cathmor by night, which concludes the actions of the first
day. The scene of this book is a plain, near the hill of Mora,
which rose on the borders of the heath of Moilena, in Ulster.
The blue waves of Erin roll in light. The mountains are covered with
day. Trees shake their dusky heads, in the breeze. Grey torrents pour
their noisy streams. Two green hills, with aged oaks, surround a
narrow plain. The blue course of a stream is there. On its banks stood
Cairbar[231] of Atha. His spear supports the king; the red eye of his
fear is sad. Cormac rises in his soul, with all his ghastly wounds. The
grey form of the youth appears in darkness. Blood pours from his airy
side. Cairbar thrice threw his spear on earth. Thrice he stroked his
beard. His steps are short. He often stops. He tosses his sinewy arms.
He is like a cloud in the desert, varying its form to every blast.
The valleys are sad around, and fear, by turns, the shower! The king,
at length, resumed his soul. He took his pointed spear. He turned his
eye to Moilena. The scouts of blue ocean came. They came with steps of
fear, and often looked behind. Cairbar knew that the mighty were near!
He called his gloomy chiefs.
The sounding steps of his warriors came. They drew, at once, their
swords. There Morlath[232] stood with darkened face. Hidalla’s long
hair sighs in the wind. Red-haired Cormar bends on his spear, and rolls
his sidelong-looking eyes. Wild is the look of Malthos from beneath two
shaggy brows. Foldath stands, like an oozy rock, that covers its dark
sides with foam. His spear is like Slimora’s fir, that meets the wind
of heaven. His shield is marked with the strokes of battle. His red eye
despises danger. These and a thousand other chiefs surrounded the king
of Erin, when the scout of ocean came, Mor-annal,[233] from streamy
Moi-lena. His eyes hang forward from his face. His lips trembling, pale!
“Do the chiefs of Erin stand,” he said, “silent as the grove of
evening? Stand they, like a silent wood, and Fingal on the coast?
Fingal, who is terrible in battle, the king of streamy Morven!” “Hast
thou seen the warrior?” said Cairbar with a sigh. “Are his heroes
many on the coast? Lifts he the spear of battle? Or comes the king in
peace?” “In peace he comes not, king of Erin! I have seen his forward
spear.[234] It is a meteor of death. The blood of thousands is on its
steel. He came first to the shore, strong in the grey hair of age. Full
rose his sinewy limbs, as he strode in his might. That sword is by his
side, which gives no second[235] wound. His shield is terrible, like
the bloody moon, ascending through a storm. Then came Ossian, king
of songs. Then Morni’s son, the first of men. Connal leaps forward
on his spear. Dermid spreads his dark-brown locks. Fillan bends his
bow, the young hunter of streamy Moruth. But who is that before them,
like the terrible course of a stream. It is the son of Ossian, bright
between his locks! His long hair falls on his back. His dark brows are
half-inclosed in steel. His sword hangs loose on his side. His spear
glitters as he moves. I fled from his terrible eyes, king of high
Temora!”
“Then fly, thou feeble man,” said Foldath’s gloomy wrath. “Fly to the
grey streams of thy land, son of the little soul! Have not I seen that
Oscar? I beheld the chief in war. He is of the mighty in danger: but
there are others who lift the spear. Erin has many sons as brave, king
of Temora of Groves! Let Foldath meet him in his strength. Let me stop
this mighty stream. My spear is covered with blood. My shield is like
the wall of Thura.”
“Shall Foldath[236] alone meet the foe?” replied the dark-browed
Malthos. “Are they not on our coast, like the waters of many streams?
Are not these the chiefs who vanquished Swaran, when the sons of green
Erin fled? Shall Foldath meet their bravest hero? Foldath of the heart
of pride! take the strength of the people: and let Malthos come. My
sword is red with slaughter, but who has heard my words?”[237]
“Sons of green Erin,” said Hidalla,[238] “let not Fingal hear your
words. The foe might rejoice, and his arm be strong in the land. Ye are
brave, O warriors! Ye are tempests in war. Ye are, like storms, which
meet the rocks without fear, and overturn the woods. But let us move in
our strength, slow as a gathered cloud! Then shall the mighty tremble;
the spear shall fall from the hand of the valiant. We see the cloud of
death, they will say, while shadows fly over their face. Fingal will
mourn in his age. He shall behold his flying fame. The steps of his
chiefs will cease in Morven. The moss of years shall grow in Selma.”
Cairbar heard their words, in silence, like the cloud of a shower: it
stands dark on Cromla, till the lightning bursts its side. The valley
gleams with heaven’s flame; the spirits of the storm rejoice. So stood
the silent king of Temora; at length his words broke forth. “Spread the
feast on Moi-lena. Let my hundred bards attend. Thou red-haired Olla,
take the harp of the king. Go to Oscar chief of swords. Bid Oscar to
our joy. To-day we feast and hear the song, to-morrow break the spears!
Tell him that I have raised the tomb of Cathol[239]; that bards gave
his friend to the winds. Tell him that Cairbar has heard of his fame,
at the stream of resounding Carun.[240] Cathmor[241] my brother is
not here. He is not here with his thousands, and our arms are weak.
Cathmor is a foe to strife at the feast! His soul is bright as that
sun! But Cairbar must fight with Oscar, chiefs of woody Temora! His
words for Cathol were many: the wrath of Cairbar burns. He shall fall
on Moi-lena. My fame shall rise in blood.”[242]
Their faces brightened round with joy. They spread over Moi-lena. The
feast of shells is prepared. The songs of bards arise. The chiefs
of Selma heard their joy.[243] We thought that mighty Cathmor came.
Cathmor the friend of strangers! the brother of red-haired Cairbar.
Their souls were not the same. The light of heaven was in the bosom of
Cathmor. His towers rose on the banks of Atha[244]; seven paths led to
his halls. Seven chiefs stood on the paths, and called the stranger to
the feast! But Cathmor dwelt in the wood, to shun the voice of praise!
Olla came with his songs. Oscar went to Cairbar’s feast. Three hundred
warriors strode along Moi-lena of the streams. The grey dogs bounded
on the heath: Their howling reached afar. Fingal saw the departing
hero. The soul of the king was sad. He dreaded Cairbar’s gloomy
thoughts, amid the feast of shells. My son raised high the spear of
Cormac. An hundred bards met him with songs. Cairbar concealed with
smiles the death that was dark in his soul. The feast is spread. The
shells resound. Joy brightens the face of the host. But it was like the
parting beam of the sun, when he is to hide his red head in a storm!
Cairbar rises in his arms. Darkness gathers on his brow. The hundred
harps cease at once. The clang[245] of shields is heard. Far distant
on the heath Olla raised a song of woe. My son knew the sign of death;
and, rising, seized his spear. “Oscar,” said the dark-red Cairbar, “I
behold the spear[246] of Erin. The spear of Temora[247] glitters in
thy hand, son of woody Morven! It was the pride of an hundred[248]
kings. The death of heroes of old. Yield it, son of Ossian, yield it to
car-borne Cairbar!”
“Shall I yield,” Oscar replied, “the gift of Erin’s injured king: the
gift of fair-haired Cormac, when Oscar scattered his foes? I came to
Cormac’s halls of joy, when Swaran fled from Fingal. Gladness rose in
the face of youth. He gave the spear of Temora. Nor did he give it to
the feeble: neither to the weak in soul. The darkness of thy face is
no storm to me: nor are thine eyes the flames of death. Do I fear thy
clanging shield? Tremble I at Olla’s song? No: Cairbar, frighten the
feeble; Oscar is a rock!”
“Wilt thou not yield the spear?” replied the rising pride of Cairbar.
“Are thy words so mighty, because Fingal is near? Fingal with aged
locks, from Morven’s hundred groves! He has fought with little men. But
he must vanish before Cairbar, like a thin pillar of mist before the
winds of Atha!”[249] “Were he who fought with little men, near Atha’s
haughty chief: Atha’s chief would yield green Erin to avoid his rage!
Speak not of the mighty, O Cairbar! Turn thy sword on me. Our strength
is equal: but Fingal is renowned! the first of mortal men!”
Their people saw the darkening chiefs. Their crowding steps are heard
around. Their eyes roll in fire. A thousand swords are half unsheathed.
Red-haired Olla raised the song of battle. The trembling joy of Oscar’s
soul arose: the wonted joy of his soul when Fingal’s horn was heard.
Dark as the swelling wave of ocean before the rising winds, when it
bends its head near the coast, came on the host of Cairbar!
Daughter of Toscar![250] why that tear? He is not fallen yet. Many were
the deaths of his arm before my hero fell!
Behold they fall before my son, like groves in the desert, when an
angry ghost rushes through night, and takes their green heads in his
hand! Morlath falls. Maronnan dies. Conachar trembles in his blood;
Cairbar shrinks before Oscar’s sword! He creeps in darkness behind a
stone. He lifts the spear in secret; he pierces my Oscar’s side: he
falls forward on his shield: his knee sustains the chief. But still his
spear is in his hand. See gloomy Cairbar[251] falls! The steel pierced
his forehead, and divided his red hair behind. He lay, like a shattered
rock, which Cromla shakes from its craggy side, when the green-valleyed
Erin shakes its mountains, from sea to sea!
But never more shall Oscar rise! He leans on his bossy shield. His
spear is in his terrible hand. Erin’s sons stand distant and dark.
Their shouts arise, like crowded streams. Moi-lena echoes wide. Fingal
heard the sound. He took the spear of Selma. His steps are before us on
the heath. He spoke the words of woe. “I hear the noise of war. Young
Oscar is alone. Rise, sons of Morven: join the hero’s sword!”
Ossian rushed along the heath. Fillan bounded over Moi-lena.[252]
Fingal strode in his strength. The light of his shield is terrible. The
sons of Erin saw it far distant. They trembled in their souls. They
knew that the wrath of the king arose: and they foresaw their death. We
first arrived. We fought. Erin’s chiefs withstood our rage. But when
the king came, in the sound of his course, what heart of steel could
stand! Erin fled over Moi-lena. Death pursued their flight. We saw
Oscar on his shield. We saw his blood around. Silence darkened every
face. Each turned his back and wept. The king strove to hide his tears.
His grey beard whistled in the wind. He bends his head above the chief.
His words are mixed with sighs.
“Art thou fallen, O Oscar! in the midst of thy course? The heart of the
aged beats over thee! He sees thy coming wars! The wars which ought to
come he sees! They are cut off from thy fame! When shall joy dwell at
Selma? When shall grief depart from Morven? My sons fall by degrees:
Fingal is the last of his race. My fame begins to pass away. Mine age
will be without friends. I shall sit a grey cloud in my hall. I shall
not hear the return of a son, in his sounding arms. Weep, ye heroes of
Morven! never more shall Oscar rise!”
And they did weep, O Fingal! Dear was the hero to their souls. He went
out to battle, and the foes vanished. He returned, in peace, amidst
their joy. No father mourned his son slain in youth; no brother his
brother of love. They fell, without tears, for the chief of the people
is low! Bran[253] is howling at his feet: gloomy Luäth is sad, for he
had often led them to the chase; to the bounding roe of the desert!
When Oscar saw his friends around, his heaving breast arose. “The
groans,” he said, “of aged chiefs: the howling of my dogs: the sudden
bursts of the song of grief, have melted Oscar’s soul. My soul, that
never melted before. It was like the steel of my sword. Ossian, carry
me to my hills! Raise the stones of my renown. Place the horn of a
deer: place my sword by my side. The torrent hereafter may raise the
earth: the hunter may find the steel and say, “This has been Oscar’s
sword, the pride of other years!”” “Fallest thou, son of my fame! shall
I never see thee, Oscar? When others hear of their sons; shall I not
hear of thee? The moss is on thy four grey stones. The mournful wind is
there. The battle shall be fought without thee. Thou shalt not pursue
the dark-brown hinds. When the warrior returns from battles, and tells
of other lands: “I have seen a tomb,” he will say, “by the roaring
stream, the dark dwelling of a chief. He fell by car-borne Oscar, the
first of mortal men.” I, perhaps, shall hear his voice. A beam of joy
will rise in my soul.”
Night would have descended in sorrow, and morning returned in the
shadow of grief. Our chiefs would have stood, like cold dropping rocks
on Moi-lena and have forgot the war; did not the king disperse his
grief, and raise his mighty voice. The chiefs, as new-awakened from
dreams, lift up their heads around.
“How long on Moi-lena shall we weep? How long pour in Erin our tears?
The mighty will not return. Oscar shall not rise in his strength. The
valiant must fall in their day, and be no more known on their hills.
Where are our fathers, O warriors! the chiefs of the times of old? They
have set like stars that have shone. We only hear the sound of their
praise. But they were renowned in their years: the terror of other
times. Thus shall we pass away, in the day of our fall. Then let us be
renowned when we may; and leave our fame behind us, like the last beams
of the sun when he hides his red head in the west. The traveller mourns
his absence, thinking of the flame of his beams. Ullin, my aged bard!
take thou the ship of the king. Carry Oscar to Selma of harps. Let the
daughters of Morven weep. We must fight in Erin, for the race of fallen
Cormac. The days of my years begin to fail. I feel the weakness of my
arm. My fathers bend from their clouds, to receive their grey-hair’d
son. But, before I go hence, one beam of fame shall rise. My days shall
end, as my years begun, in fame. My life shall be one stream of light
to bards of other times!”
Ullin rais’d his white sails. The wind of the south came forth. He
bounded on the waves toward Selma. I remained in my grief, but my words
were not heard. The feast is spread on Moi-lena. An hundred heroes
reared the tomb of Cairbar. No song is raised over the chief. His soul
had been dark and bloody. The bards remembered the fall of Cormac! what
could they say in Cairbar’s praise?
Night came rolling down. The light of an hundred oaks arose. Fingal sat
beneath a tree. Old Althan[254] stood in the midst. He told the tale
of fallen Cormac. Althan the son of Conachar, the friend of car-borne
Cuthullin. He dwelt with Cormac in windy Temora, when Semo’s son fell
at Lego’s stream. The tale of Althan was mournful. The tear was in his
eye, when he spoke.
[255]“The setting sun was yellow on Dora.[256] Grey evening began to
descend. Temora’s woods shook with the blast of the unconstant wind. A
cloud gathered in the west. A red star looked from behind its edge. I
stood in the wood alone. I saw a ghost on the darkening air. His stride
extended from hill to hill. His shield was dim on his side. It was
the son of Semo. I knew the warrior’s face. But he passed away in his
blast; and all was dark around. My soul was sad. I went to the hall of
shells. A thousand lights arose. The hundred bards had strung the harp.
Cormac stood in the midst, like the morning-star when it rejoices on
the eastern hill, and its young beams are bathed in showers. Bright and
silent is its progress aloft, but the cloud, that shall hide it, is
near. The sword of Artho[257] was in the hand of the king. He looked
with joy on its polished studs: thrice he attempted to draw it, and
thrice he failed; his yellow locks are spread on his shoulders; his
cheeks of youth are red. I mourned over the beam of youth, for he was
soon to set!”
“Althan!” he said with a smile, “didst thou behold my father? Heavy is
the sword of the king; surely his arm was strong. O that I were like
him in battle, when the rage of his wrath arose! then would I have met
with Cuthullin, the car-borne son of Cantéla! But years may come on, O
Althan! and my arm be strong. Hast thou heard of Semo’s son, the ruler
of high Temora? He might have returned with his fame. He promised to
return to-night. My bards wait him with songs. My feast is spread in
the halls of kings.”
I heard Cormac in silence. My tears began to flow. I hid them with my
aged locks. The king perceived my grief. “Son of Conachar!” he said,
“is the son of Semo[258] low? Why bursts the sigh in secret? Why
descends the tear? Comes the car-borne Torlath? Comes the sound of
red-haired Cairbar? They come! for I behold thy grief. Mossy Tura’s
chief is low! Shall I not rush to battle? But I cannot lift the spear!
O had mine arm the strength of Cuthullin, soon would Cairbar fly; the
fame of my fathers would be renewed; and the deeds of other times!”
He took his bow. The tears flow down, from both his sparkling eyes.
Grief saddens round. The bards bend forward, from their hundred harps.
The lone blast touched their trembling strings. The sound[259] is sad
and low. A voice is heard at a distance, as of one in grief. It was
Carril of other times, who came from dark Slimora. He told of the fall
of Cuthullin. He told of his mighty deeds. The people were scattered
round his tomb. Their arms lay on the ground. They had forgot the war,
for he, their fire, was seen no more.
“But who,” said the soft-voiced Carril, “who come like bounding roes?
Their stature is like young trees in the valley, growing in a shower!
Soft and ruddy are their cheeks! Fearless souls look forth from the
eyes! Who but the sons of Usnoth,[260] chief of streamy Etha? The
people rise on every side, like the strength of an half-extinguished
fire, when the winds come, sudden, from the desert, on their rustling
wings. Sudden glows the dark brow of the hill; the passing mariner
lags, on his winds. The sound of Câthba’s[261] shield was heard. The
warriors saw Cuthullin[262] in Nathos. So rolled his sparkling eyes!
his steps were such on heath! Battles are fought at Lego. The sword
of Nathos prevails. Soon shalt thou behold him in thy halls, king of
Temora of groves!”
“Soon may I behold the chief!” replied the blue-eyed king. “But my soul
is sad for Cuthullin. His voice was pleasant in mine ear. Often have
we moved, on Dora, to the chase of the dark-brown hinds. His bow was
unerring on the hills. He spoke of mighty men. He told of the deeds of
my fathers. I felt my rising joy. But sit thou at the feast, O Carril!
I have often heard thy voice. Sing in praise of Cuthullin. Sing of
Nathos of Etha!”[263]
Day rose on Temora, with all the beams of the east. Crathin came to the
hall, the son of old Gelláma.[264] “I behold!” he said, “a cloud in
the desert, king of Erin! a cloud it seemed at first, but now a crowd
of men! One strides before them in his strength. His red hair flies in
wind. His shield glitters to the beam of the east. His spear is in his
hand.” “Call him to the feast of Temora,” replied the brightening king.
“My hall is the house of strangers, son of generous Gelláma! It is
perhaps the chief of Etha, coming in all his renown. Hail, mighty[265]
stranger! art thou of the friends of Cormac? But Carril, he is dark,
and unlovely. He draws his sword. Is that the son of Usnoth, bard of
the times of old?”
“It is not the son of Usnoth!” said Carril. “It is Cairbar thy foe.
Why comest thou in thy arms to Temora? chief of the gloomy brow. Let
not thy sword rise against Cormac! Whither dost thou turn thy speed?”
He passed on in darkness. He seized the hand of the king. Cormac
foresaw his death; the rage of his eyes arose. “Retire, thou chief of
Atha![266] Nathos comes with war. Thou art bold in Cormac’s hall, for
his arm is weak.” The sword entered the side of the king. He fell in
the halls of his fathers. His fair hair is in the dust. His blood is
smoking round.
“Art thou fallen in thy halls?” said Carril. “O son of noble Artho? The
shield of Cuthullin was not near. Nor the spear of thy father. Mournful
are the mountains of Erin, for the chief of the people is low! Blest be
thy soul, O Cormac! Thou art darkened in thy youth!”
His words came to the ears of Cairbar. He closed[267] us in the
midst of darkness. He feared to stretch his sword to the bards,[268]
though his soul was dark. Long we pined alone! At length the noble
Cathmor[269] came. He heard our voice from the cave.[270] He turned the
eye of his wrath on Cairbar.
“Brother of Cathmor,” he said, “how long wilt thou pain my soul? Thy
heart is a rock. Thy thoughts are dark and bloody! But thou art the
brother of Cathmor; and Cathmor shall shine in thy war. But my soul is
not like thine: thou feeble hand in fight! The light of my bosom is
stained with thy deeds. Bards will not sing of my renown. They may say,
“Cathmor was brave, but he fought for gloomy Cairbar.” They will pass
over my tomb in silence. My fame shall not be heard. Cairbar! loose the
bards. They are the sons of future times. Their voice shall be heard
in other years; after the kings of Temora have failed. We came forth
at the words of the chief. We saw him in his strength. He was like thy
youth, O Fingal! when thou first didst lift the spear. His face like
the plain of the sun, when it is bright. No darkness travelled over his
brow. But he came with his thousands to aid the red-haired Cairbar. Now
he comes to revenge his death, O king of woody Morven!”
“Let Cathmor come,” replied the king. “I love a foe so great. His soul
is bright. His arm is strong. His battles are full of fame. But the
little soul is a vapour that hovers round the marshy lake. It never
rises on the green hill, lest the winds should meet it there. Its
dwelling is in the cave, it sends forth the dart of death. Our young
heroes, O warriors! are like the renown of our fathers. They fight in
youth. They fall. Their names are in song. Fingal is amid his darkening
years. He must not fall, as an aged oak, across a secret stream. Near
it are the steps of the hunter, as it lies beneath the wind. “How is
that tree fallen?” he says, and, whistling, strides along. Raise the
song of joy, ye bards of Morven! Let our souls forget the past. The red
stars look on us from clouds, and silently descend. Soon shall the grey
beam of the morning rise, and shew us the foes of Cormac. Fillan! my
son, take thou the spear of the king. Go to Mora’s dark-brown side. Let
thine eyes travel over the heath. Observe the foes of Fingal: Observe
the course of generous Cathmor. I hear a distant sound, like falling
rocks in the desert. But strike thou thy shield at times, that they
may not come thro’ night, and the fame of Morven cease. I begin to be
alone, my son. I dread the fall of my renown!”
The voice of bards arose. The king leaned on the shield of Trenmor.
Sleep descended on his eyes. His future battles arose in his dreams.
The host are sleeping around. Dark-haired Fillan observes the foe. His
steps are on a distant hill. We hear, at times, his clanging shield.
FOOTNOTES:
[231] Cairbar, the son of Borbar-duthul, was descended lineally from
Lathon the chief of the Firbolg, the first colony who settled in the
south of Ireland. The Gaels were in possession of the northern coast
of that kingdom, and the first monarchs of Ireland were of their race.
Hence arose those differences between the two nations which terminated,
at last, in the murder of Cormac, and the usurpation of Cairbar, lord
of Atha (Lough Neagh), who is mentioned in this place. _M._
[232] Mór-lath, _great in the day of battle_. Hidalla, _mildly looking
hero_. Cormar, _expert at sea_. Máth-os, _slow to speak_. Foldath,
_generous_.
Foldath, who is here strongly marked, makes a great figure in the
sequel of the poem. His fierce, uncomplying character is sustained
throughout. He seems, from a passage in the second book, to have been
Cairbar’s greatest confidant, and to have had a principal hand in the
conspiracy against Cormac, the usurping king of Ireland. His tribe was
one of the most considerable of the race of the Firbolg. _M._--Here
Macpherson confounds the Firbolg with the Milesians, of which Cairbar
(Prince O’Neill) was the chief. _C._
[233] Mór-annal, _strong-breath_; a very proper name for a scout.
[234] Mór-annal here alludes to the particular appearance of Fingal’s
spear. If a man, upon his first landing in a strange country, kept the
point of his spear forward, it denoted in those days that he came in
a hostile manner, and accordingly he was treated as an enemy; if he
kept the point behind him, it was a token of friendship, and he was
immediately invited to the feast, according to the hospitality of the
times.
[235] This was the famous sword of Fingal, made by Luno, a smith of
Lochlin, and after him poetically called the _son of Luno_: it is said
of this sword, that it killed a man at every stroke, and that Fingal
never used it but in times of the greatest danger.
[236] The opposite characters of Foldath and Malthos are strongly
marked in subsequent parts of the poem. They appear always in
opposition. The feuds between their families, which were the source of
their hatred to one another, are mentioned in other poems.
[237] That is, who has heard my vaunting? He intended the expression as
a rebuke to the self-praise of Foldath.
[238] Hidalla was the chief of Clonra, a small district on the banks of
the lake of Lego. The beauty of his person, his eloquence, and genius
for poetry, are afterwards mentioned. Clonra has sunk into oblivion.
[239] Cathol the son of Maronnan, or Moran, was murdered by Cairbar,
for his attachment to the family of Cormac. He had attended Oscar to
the _war of Inisthona_, where they contracted a great friendship for
one another. Oscar, immediately after the death of Cathol, had sent a
formal challenge to Cairbar, which he prudently declined, but conceived
a secret hatred against Oscar, and had beforehand contrived to kill him
at the feast to which he here invites him.
[240] He alludes to the battle of Oscar against Caros, _king of ships_,
who is supposed to be the same with Carausius the Roman usurper.
[241] Cathmor, _great in battle_, the son of Borbar-duthul, and
brother of Cairbar king of Ireland, had, before the insurrection of
the Firbolg, passed over into Inis-huna, supposed (but erroneously) to
be part of South Britain, to assist Conmor king of that place against
his enemies. Cathmor was successful in the war, but, in the course of
it, Conmor was either killed, or died a natural death. Cairbar, upon
intelligence of the designs of Fingal to dethrone him, had despatched a
messenger for Cathmor, who returned into Ireland a few days before the
opening of the poem.
Cairbar here takes advantage of his brother’s absence to perpetrate his
ungenerous designs against Oscar; for the noble spirit of Cathmor, had
he been present, would not have permitted the laws of that hospitality,
for which he was so renowned himself, to be violated. The brothers form
a contrast: we do not detest the mean soul of Cairbar more than we
admire the disinterested and generous mind of Cathmor.
[242] From this passage we discover sufficient to inform us that
Cairbar (ancestor of the present Earl O’Neill), king of Ulster, was now
in a situation to assert and maintain his right to the throne of his
progenitors, which had been long occupied by the traitorous friends of
Fingal, whose power was evidently on the decline in Emania or Connor,
and its principality or kingdom. The prophetical part of the speech of
Hidalla was soon realised in Morven. _C._
[243] Fingal’s army heard the joy that was in Cairbar’s camp. The
character given of Cathmor is agreeable to the times. Some, through
ostentation, were hospitable; and others fell naturally into a custom
handed down from their ancestors. But what marks strongly the character
of Cathmor is his aversion to praise; for he is represented to dwell
in a wood to avoid the thanks of his guests, which is still a higher
degree of generosity than that of Axylus in Homer: for the poet does
not say, but the good man might, at the head of his own table, have
heard with pleasure the praise bestowed on him by the people he
entertained.
[244] Shanes Castle stands on the Banks of Lough Neagh, the Lake of
Roes of Ossian.--The Irish Bards call it Lake Aidha, or Atha, from one
of the O’Neill princes having been drowned there. _C._
[245] When a chief was determined to kill a person already in his
power, it was usual to signify that his death was intended by the sound
of a shield struck with the blunt end of a spear, at the same time that
a bard at a distance raised the _death song_.
[246] Cormac, the son of Arth, had given the spear, which is here the
foundation of the quarrel, to Oscar, when he came to congratulate him
upon Swaran’s being expelled from Ireland.
[247] Ti’ mòr-i (Tigh-mhor-Rígh), _the house of the great king_, now
Connor the name of the royal palace of the supreme kings of Ireland.
_M._--No! rather of the Caledonian chief, or king, whose territory was
bounded on the east by the Legon River, on the west by the Bann, on the
north by the Irish Sea, and on the south by Lough Neagh! _C._
[248] _Hundred_ here is an indefinite number, and is only intended to
express a great many. It was probably the hyperbolical phrases of bards
that gave the first hint to the Irish Senachies to place the origin of
their monarchy in so remote a period as they have done.
[249] Atha, _shallow river_, the name of Cairbar’s seat in Connaught.
_M._--No!--not in Connaught, but in Ulster, in the county of Antrim, on
the banks of Lough Neagh (Lake of Roes), and nearly on the banks of one
of its tributaries, called the Main-water. _C._
[250] Malvina, the daughter of Toscar, to whom is addressed that part
of the poem which related to the death of Oscar, her lover.
[251] The Irish historians place the death of Cairbar in the latter end
of the third century: they say he was killed in battle against Oscar
the son of Ossian, but deny that he fell by his hand, or in the manner
here narrated.
It is, however, certain that the Irish bards disguise, in some
measure, this part of their history. An Irish poem on this subject,
which, undoubtedly, was the source of their information, concerning
the battle of Gabbra, where Cairbar fell, is just now in my hands. As
a translation of the poem (which, though evidently no very ancient
composition, does not want poetical merit) would extend this note to
too great a length, I shall only give the story of it in brief, with
some extracts from the original Irish.
Oscar, says the Irish bard, was invited to a feast, at Temora, by
Cairbar king of Ireland. A dispute arose between the two heroes
concerning the exchange of spears, which was usually made, between the
guests and their host, upon such occasions. In the course of their
altercation, Cairbar said, in a boastful manner, that he would hunt on
the hills of Albion, and carry the spoils of it into Ireland, in spite
of all the efforts of its inhabitants. The original words are:
Briathar buan sin; Briathar buan
A bheireadh an Cairbre rua’,
Gu tuga’ se scalg, agus creach
A h’ +Albin+ an la’r na mhaireach.
Oscar replied that, the next day, he himself would carry into Albion
the spoils of the five provinces of Ireland; in spite of the opposition
of Cairbar.
Briathar eile an aghai’ sin
A beeirea’ an t’ Oscar og, calma
Gu’n tugadh sealg agus creach
Do dh’ +Albin+ an la’r na mhaireach, etc.
Oscar, in consequence of his threats, began to lay waste Ireland; but
as he returned with the spoil into Ulster, through the narrow pass of
Gabhra (_Caoil ghlen Ghabhra_) he was met by Cairbar, and a battle
ensued, in which both the heroes fell by mutual wounds. The bard gives
a very curious list of the followers of Oscar, as they marched to
battle. They appear to have been five hundred in number, commanded,
as the poet expresses it by _five heroes of the blood of kings_. This
poem mentions Fingal as arriving from Scotland before Oscar died of his
wounds. _M._--The Irish chronologists have here fallen into an error of
at least a century.--The battle of Gowra or Gabhra, should be placed
+A.D.+ 384, instead of +A.D.+ 284. _C._
[252] Moi-lena is still the name of a part of the heath of Lena, and
extends from the mountain to the banks of Lough Neagh, the Lake of
Roes of Ossian, near Antrim. From this description, I presume that the
narrow pass of Gabhra is that opening or valley between the hills above
Belfast to the south-west which leads to Antrim and Moi-lena.--This
conjecture is borne out by the context.--Erin fled over Moi-lena.
[253] Bran was one of Fingal’s dogs. Bran signifies a _mountain stream_.
[254] Althan, the son of Conachar, was the chief bard of Arth king of
Ireland. After the death of Arth, Althan attended his son Cormac, and
was present at his death. He had made his escape from Cairbar by the
means of Cathmor, and coming to Fingal, related, as here, the death of
his master Cormac.
[255] Althan speaks. _M._
[256] Dora, _the woody side of a mountain_; it is here a hill in the
neighbourhood of Temora. _M._--And nothing can be more natural and
just than the remark of the setting sun on Dora, which still bears its
ancient name, and is about three miles from Connor. _C._
[257] Arth, or Artho, the father of Cormac, king of Ireland. _M._--Of
the usurping race. _C._
[258] Cuthullin is called the king of Tura from a castle of that name
on the coast of Ulster (Carrickfergus), where he dwelt, before he
undertook the management of the affairs of Ireland, in the minority of
Cormac. _M._--And afterwards. _C._
[259] That prophetic sound, mentioned in other poems, which the harps
of the bards emitted before the death of a person worthy and renowned.
It is here an omen of the death of Cormac, which, soon after, followed.
[260] Usnoth, chief of Etha, a district on the western coast of
Scotland, had three sons, Nathos, Althos, and Ardan, by Slissáma
the sister of Cuthullin. The three brothers, when very young, were
sent over to Ireland by their father, to learn the use of arms under
their uncle, whose military fame was very great in that kingdom.
They had just arrived in Ulster when the news of Cuthullin’s death
arrived. Nathos, the eldest of the three brothers, took the command of
Cuthullin’s army, and made head against Cairbar, the chief of Atha.
Cairbar having, at last, murdered young king Cormac, at Temora, the
army of Nathos shifted sides and the brothers were obliged to return
into Ulster, in order to pass over into Scotland. The sequel of their
mournful story is related, at large, in the poem of Darthula.
[261] Caithbait was grandfather to Cuthullin; and his shield was made
use of to alarm his posterity to the battles of the family.
[262] That is, they saw a manifest likeness between the person of
Nathos and Cuthullin.
[263] Nathos the son of Usnoth.
[264] Geal-lamha, _white-handed_.
[265] From this expression, we understand that Cairbar had entered the
palace of Temora, in the midst of Cormac’s speech. _M._--Macpherson
has taken great pains to evade the true story--namely, that this
Cairbar who murdered young Cormac was the rightful heir to the throne
of Temora--which was unjustly kept from him and his ancestors from the
time it was first usurped by Connor till that period, by the forces of
Fingal on one hand, and the lately settled Belgae in the south upon the
other. _C._
[266] By this I am borne out in the idea that Cairbar, chief of Atha,
was ancestor of the present family of O’Neill of Shanes Castle--during
many centuries the _rightful_ kings of Ulster, whose lands and throne
had been usurped by Connor, of Caledonia, during the minority of his
ancestor. _C._
[267] That is, himself and Carril, as it afterwards appears.
[268] The persons of the bards were so sacred, that even he, who had
just murdered his sovereign, feared to kill them. _M._--The person
killed was _not_ Cairbar’s sovereign, but the _usurper_ of his crown.
_C._
[269] Cathmor appears the same disinterested hero upon every occasion.
His humanity and generosity were unparalleled: in short, he had no
fault but too much attachment to so bad a brother as Cairbar. His
family-connection with Cairbar prevails, as he expresses it, over every
other consideration, and makes him engage in a war of which he does not
approve.
[270] There are several large and spacious caves around Connor-Temora.
_C._
BOOK II
ARGUMENT
This book opens, we may suppose, about midnight, with a soliloquy
of Ossian, who had retired, from the rest of the army, to mourn
for his son Oscar. Upon hearing the noise of Cathmor’s army
approaching, he went to find out his brother Fillan who kept the
watch on the hill of Mora, in the front of Fingal’s army. In
the conversation of the brothers, the episode of Conar the son
of Trenmor, who was the first king of Ireland, is introduced,
which lays open the origin of the contests between the Caël
and Firbolg, the two nations who first possessed themselves of
that island. Ossian kindles a fire on Mora; upon which Cathmor
desisted from the design he had formed of the surprising the
army of the Caledonians. He calls a council of his chiefs;
reprimands Foldath for advising a night-attack, as the Irish army
were so much superior in number to the enemy. The bard Fonar
introduces the story of Crothar, the ancestor of the king, which
throws further light on the history of Ireland, and the original
pretensions of the family of Atha to the throne of that kingdom.
The Irish chiefs lie down to rest, and Cathmor himself undertakes
the watch. In this circuit, round the army, he is met by Ossian.
The interview of the two heroes is described. Cathmor obtains
a promise from Ossian to order a funeral elegy to be sung over
the grave of Cairbar: it being the opinion of the times that the
souls of the dead could not be happy till their elegies were
sung by a bard. Morning comes. Cathmor and Ossian part: and the
latter, casually meeting with Carril the son of Kinfena, sends
that bard, with a funeral song, to the tomb of Cairbar.
Father[271] of heroes! O Trenmor! High dweller of eddying winds! where
the dark-red thunder marks the trouble clouds! Open thou thy stormy
halls. Let the bards of old be near. Let them draw near with songs
and their half-viewless harps. No dweller of the misty valley comes!
No hunter unknown at his streams! It is the car-borne Oscar, from the
fields of war. Sudden is thy change, my son, from what thou wert on
dark Moi-lena! The blast folds thee in its skirt, and rustles through
the sky! Dost thou not behold thy father, at the stream of night? The
chiefs of Morven sleep far distant. They have lost no son! But ye have
lost a hero, chiefs of resounding Morven! Who could equal his strength,
when battle rolled against his side, like the darkness of crowded
waters? Why this cloud on Ossian’s soul? It ought to burn in danger.
Erin is near with her host. The king of Selma is alone. Alone thou
shalt not be, my father, while I can lift the spear!
I rose, in all my arms. I rose and listened to the wind. The shield
of Fillan[272] is not heard. I tremble for the son of Fingal. “Why
should the foe come by night? Why should the dark-haired warrior
fail?” Distant, sullen murmurs rise: like the noise of the lake of
Lego when its waters shrink in the days of frost, and all its bursting
ice resounds. The people of Lara look to heaven and foresee the storm.
My steps are forward on the heath. The spear of Oscar in my hand. Red
stars looked from high. I gleamed, along the night.
I saw Fillan silent before me, bending forward from Mora’s rock.[273]
He heard the shout of the foe. The joy of his soul arose. He heard
my sounding tread, and turned his lifted spear. “Comest thou, son of
night, in peace? Or dost thou meet my wrath? The foes of Fingal are
mine. Speak, or fear my steel. I stand, not in vain, the shield of
Morven’s race.” “Never mayst thou stand in vain, son of blue-eyed
Clatho! Fingal begins to be alone. Darkness gathers on the last of his
days. Yet he has two sons[274] who ought to shine in war. We ought to
be two beams of light, near the steps of his departure.”
“Son of Fingal,” replied the youth, “it is not long since I raised the
spear. Few are the marks of my sword in war. But Fillan’s soul is fire!
The chiefs of Bolga[275] crowd around the shield of generous Cathmor.
Their gathering is on that heath. Shall my steps approach their host? I
yielded to Oscar alone, in the strife of the race, on Cona!”
“Fillan, thou shalt not approach their host; nor fall before thy fame
is known. My name is heard in song: when needful I advance. From the
skirts of night I shall view them over all their gleaming tribes.
Why, Fillan, didst thou speak of Oscar? Why awake my sigh? I must
forget[276] the warrior, till the storm is rolled away. Sadness ought
not to dwell in danger, nor the tear in the eye of war. Our fathers
forgot their fallen sons, till the noise of arms was past. Then sorrow
returned to the tomb, and the song of bards arose.” The memory of those
who fell quickly followed the departure of war: when the tumult of
battle is passed, the soul, in silence, melts away, for the dead.
Conar[277] was the brother of Trathal, first of mortal men. His
battles were on every coast. A thousand streams rolled down the blood
of his foes. His fame filled green Erin, like a pleasant gale. The
nations gathered in Ullin, and they blessed the king; the king of the
race of their fathers, from the land of Selma.
The chiefs[278] of the south were gathered, in the darkness of their
pride. In the horrid cave of Muma they mixed their secret words.
Thither often, they said, the spirits of their fathers came, shewing
their pale forms from the chinky rocks: reminding them of the honour
of Bolga. “Why should Conar reign,” they said, “the son of resounding
Morven?”
They came forth, like the streams of the desert, with the roar of
their hundred tribes. Conar was a rock before them: broken they rolled
on every side. But often they returned, and the sons of Selma fell.
The king stood, among the tombs of his warriors. He darkly bent his
mournful face. His soul was rolled into itself: and he had marked the
place where he was to fall: when Trathal came, in his strength, his
brother from cloudy Morven. Nor did he come alone. Colgar[279] was at
his side; Colgar the son of the king and of white-bosomed Solin-corma.
As Trenmor, clothed with meteors, descends from the halls of thunder,
pouring the dark storm before him over the troubled sea: so Colgar
descended to battle and wasted the echoing field. His father rejoiced
over the hero: but an arrow came. His tomb was raised, without a tear.
The king was to revenge his son. He lightened forward in battle, till
Bolga yielded at her streams.
When peace returned to the land; when his blue waves bore the king to
Morven: then he remembered his son, and poured the silent tear. Thrice
did the bards, at the cave of Furmono, call the soul of Colgar. They
called him to the hills of his land. He heard them in his mist. Trathal
placed his sword in the cave, that the spirit of his son might rejoice.
“Colgar,[280] son of Trathal!” said Fillan, “thou wert renowned in
youth! But the king hath not marked my sword, bright-streaming on the
field. I go forth with the crowd. I return, without my fame. But the
foe approaches, Ossian! I hear their murmur on the heath. The sound
of their steps is like thunder, in the bosom of the ground, when the
rocking hills shake their groves, and not a blast pours from the
darkened sky!”
Ossian turned sudden on his spear. He raised the flame of an oak on
high. I spread it large, on Mora’s wind. Cathmor stopped in his course.
Gleaming he stood like a rock, on whose sides are the wandering of
blasts; which seize its echoing streams, and clothe them over with ice.
So stood the friend[281] of strangers. The winds lift his heavy locks.
Thou art the tallest of the race of Erin, king of streamy Atha!
“First of Bards,” said Cathmor. “Fonar,[282] call the chiefs of Erin.
Call red-haired Cormar: dark-browed Malthos: the sidelong-looking gloom
of Maronan. Let the pride of Foldath appear. The red-rolling eye of
Turlotho. Nor let Hidalla be forgot; his voice, in danger, is the sound
of a shower, when it falls in the blasted vale, near Atha’s falling
stream. Pleasant is its sound, on the plain, whilst broken thunder
travels over the sky!”
They came, in their clanging arms. They bent forward to his voice, as
if a spirit of their fathers spoke from a cloud of night. Dreadful
shone they to the light; like the fall of the stream of Brumo[283] when
the meteor lights it, before the nightly stranger. Shuddering, he
stops in his journey, and looks up for the beam of the morn.
“Why[284] delights Foldath,” said the king, “to pour the blood of foes
by night? Fails his arm in battle, in the beams of day? Few are the
foes before us, why should we clothe us in shades? The valiant delight
to shine, in the battles of their land! Thy council was in vain, chief
of Moma! The eyes of Morven do not sleep. They are watchful, as eagles,
on their mossy rocks. Let each collect, beneath his cloud, the strength
of his roaring tribe. To-morrow I move, in light, to meet the foes of
Bolga! Mighty[285] was he, that is low, the race of Borbar-Duthul!”
“Not unmarked!” said Foldath, “were my steps before thy race. In light,
I met the foes of Cairbar. The warrior praised my deeds. But his stone
was raised without a tear! No bard[286] sung over Erin’s king. Shall
his foes rejoice along their mossy hills? No: they must not rejoice! He
was the friend of Foldath! Our words were mixed, in secret, in Moma’s
silent cave; whilst thou, a boy in the field, pursuedst the thistle’s
beard. With Moma’s sons I shall rush abroad, and find the foe, on his
dusky hills. Fingal shall lie, without his song, the grey-haired king
of Selma.”
“Dost thou think, thou feeble man,” replied Cathmor, half-enraged:
“Dost thou think Fingal can fall, without his fame, in Erin? Could the
bards be silent at the tomb of Selma’s king? The song would burst in
secret! the spirit of the king would rejoice! It is when thou shalt
fall, that the bard shall forget the song. Thou art dark, chief of
Moma, though thine arm is a tempest in war. Do I forget the king of
Erin, in his narrow house? My soul is not lost to Cairbar, the brother
of my love! I marked the bright beams of joy, which travelled over his
cloudy mind, when I returned, with fame, to Atha of the streams.”
Tall they removed, beneath the words of the king. Each to his own dark
tribe; where, humming, they rolled on the heath, faint-glittering to
the stars: like waves, in a rocky bay, before the nightly wind. Beneath
an oak, lay the chief of Atha. His shield, a dusky round, hung high.
Near him, against a rock, leaned the fair stranger[287] of Inishuna:
that beam of light, with wandering rocks, from Lumon of the roes. At
distance rose the voice of Fonar, with the deeds of the days of old.
The song fails, at times, in Lubar’s growing roar.
“Crothar,”[288] begun the bard, “first dwelt at Atha’s mossy stream! A
thousand[289] oaks, from the mountains, formed his echoing hall. The
gathering of the people was there, around the feast of the blue-eyed
king. But who, among his chiefs, was like the stately Crothar? Warriors
kindled in his presence. The young sigh of the virgins rose. In
Alnecma[290] was the warrior honoured: the first of the race of Bolga.
“He pursued the chase in Ullin: on the moss-covered top of Drumardo.
From the wood looked the daughter of Cathmin, the blue-rolling eye
of Conlama. Her sigh rose in secret. She bent her head, midst her
wandering locks. The moon looked in, at night, and saw the white
tossing of her arms; for she thought of the mighty Crothar, in the
season of dreams.
“Three days feasted Crothar with Cathmin. On the fourth, they awaked
the hinds. Con-lama moved to the chase, with all her lovely steps. She
met Crothar in the narrow path. The bow fell at once from her hand.
She turned her face away, and half-hid it with her locks. The love of
Crothar rose. He brought the white-bosomed maid to Atha. Bards raise
the song in her presence. Joy dwelt round the daughter of Cathmin.
“The pride of Turloch rose, a youth who loved the white-handed
Con-lama. He came with battle to Alnecma; to Atha of the roes. Cormul
went forth to the strife, the brother of car-borne Crothar. He went
forth, but he fell. The sigh of his people rose. Silent and tall,
across the stream, came the darkening strength of Crothar: he rolled
the foe from Alnecma. He returned, midst the joy of Con-lama.
“Battle on battle comes. Blood is poured on blood. The tombs of the
valiant rise. Erin’s clouds are hung round with ghosts. The chiefs of
the south gathered round the echoing shield of Crothar. He came with
death to the paths of the foe. The virgins wept, by the streams of
Ullin. They looked to the mist of the hill: No hunter descended from
its folds. Silence darkened in the land. Blasts sighed lonely on grassy
tombs.
“Descending like the eagle of heaven, with all his rustling wings, when
he forsakes the blast, with joy, the son of Trenmor came; Conar, arm
of death, from Morven of the groves. He poured his might along green
Erin. Death dimly strode behind his sword. The sons of Bolga fled, from
his course, as from a stream, that bursting from the stormy desert,
rolls the fields together with all their echoing woods. Crothar[291]
met him in battle; but Alnecma’s warriors fled. The king of Atha
slowly retired, in the grief of his soul. He, afterwards, shone in the
south; but dim as the sun of Autumn: when he visits, in his robes of
mist, Lara of dark streams. The withered grass is covered with dew; the
field, though bright, is sad.”
“Why wakes the bard before me,” said Cathmor, “the memory of those who
fled? Has some ghost, from his dusky cloud, bent forward to thine ear;
to frighten Cathmor from the field, with the tales of old? Dwellers of
the skirts of night, your voice is but a blast to me; which takes the
grey thistle’s head, and strews its beard on streams. Within my bosom
is a voice. Others hear it not. His soul forbids the king of Erin to
shrink back from war.”
Abashed the bard sinks back in night: retired he bends above a stream.
His thoughts are on the days of Atha, when Cathmor heard his song
with joy. His tears come rolling down. The winds are in his beard.
Erin sleeps around. No sleep comes down on Cathmor’s eyes. Dark, in
his soul, he saw the spirit of low-laid Cairbar. He saw him, without
his song, rolled in a blast of night. He rose. His steps were round
the host. He struck, at times, his echoing shield. The sound reached
Ossian’s ear on Mora’s mossy brow.
“Fillan,” I said, “the foes advance. I hear the shield of war. Stand
thou in the narrow path. Ossian shall mark their course. If over my
fall the host should pour; then be thy buckler heard. Awake the king on
his heath, lest his fame should fly away.” I strode in all my rattling
arms; wide-bounding over a stream that darkly-winded, in the field,
before the king of Atha. Green Atha’s king, with lifted spear, came
forward on my course. Now would we have mixed in horrid fray, like two
contending ghosts, that bending forward, from two clouds, send forth
the roaring winds; did not Ossian behold, on high, the helmet of Erin’s
kings. The eagle’s wing spread above it, rustling in the breeze. A red
star looked thro’ the plumes. I stopt the lifted spear.
“The helmet of kings is before me! Who art thou, son of night? Shall
Ossian’s spear be renowned, when thou art lowly-laid? At once he dropt
the gleaming lance. Growing before me seemed the form. He stretched his
hand in night. He spoke the words of kings.
“Friend of the spirits of heroes, do I meet thee thus in shades? I have
wished for thy stately steps in Atha, in the days of joy. Why should my
spear now arise? The sun must behold us, Ossian; when we bend, gleaming
in the strife. Future warriors shall mark the place: and, shuddering,
think of other years. They shall mark it like the haunt of ghosts,
pleasant and dreadful to the soul.”
“Shall it then be forgot,” I said, “where we meet in peace? Is the
remembrance of battles always pleasant to the soul? Do not we behold,
with joy, the place where our fathers feasted? But our eyes are full
of tears, on the fields of their war. This stone shall rise, with all
its moss, and speak to other years. “Here Cathmor and Ossian met: the
warriors met in peace!” When thou, O stone, shalt fail. When Lubar’s
stream shall roll away! then shall the traveller come, and bend here,
perhaps, in rest. When the darkened moon is rolled over his head, our
shadowy forms may come, and, mixing with his dreams, remind him of this
place. But why turnest thou so dark away, son of Borbar-Duthul?”[292]
“Not forgot, son of Fingal, shall we ascend these winds. Our deeds are
streams of light, before the eyes of bards. But darkness is rolled on
Atha: the king is low, without his song; still there was a beam towards
Cathmor from his stormy soul; like the moon, in a cloud, amidst the
dark red course of thunder.”
“Son of Erin,” I replied, “my wrath dwells not in his earth.[293] My
hatred flies on eagle-wing from the foe that is low. He shall hear the
song of bards. Cairbar shall rejoice on his winds.”
Cathmor’s swelling soul arose. He took the dagger from his side, and
placed it gleaming in my hand. He placed it in my hand, with sighs,
and, silent, strode away. Mine eyes followed his departure. He dimly
gleamed, like the form of a ghost, which meets a traveller by night
on the dark-skirted heath. His words are dark like songs of old; with
morning strides the unfinished shade away.
[294]Who comes from Lubar’s vale?[295] from the skirts of the morning
mist? The drops of heaven are on his head. His steps are in the paths
of the sad. It is Carril of other times. He comes from Tura’s silent
cave. I behold it dark on the rock, through the thin folds of mist.
There, perhaps, Cuthullin sits, on the blast which bends its trees.
Pleasant is the song of the morning from the bard of Erin!
“The waves crowd away,” said Carril. “They crowd away for fear. They
hear the sound of thy coming forth, O sun! Terrible is thy beauty, son
of heaven, when death is descending on thy locks: when thou rollest thy
vapours before thee, over the blasted host. But pleasant is thy beam to
the hunter, sitting by the rock in a storm, when thou shewest thyself
from the parted cloud, and brightenest his dewy locks; he looks down
on the streamy vale, and beholds the descent of roes! How long shalt
thou rise on war, and roll, a bloody shield, through heaven? I see the
deaths of heroes, dark-wandering over thy face!”
“Why wander the words of Carril,” I said. “Does the son of heaven
mourn? He is unstained in his course, ever rejoicing in his fire. Roll
on, thou careless light. Thou too, perhaps, must fall. Thy darkening
hour may seize thee, struggling, as thou rollest through thy sky. But
pleasant is the voice of the bard: pleasant to Ossian’s soul! It is
like the shower of the morning, when it comes through the rustling
vale, on which the sun looks through mist, just rising from his rocks.
But this is no time, O bard! to sit down, at the strife of song. Fingal
is in arms on the vale. Thou seest the flaming shield of the king. His
face darkens between his locks. He beholds the wide rolling of Erin.
Does not Carril behold that tomb, beside the roaring stream? Three
stones lift their grey heads, beneath a bending oak. A king is lowly
laid! Give thou his soul to the wind. He is the brother of Cathmor!
Open his airy hall! Let thy song be a stream of joy to Cairbar’s
darkened ghost!”
FOOTNOTES:
[271] Though this book has little action, it is not the least important
part of Temora. The poet, in several episodes, runs up the cause of
the war to the very source. The first population of Ireland, the wars
between the two nations who originally possessed that island, its first
race of kings, and the revolutions of its government, are important
facts, and are delivered by the poet with so little mixture of the
fabulous that one cannot help preferring his accounts to the improbable
fictions of the Scotch and Irish historians. The Milesian fables bear
about them the marks of a late invention. To trace their legends to
their source would be no difficult task; but a disquisition of this
sort would extend this note too far.
[272] We understand, from the preceding book, that Cathmor was near
with an army. When Cairbar was killed, the tribes who attended him
fell back to Cathmor; who, as it afterwards appears, had taken a
resolution to surprise Fingal by night. Fillan was despatched to the
hill of _Mora_, which was in the front of the Caledonians, to observe
the motions of Cathmor. In this situation were affairs when Ossian,
upon hearing the noise of the approaching enemy, went to find out
his brother. Their conversation naturally introduces the episode
concerning _Conar_ the son of Trenmor, the first Irish monarch, which
is so necessary to the understanding the foundation of the rebellion
and usurpation of Cairbar and Cathmor. Fillan was the youngest of the
sons of Fingal then living. He and Bosmina, mentioned in the _battle of
Lora_, were the only children of the king by Clatho, the daughter of
Cathulla king of Inis-tore, whom he had taken to wife after the death
of Ros-crana, the daughter of Cormac Man-Conar king of Ireland. _M._
[273] This alludes to the hill of _Mora_, above Conor-Temora. _C._
[274] That is, two sons in Ireland. Fergus, the second son of Fingal,
was at that time on an expedition, which is mentioned in one of the
lesser poems. He, according to some traditions, was the ancestor of
Fergus, the son of Erc or Arcath, commonly called _Fergus the second_
in the Scotch histories. The beginning of the reign of Fergus over the
Scots is placed, by the most approved annals of Scotland, in the fourth
year of the fifth age; a full century after the death of Ossian. The
genealogy of his family is recorded thus by the Highland Senachies:
_Fergus Mac-Arcath_, _Mac-Chongael_, _Mac-Fergus_, _Mac-Fion-gäel na
buai’_--_i.e._ Fergus, the son of Arcath, the son of Congal, the son
of Fergus, the son of Fingal _the victorious_. This subject is treated
more at large in the dissertation annexed to the end of the first
volume.
[275] The southern parts of Ireland went, for some time, under the
name of Bolga, from the Fir-bolg or Belgæ of Britain, who settled
a colony there. _Bolg_ signifies a _quiver_, from which proceeds
_Fir-bolg_--_i.e._ _bowmen_; so called from their using bows more than
any of the neighbouring nations.
[276] After this passage, Oscar is not mentioned in all Temora. The
situations of the characters who act in the poem are so interesting,
that others foreign to the subject could not be introduced with any
lustre. Though the episode which follows may seem to flow naturally
enough from the conversation of the brothers, yet I have shown, in a
preceding note and, more at large, in the dissertation annexed to this
collection, that the poet had a further design in view.
[277] Conar, the first king of Ireland, was the son of Trenmor, the
great-grandfather of Fingal. It was on account of his family-connection
that Fingal was engaged in so many wars in the cause of the race of
Conar. Though few of the actions of Trenmor are mentioned, his was the
most renowned name of antiquity. The most probable opinion concerning
him is, that he was the first who united the tribes of the Caledonians
and commanded them, in chief, against the incursions of the Romans. The
genealogists of the North have traced his family far back, and given a
list of his ancestors to _Cuan-mór nan lan_, or Conmor of the swords,
who, according to them, was the first who crossed the _great sea_ to
Caledonia, from which circumstance his name proceeded, which signifies
_great ocean_. Genealogies of so ancient a date, however, are little to
be depended upon.
[278] The chiefs of the Fir-bolg who possessed themselves of the
south of Ireland, prior, perhaps, to the settlement of the _Gaël_ of
Caledonia and the Hebrides in Ulster. From the sequel, it appears that
the Fir-bolg were by much the most powerful nation; and it is probable
that the Gaël must have submitted to them had they not received
succours from their mother-country, under the command of Conar.
[279] Colg-er, _fiercely looking warrior_. Sulin-corma, _blue eyes_.
Colgar was the eldest of the sons of Trathal: Comhal, who was the
father of Fingal, was very young when the present expedition to Ireland
happened. It is remarkable that, of all the ancestors of Fingal,
tradition makes the least mention of Comhal; which probably proceeded
from the unfortunate life and untimely death of that hero. From some
passages concerning him we learn, indeed, that he was brave, but he
wanted conduct.
[280] The poem begins here to mark strongly the character of Fillan,
who is to make so great a figure in the sequel. He has the impatience,
the ambition and fire which are peculiar to a young hero. Kindled
with the fame of Colgar, he forgets his untimely fall. From Fillan’s
expressions in this passage, it would seem that he was neglected by
Fingal on account of his youth.
[281] Cathmor is distinguished by this honourable title on account of
his generosity to strangers, which was so great as to be remarkable
even in those days of hospitality.
[282] Fónar, _the man of song_. Before the introduction of
Christianity, a name was not imposed upon any person till he had
distinguished himself by some remarkable action, from which his name
should be derived.
[283] Brumo was a place of worship (Fingal, Book 6) in Craca, which is
supposed to be one of the isles of Shetland. It was thought that the
spirits of the deceased haunted it by night, which adds more terror to
the description introduced here. _The horrid circle of Brumo, where
often, they said, the ghosts of the dead howled round the stone of
fear._
[284] From this passage, it appears that it was Foldath who had
advised the night-attack. The gloomy character of Foldath is properly
contrasted to the generous, the open Cathmor.
[285] By this exclamation Cathmor intimates that he intends to revenge
the death of his brother Cairbar.
[286] To have no funeral elegy sung over his tomb was, among the Celtæ,
reckoned the greatest misfortune that could befall a man; as his soul
could not otherwise be admitted to the _airy hall of his fathers_.
[287] By _the stranger of Inis-huna_, it means Sulmalla, the daughter
of Conmor king of Inis-huna, the ancient name of that part of South
Britain which is next to the Irish coast. She had followed Cathmor in
disguise. Her story is related at large in the fourth book.
[288] Crothar was the ancestor of Cathmor, and the first of his family
who had settled in Atha. It was in his time that the first wars were
kindled between the Fir-bolg and Gaël. The propriety of the episode
is evident; as the contest which originally rose between Crothar and
Conar, subsisted afterwards between their posterity, and was the
foundation of the story of the poem.
[289] From this circumstance we may learn that the art of building with
stone was not known in Ireland so early as the days of Crothar. When
the colony were long settled in the country, the arts of civil life
began to increase among them, for we find mention made of the _towers
of Atha_ in the time of Cathmor, which could not well be applied to
wooden buildings. In Caledonia they began very early to build with
stone. None of the houses of Fingal, excepting Ti-foirmal, were of
wood. Ti-foirmal was the great hall where the bards met to repeat their
compositions annually, before they submitted them to the judgment
of the king in Selma. By some accident or other, this wooden house
happened to be burnt, and an ancient bard, in the character of Ossian,
has left us a curious catalogue of the furniture which it contained.
The poem is not just now in my hands, otherwise I would lay here a
translation of it before the reader. It has little poetical merit, and
evidently bears the marks of a later period.
[290] Alnecma, or Alnecmacht, was the ancient name of Connaught.
Ullin is still the Irish name of the province of Ulster. To avoid the
multiplying of notes, I shall here give the signification of the names
in this episode. Drumardo, _high ridge_. Cathmin, _calm in battle_.
Cón-lamha, _soft hand_. Turloch, _man of the quiver_. Cormul, _blue
eye_. _M._--There is a hill in the immediate neighbourhood of Connor,
which still goes by the name of _Drumardora_. _C._
[291] The delicacy here, with regard to Crothar, is proper. As he was
the ancestor of Cathmor, to whom the episode is addressed, the bard
softens his defeat by only mentioning that his _people fled_. Cathmor
took the song of Fonar in an unfavourable light. The bards, being of
the order of the Druids, who pretended to a foreknowledge of events,
were supposed to have some supernatural prescience of futurity. The
king thought that the choice of Fonar’s song proceeded from his
foreseeing the unfortunate issue of the war; and that his own fate
was shadowed out in that of his ancestor Crothar. The attitude of the
bard after the reprimand of his patron is picturesque and affecting.
We admire the speech of Cathmor, but lament the effect it has on the
feeling soul of the good old poet.
[292] Borbar-Duthul, _the surly warrior of the dark-brown eyes_. That
his name suited well with his character, we may easily conceive from
the story delivered concerning him by Malthos toward the end of the
sixth book. He was the brother of that Colculla who is mentioned in the
episode which begins the fourth book.
[293] This reply abounds with the sentiments of a noble mind. Though of
all men living he was the most injured by Cairbar, yet he lays aside
his rage as the _foe was low_. How different is this from the behaviour
of the heroes of other ancient poems? _Cynthius aurem vellit._
[294] The morning of the second day from the opening of the poem
comes on. After the death of Cuthullin, Carril, the son of Kinfena,
his bard, retired to the cave of Tura, which was in the neighbourhood
of Moi-lena, the scene of the poem of Temora. His casual appearance
here enables Ossian to fulfil immediately the promise he had made to
Cathmor of causing the _funeral song_ to be pronounced over the tomb of
Cairbar. This book takes up only the space of a few hours.
[295] Ossian was on the hill of Mora, and Lubar’s vale and the whole
breadth of _Lena_ lay between him and _Tura_, from which place Carril
was on his way to _Temora-Connor_. _C._
BOOK III
ARGUMENT
Morning coming on, Fingal, after a speech to his people, devolves
the command on Gaul, the son of Morni; it being the custom of
the times that the king should not engage till the necessity of
affairs required his superior valour and conduct. The king and
Ossian retire to the rock of Cormul, which overlooked the field
of battle. The bards sing the war-song. The general conflict is
described. Gaul, the son of Morni, distinguishes himself; kills
Turlathon, chief of Moruth, and other chiefs of lesser name.
On the other hand, Foldath, who commanded the Irish army (for
Cathmor, after the example of Fingal, kept himself from battle)
fights gallantly; kills Connal, chief of _Dun-lora_,[296] and
advances to engage Gaul himself. Gaul, in the meantime being
wounded in the hand by a random arrow, is covered by Fillan, the
son of Fingal, who performs prodigies of valour. Night comes on.
The horn of Fingal recalls his army. The bards meet them with
a congratulatory song, in which the praises of Gaul and Fillan
are particularly celebrated. The chiefs sit down at a feast;
Fingal misses Connal. The episode of Connal and Duth-caron is
introduced; which throws further light on the ancient history of
Ireland. Carril is despatched to raise the tomb of Connal. The
action of this book takes up the second day from the opening of
the poem.
Who is that at blue-streaming Lubar? Who, by the bending hills of
roes?[297] Tall, he leans on an oak torn from high, by nightly winds.
Who but Comhal’s son,[298] brightening in the last of his fields? His
grey hair is on the breeze. He half unsheaths the sword of Luno. His
eyes are turned to Moi-lena, to the dark moving of foes. Dost thou
hear the voice of the king? It is like the bursting of a stream in the
desert, when it comes, between its echoing rocks, to the blasted field
of the sun!
“Wide-skirted comes down the foe! Sons of woody Selma, arise! Be ye
like the rocks of our land, on whose brown sides are the rolling of
streams. A beam of joy comes on my soul. I see the foe mighty before
me. It is when he is feeble, that the sighs of Fingal are heard: lest
death should come without renown, and darkness dwell on his tomb. Who
shall lead the war, against the host of Alnecma? It is only when danger
grows that my sword shall shine. Such was the custom, heretofore,
of Trenmor the ruler of winds; and thus descended to battle the
blue-shielded Trathal.”
The chiefs bend toward the king. Each darkly seems to claim the war.
They tell, by halves, their mighty deeds. They turn their eyes on Erin.
But far before the rest the son of Morni stands. Silent he stands, for
who had not heard of the battles of Gaul? They rose within his soul.
His hand, in secret, seized the sword. The sword which he brought from
Strumon, when the strength of Morni failed.[299]
On his spear leans Fillan of Selma,[300] in the wandering of his
locks. Thrice he raises his eyes to Fingal; his voice thrice fails him
as he speaks. My brother could not boast of battles: at once he strides
away. Bent over a distant stream he stands, the tear hangs in his eye.
He strikes, at times, the thistle’s head, with his inverted spear. Nor
is he unseen of Fingal. Sidelong he beholds his son. He beholds him,
with bursting joy; and turns, amid his crowded soul. In silence turns
the king toward Mora of woods. He hides the big tear with his locks. At
length, his voice is heard.
“First of the sons of Morni! Thou rock that defiest the storm! Lead
thou my battle, for the race of low-laid Cormac. No boy’s staff is thy
spear; no harmless beam of light thy sword. Son of Morni of steeds,
behold the foe! Destroy! Fillan, observe the chief! He is not calm in
strife: nor burns he, heedless, in battle. My son, observe the chief!
He is strong as Lubar’s stream, but never foams and roars. High on
cloudy Mora, Fingal shall behold the war. Stand, Ossian,[301] near thy
father, by the falling stream. Raise the voice, O bards! Selma, move
beneath the sound. It is my latter field. Clothe it over with light.”
As the sudden rising of winds; or distant rolling of troubled seas,
when some dark ghost in wrath heaves the billows over an isle: an isle,
the seat of mist, on the deep, from many dark-brown years. So terrible
is the sound of the host, wide-moving over the field. Gaul is tall
before them. The streams glitter within his strides. The bards raise
the song by his side. He strikes his shield between. On the skirts of
the blast, the tuneful voices rise.
“On Crona,” said the bards, “there bursts a stream by night. It swells
in its own dark course, till morning’s early beam. Then comes it white
from the hill, with the rocks and their hundred groves. Far be my steps
from Crona. Death is rolling there. Be ye a stream from Mora, sons of
cloudy Morven!”
“Who rises, from his car, on Clutha? The hills are troubled before the
king! The dark woods echo round, and lighten at his steel. See him,
amidst the foe, like Colgach’s[302] sportful ghost: when he scatters
the clouds, and rides the eddying winds! It is Morni[303] of bounding
steeds! Be like thy father, O Gaul!”
“Selma is opened wide. Bards take the trembling harps. Ten youths bear
the oak of the feast. A distant sun-beam marks the hill. The dusky
waves of the blast fly over the fields of grass. Why art thou silent,
O Selma? The king returns with all his fame. Did not the battle roar;
yet peaceful is his brow? It roared, and Fingal overcame. Be like thy
father, O Fillan!”
They move beneath the song. High wave their arms as rushy fields,
beneath autumnal winds. On Mora stands the king in arms. Mist flies
round his buckler abroad; as, aloft, it hung on a bough, on Cormal’s
mossy rock. In silence I stood by Fingal, and turned my eyes on
Cromla’s[304] wood: lest I should behold the host, and rush amid my
swelling soul. My foot is forward on the heath. I glittered, tall, in
steel: like the falling stream of Tromo, which nightly winds bind over
with ice. The boy sees it, on high, gleaming to the early beam; towards
it he turns his ear, and wonders why it is so silent!
Nor bent over a stream is Cathmor, like a youth in a peaceful field.
Wide he drew forward the war, a dark and troubled wave. But when he
beheld Fingal on Mora, his generous pride arose. “Shall the chief of
Atha fight, and no king in the field? Foldath, lead my people forth.
Thou art a beam of fire.”
Forth issues Foldath of Moma, like a cloud, the robe of ghosts. He drew
his sword, a flame, from his side. He bade the battle move. The tribes
like ridgy waves, dark pour their strength around. Haughty is his
stride before them. His red eye rolls in wrath. He calls Cormul chief
of Dunratho[305]; and his words were heard.
“Cormul, thou beholdest that path. It winds green behind the foe. Place
thy people there; lest Selma should escape from my sword. Bards of
green-valleyed Erin, let no voice of yours arise. The sons of Morven
must fall without song. They are the foes of Cairbar. Hereafter shall
the traveller meet their dark, thick mist on Lena where it wanders,
with their ghosts, beside the reedy lake. Never shall they rise,
without song, to the dwelling of winds.”
Cormul darkened, as he went. Behind him rushed his tribe. They sunk
beyond the rock. Gaul spoke to Fillan of Selma; as his eye pursued the
course of the dark-eyed chief of Dunratho. “Thou beholdest the steps
of Cormul! Let thine arm be strong! When he is low, son of Fingal,
remember Gaul in war. Here I fall forward into battle, amid the ridge
of shields.”
The sign of death ascends: the dreadful sound of Morni’s shield. Gaul
pours his voice between. Fingal rises on Mora. He saw them, from wing
to wing, bending at once in strife. Gleaming on his own dark hill,
stood Cathmor of streamy Atha. The kings were like two spirits of
heaven, standing each on his gloomy cloud; when they pour abroad the
winds, and lift the roaring seas. The blue-tumbling of waves is before
them, marked with the paths of whales. They themselves are calm and
bright. The gale lifts slowly their locks of mist!
What beam of light hangs high in air! What beam, but Morni’s dreadful
sword! Death is strewed on thy paths, O Gaul! Thou foldest them
together in thy rage. Like a young oak falls Tur-lathon,[306] with his
branches round him. His high-bosomed spouse stretches her white arms,
in dreams, to the returning chief, as she sleeps by gurgling Moruth,
in her disordered locks. It is his ghost, Oichaoma. The chief is lowly
laid. Hearken not to the winds for Tur-lathon’s echoing shield. It is
pierced, by his streams. Its sound is passed away.
Not peaceful is the hand of Foldath. He winds his course in blood.
Connal met him in fight. They mixed their clanging steel. Why should
mine eyes behold them! Connal, thy locks are grey! Thou wert the friend
of strangers, at the moss-covered rock of Dun-lora. When the skies were
rolled together, then thy feast was spread. The stranger heard the
winds without; and rejoiced at thy burning oak. Why, son of Duth-caron,
art thou laid in blood! The blasted tree bends above thee. Thy shield
lies broken near. Thy blood mixes with the stream; thou breaker of the
shields!
Ossian took the spear, in his wrath. But Gaul rushed forward on
Foldath. The feeble pass by his side: his rage is turned on Moma’s
chief. Now they had raised their deathful spears; unseen, an arrow
came. It pierced the hand of Gaul. His steel fell sounding to earth.
Young Fillan came,[307] with Cormul’s shield. He stretched it large
before the chief. Foldath sent his shouts abroad, and kindled all the
field: as a blast that lifts the wide-winged flame over Lumon’s echoing
groves.[308]
“Son of blue-eyed Clatho,” said Gaul, “O Fillan! thou art a beam from
heaven; that, coming on the troubled deep, binds up the tempest’s
wing. Cormul is fallen before thee. Early art thou in the fame of thy
fathers. Rush not too far, my hero. I cannot lift the spear to aid. I
stand harmless in battle: but my voice shall be poured abroad. The sons
of Selma shall hear, and remember my former deeds.”
His terrible voice rose on the wind. The host bends forward in fight.
Often had they heard him, at Strumon, when he called them to the chase
of the hinds. He stands tall, amid the war, as an oak in the skirts of
a storm, which now is clothed on high, in mist: then shews its broad,
waving head. The musing hunter lifts his eye from his own rushy field!
My soul pursues thee, O Fillan! through the path of thy fame. Thou
rolledst the foe before thee. Now Foldath, perhaps, may fly: but night
comes down with its clouds. Cathmor’s horn is heard on high. The sons
of Selma hear the voice of Fingal, from Mora’s gathered mist. The bards
pour their song, like dew, on the returning war.
“Who comes from Strumon,” they said, “amid her wandering locks? She is
mournful in her steps, and lifts her blue eyes toward Erin. Why art
thou sad, Evirchom?[309] Who is like thy chief in renown? He descended
dreadful to battle; he returns, like a light from a cloud. He raised
the sword in wrath: they shrunk before blue-shielded Gaul!
“Joy, like the rustling gale, comes on the soul of the king. He
remembers the battles of old; the days wherein his fathers fought. The
days of old return on Fingal’s mind, as he beholds the renown of his
son. As the sun rejoices, from his cloud, over the tree his beams have
raised, as it shakes its lonely head on the heath; so joyful is the
king over Fillan!
“As the rolling of thunder on hills, when Lara’s fields are still and
dark, such are the steps of Selma, pleasant and dreadful to the ear.
They return with their sound, like eagles to their dark-brown rock,
after the prey is torn on the field, the dun sons of the bounding hind.
Your fathers rejoice from their clouds, sons of streamy Selma!”
Such was the nightly voice of bards, on Mora of the hinds. A flame
rose, from an hundred oaks, which winds had torn from Cormul’s steep.
The feast is spread in the midst: around sat the gleaming chiefs.
Fingal is there in his strength. The eagle-wing[310] of his helmet
sounds. The rustling blasts of the west, unequal rush through night.
Long looks the king in silence round: at length his words are heard.
“My soul feels a want in our joy. I behold a breach among my friends.
The head of one tree is low. The squally wind pours in on Selma. Where
is the chief of Dun-lora? Ought Connal to be forgot at the feast?
When did he forget the stranger, in the midst of his echoing hall? Ye
are silent in my presence! Connal is then no more. Joy meet thee, O
warrior! like a stream of light. Swift be thy course to thy fathers,
along the roaring winds! Ossian, thy soul is fire: kindle the memory
of the king. Awake the battles of Connal, when first he shone in war.
The locks of Connal were grey. His days of youth[311] were mixed with
mine. In one day Duth-caron first strung our bows, against the roes of
Dun-lora.
“Many,” I said, “are our paths to battle, in green-valleyed Erin.
Often did our sails arise, over the blue tumbling waves; when we came,
in other days, to aid the race of Conar. The strife roared once in
Alnecma, at the foam-covered streams of Duth-úla.[312] With Cormac
descended to battle Duth-caron from cloudy Selma. Nor descended
Duth-caron alone; his son was by his side, the long-haired youth of
Connal lifting the first of his spears. Thou didst command them, O
Fingal! to aid the king of Erin.
“Like the bursting strength of ocean, the sons of Bolga rushed to war.
Colculla[313] was before them, the chief of blue-streaming Atha. The
battle was mixed on the plain. Cormac shone in his own strife, bright
as the forms of his fathers. But, far before the rest, Duth-caron
hewed down the foe. Nor slept the arm of Connal by his father’s side.
Colculla prevailed on the plain: like scattered mist fled the people of
Cormac.[314]
“Then rose the sword of Duth-caron, and the steel of broad-shielded
Connal. They shaded their flying friends, like two rocks with their
heads of pine. Night came down on Duth-úla: silent strode the chiefs
over the field. A mountain-stream roared across the path, nor could
Duth-caron bound over its course.” “Why stands my father?” said Connal.
“I hear the rushing foe.”
“Fly, Connal,” he said. “Thy father’s strength begins to fail. I come
wounded from battle. Here let me rest in night.” “But thou shalt not
remain alone,” said Connal’s bursting sigh. “My shield is an eagle’s
wing to cover the king of Dun-lora.” He bends dark above his father.
The mighty Duth-caron dies.
Day rose, and night returned. No lonely bard appeared, deep musing
on the heath: and could Connal leave the tomb of his father, till he
should receive his fame? He bent the bow against the roes of Duth-úla.
He spread the lonely feast. Seven nights he laid his head on the tomb,
and saw his father in his dreams. He saw him rolled, dark, in a blast,
like the vapour of reedy Lego. At length the steps of Colgan[315] came,
the bard of high Temora. Duth-caron received his fame, and brightened
as he rose on the wind.
“Pleasant to the ear,” said Fingal, “is the praise of the kings of men;
when their bows are strong in battle; when they soften at the sight
of the sad. Thus let my name be renowned, when bards shall lighten my
rising soul. Carril, son of Kinfena! take the bards and raise a tomb.
To-night let Connal dwell within his narrow house. Let not the soul of
the valiant wander on the winds. Faint glimmers the moon on Moi-lena,
through the broad-headed groves of the hill! Raise stones, beneath its
beam, to all the fallen in war. Though no chiefs were they, yet their
hands were strong in fight. They were my rock in danger; the mountain
from which I spread my eagle-wings. Thence am I renowned. Carril,
forget not the low!”
Loud, at once, from the hundred bards, rose the song of the tomb.
Carril strode before them, they are the murmur of streams behind his
steps. Silence dwells in the vales of Moi-lena, where each, with its
own dark rill, is winding between the hills. I heard the voice of the
bards, lessening, as they moved along. I leaned forward from my shield;
and felt the kindling of my soul. Half-formed, the words of my song
burst forth upon the wind. So hears a tree, on the vale, the voice of
spring around. It pours its green leaves to the sun. It shakes its
lonely head. The hum of the mountain bee is near it; the hunter sees
it, with joy, from the blasted heath.
Young Fillan at a distance stood. His helmet lay glittering on the
ground. His dark hair is loose to the blast. A beam of light is
Clatho’s son. He heard the words of the king, with joy. He leaned
forward on his spear.
“My son,” said car-borne Fingal, “I saw thy deeds, and my soul was
glad. The fame of our fathers, I said, bursts from its gathering cloud.
Thou art brave, son of Clatho! but headlong in the strife. So did not
Fingal advance, though he never feared a foe. Let thy people be a
ridge behind. They are thy strength in the field. Then shalt thou be
long renowned, and behold the tombs of the old. The memory of the past
returns, my deeds in other years: when first I descended from ocean on
the green-valleyed isle.”
We bend towards the voice of the king. The moon looks abroad from her
cloud. The grey-skirted mist is near: the dwelling of the ghosts!
FOOTNOTES:
[296] This is evidently the same hills or district called Dun-lora
at this day, near the seat of the lords of Antrim. Ossian or his
translator occasionally called it _Lora_. _C._
[297] I take the hill, now known by the name of Lisle-hill, which lies
between _Cromla_ and the supposed _Crommal_ on the heath of _Lena_, to
have been the “Hill of Roes.” _C._
[298] Fingal. _C._
[299] Strumon, _stream of the hill_, the name of the seat of the family
of Gaul, in the neighbourhood of Selma. During Gaul’s expedition to
Tromathon, mentioned in the poem of _Oithona_, Morni his father died.
Morni ordered the _sword of Strumon_ (which had been preserved in the
family as a relic from the days of Colgach, the most renowned of his
ancestors) to be laid by his side in the tomb: at the same time leaving
it in charge to his son not to take it from thence till he was reduced
to the last extremity. Not long after, two of his brothers being slain
in battle by Coldaronnan, chief of Clutha, Gaul went to his father’s
tomb to take the sword.
[300] Clatho was the daughter of Cathulla, king of Inistore. Fingal, in
one of his expeditions to that island, fell in love with Clatho, and
took her to wife after the death of Ros-crana, the daughter of Cormac,
king of Ireland.
Clatho was the mother of Ryno, Fillan, and Bosmina, mentioned in
the _battle of Lora_. Fillan is often called the son of Clatho, to
distinguish him from those sons which Fingal had by Ros-crana, of whom
Ossian was one. _C._
[301] Ullin being sent to Morven with the body of Oscar, Ossian attends
his father in quality of chief bard.
[302] There are some traditions, but, I believe, of late invention,
that this Colgach was the same with the Galgacus of Tacitus. He was
the ancestor of Gaul, the son of Morni, and appears, from some really
ancient traditions, to have been king or Vergobret of the Caledonians;
and hence proceeded the pretensions of the family of Morni to the
throne, which created a good deal of disturbance, both to Comhal and
his son Fingal. The first was killed in battle by that tribe, and it
was after Fingal was grown up that they were reduced to obedience.
Colgach signifies _fiercely-looking_, which is a very proper name for
a warrior, and is probably the origin of Galgacus: though I believe
it a matter of mere conjecture that the Colgach here mentioned was
the same with that hero. I cannot help observing that the song of the
bards is conducted with propriety. Gaul, whose experience might have
rendered his conduct cautious in war, has the example of his father,
just rushing to battle, set before his eyes. Fillan, on the other hand,
whose youth might make him impetuous and unguarded in action, is put in
mind of the sedate and serene behaviour of Fingal upon like occasions.
[303] The expedition of Morni to Clutha, alluded to here, is handed
down in tradition.
[304] The mountain Cromla was in the neighbourhood of the scene of this
poem; which was nearly the same with that of Fingal, and about six or
seven miles distant from the nearest link of the chain of _Mora_, at
whose eastern foot by the Lubar river the battle was fought. _C._
[305] Dun-ratho, _a hill with a plain on its top_. Cormul, _blue eye_.
Foldath despatches here Cormul to lie in ambush behind the army of the
Caledonians. This speech suits with the character of Foldath, which is
throughout haughty and presumptuous. Towards the latter end of this
speech, we find the opinion of the times concerning the unhappiness
of the souls of those who were buried without the funeral song. This
doctrine was inculcated by the bards to make their order respectable
and necessary.
[306] Tur-lathon, _broad trunk of a tree_. Moruth, _great stream_.
Oichaoma, _mild maid_. Dun-lora, _the hill of the noisy stream_.
Duth-caron, _dark brown man_.
[307] Fillan had been despatched by Gaul to oppose Cormul, who had been
sent by Foldath to lie in ambush behind the Caledonian army. It appears
that Fillan had killed Cormul, otherwise he could not be supposed to
have possessed himself of the shield of that chief.
[308] Lumon, _bending hill_, a mountain in Inis-huna, or that part of
south Britain which is over against the Irish coast. _M._
[309] Evir-choama, _mild and stately maid_, the wife of Gaul. She was
the daughter of Casdu-conglas, chief of I-drondo, one of the Hebrides.
[310] The kings of Caledonia and Ireland had a plume of eagles’
feathers, by way of ornament, in their helmets. It was from this
distinguishing mark that Ossian knew Cathmor in the second book.
[311] After the death of Comhal, and during the usurpation of the tribe
of Morni, Fingal was educated in private by Duth-caron. It was then
he contracted that intimacy with Connal, the son of Duth-caron, which
occasions him so much regretting his fall. When Fingal was grown up, he
soon reduced the tribe of Morni; and, as it appears from the subsequent
episode, sent Duth-caron and his son Connal to the aid of Cormac, the
son of Conar, king of Ireland, who was driven to the last extremity by
the insurrections of the Firbolg. _M._
[312] Duth-ula, a river in Connaught; it signifies _dark-rushing
water_. _M._
[313] Colc-ulla, _firm look in readiness_. He was the brother of
Borbar-Duthul, the father of Cairbar and Cathmor, who after the death
of Cormac, the son of Artho, successively mounted the Irish throne.
[314] The inhabitants of Ullin or Ulster, who were of the race of the
Caledonians, seem alone to have been the firm friends to the succession
in the family of Conar. The Firbolg were only subject to them by
constraint, and embraced every opportunity to throw off their yoke. _M._
[315] Colgan, the son of Cathmul, was the principal bard of Cormac,
king of Ireland. The following dialogue on the loves of Fingal and
Ros-crána may be ascribed to him:
+Ros-crána.+
By night, came a dream to Ros-crána! I feel my beating soul. No vision
of the forms of the dead came to the blue eyes of Erin. But, rising
from the wave of the north, I beheld him bright in his locks. I beheld
the son of the king. My beating soul is high. I laid my head down in
night: again ascended the form. Why delayest thou thy coming, young
rider of stormy waves?
But there, far distant, he comes; where seas roll their green ridges in
mist! Young dweller of my soul, why dost thou delay?
+Fingal.+
It was the soft voice of Moi-lena! the pleasant breeze of the valley
of roes! But why dost thou hide thee in shades? Young love of heroes,
rise. Are not thy steps covered with light? In thy groves thou
appearest, Ros-crána, like the sun in the gathering of clouds. Why dost
thou hide thee in shades? Young love of heroes, rise.
+Ros-crána.+
My fluttering soul is high! Let me turn from steps of the king. He has
heard my secret voice, and shall my blue eyes roll in his presence? Roe
of the hill of moss, toward thy dwelling I move. Meet me, ye breezes of
Mora! as I move through the valley of winds. But why should he ascend
his ocean? Son of heroes, my soul is thine! My steps shall not move to
the desert; the light of Ros-crána is here.
+Fingal.+
It was the light tread of a ghost, the fair dweller of eddying winds.
Why deceivest thou me with thy voice? Here let me rest in shades.
Shouldst thou stretch thy white arm from thy grove, thou sun-beam of
Cormac of Erin!
+Ros-crána.+
He is gone; and my blue eyes are dim; faint-rolling, in all my tears.
But, there, I behold him, alone; king of Selma, my soul is thine. Ah
me! what clanging of armour! Colc-ulla of Atha is near!
BOOK IV
ARGUMENT
The second night continues. Fingal relates at the feast his own
first expedition into Ireland, and his marriage with Ros-crána,
the daughter of Cormac, king of that island. The Irish chiefs
convene in the presence of Cathmor. The situation of the king
described. The story of Sul-malla, the daughter of Conmor, king
of Inis-huna, who, in the disguise of a young warrior, had
followed Cathmor to the war. The sullen behaviour of Foldath,
who had commanded in the battle of the preceding day, renews the
difference between him and Malthos; but Cathmor, interposing,
ends it. The chiefs feast, and hear the song of Fonar the bard.
Cathmor returns to rest at a distance from the army. The ghost
of his brother Cairbar appears to him in a dream; and obscurely
foretells the issue of the war. The soliloquy of the king. He
discovers Sul-malla. Morning comes. Her soliloquy closes the book.
“Beneath[316] an oak,” said the king, “I sat on Selma’s streamy rock,
when Connal rose, from the sea, with the broken spear of Duth-caron.
Far distant stood the youth. He turned away his eyes. He remembered the
steps of his father, on his own green hills. I darkened in my place.
Dusky thoughts flew over my soul. The kings of Erin rose before me. I
half-unsheathed the sword. Slowly approached the chiefs. They lifted up
their silent eyes. Like a ridge of clouds, they wait for the bursting
forth of my voice. My voice was, to them, a wind from heaven to roll
the mist away.
“I bade my white sails to rise, before the roar of Cona’s wind. Three
hundred youths looked, from their waves, on Fingal’s bossy shield. High
on the mast it hung and marked the dark blue sea. But when night came
down, I struck, at times, the warning boss; I struck, and looked on
high, for fiery-haired Ul-erin.[317] Nor absent was the star of heaven.
It travelled red between the clouds. I pursued the lovely beam, on the
faint-gleaming deep. With morning Erin rose in mist. We came in the
bay of Moi-lena,[318] where its blue waters tumbled, in the bosom of
echoing woods. Here Cormac, in his secret hall, avoids the strength of
Colc-ulla. Nor he alone avoids the foe. The blue eye of Ros-crána is
there: Ros-crána,[319] white-handed maid, the daughter of the king!
“Grey, on his pointless spear, came forth the aged steps of Cormac. He
smiled, from his waving locks; but grief was in his soul. He saw us
few before him, and his sigh arose. “I see the arms of Trenmor,” he
said; “and these are the steps of the king! Fingal! thou art a beam of
light to Cormac’s darkened soul. Early is thy fame, my son: but strong
are the foes of Erin. They are like the roar of streams in the land,
son of car-borne Comhal!” “Yet they may be rolled[320] away,” I said
in my rising soul. “We are not of the race of the feeble, king of
blue-shielded hosts! Why should fear come amongst us, like a ghost of
night? The soul of the valiant grows, when foes increase in the field.
Roll no darkness, king of Erin, on the young in war!”
“The bursting tears of the king came down. He seized my hand in
silence. “Race of the daring Trenmor!” at length he said, “I roll no
cloud before thee. Thou burnest in the fire of thy fathers. I behold
thy fame. It marks thy course in battle, like a stream of light. But
wait the coming of Cairbar[321]; my son must join thy sword. He calls
the sons of Erin from all their distant streams.”
“We came to the hall of the king, where it rose in the midst of rocks,
on whose dark sides were the marks of streams of old. Broad oaks bend
around with their moss. The thick birch is waving near. Half hid, in
her shady grove, Ros-crána raises the song. Her white hands move on the
harp. I beheld her blue-rolling eyes. She was like a spirit[322] of
heaven half-folded in the skirt of a cloud!”
“Three days we feast at Moi-lena. She rises bright in my troubled soul.
Cormac beheld me dark. He gave the white-bosomed maid. She comes with
bending eye, amid the wandering of her heavy locks. She came! Straight
the battle roared. Colc-ulla appeared: I took my spear. My sword rose,
with my people, against the ridgy foe. Alnecma fled. Colc-ulla fell.
Fingal returned with fame.”
“Renowned is he, O Fillan, who fights, in the strength of his host. The
bard pursues his steps, through the land of the foe. But he who fights
alone, few are his deeds to other times! He shines, to-day, a mighty
light. To-morrow, he is low. One song contains his fame. His name is on
one dark field. He is forgot; but where his tomb sends forth the tufted
grass.”
Such are the words of Fingal, on Mora of the roes. Three bards, from
the rock of Cormul, pour down the pleasing song. Sleep descends, in the
sound, on the broad-skirted host. Carril returned, with the bards, from
the tomb of Dun-lora’s chief. The voice of morning shall not come to
the dusky bed of Duth-caron. No more shalt thou hear the tread of roes
around thy narrow house!
As roll the troubled clouds, round a meteor of night, when they
brighten their sides, with its light, along the heaving sea: so
gathers Erin, around the gleaming form of Cathmor. He, tall in the
midst, careless lifts, at times, his spear: as swells or falls the
sound of Fonar’s distant harp. Near[323] him leaned, against a rock,
Sul-malla[324] of blue eyes, the white-bosomed daughter of Conmor,
king of Inis-huna. To his aid came blue-shielded Cathmor, and rolled
his foes away. Sul-malla beheld him stately in the hall of feasts. Nor
careless rolled the eyes of Cathmor on the long-haired maid.
The third day arose when Fithil[325] came, from Erin of the streams.
He told of the lifting up of the shield[326] in Selma: he told of the
danger of Cairbar. Cathmor raised the sail at Cluba; but the winds were
in other lands. Three days he remained on the coast, and turned his
eyes on Conmor’s halls. He remembered the daughter of strangers, and
his sigh arose. Now when the winds awaked the wave: from the hill came
a youth in arms; to lift the sword with Cathmor, in his echoing fields.
It was the white-armed Sul-malla. Secret she dwelt beneath her helmet.
Her steps were in the path of the king: on him her blue eyes rolled
with joy, when he lay by his roaring streams. But Cathmor thought that,
on Lumon, she still pursued the roes. He thought that, fair on a rock,
she stretched her white hand to the wind; to feel its course from Erin,
the green dwelling of her love. He had promised to return, with his
white-bosomed sails. The maid is near thee, O Cathmor! leaning on her
rock.
The tall forms of the chiefs stand around; all but dark-browed
Foldath.[327] He leaned against a distant tree, rolled into his haughty
soul. His bushy hair whistles in wind. At times, bursts the hum of a
song. He struck the tree, at length, in wrath; and rushed before the
king. Calm and stately, to the beam of the oak, arose the form of
young Hidalla. His hair falls round his blushing cheek, in wreaths of
waving light. Soft was his voice in Clon-ra,[328] in the valley of his
fathers. Soft was his voice when he touched the harp, in the hall, near
his roaring streams.
“King of Erin,” said Hidalla, “now is the time to feast. Bid the voice
of bards arise. Bid them roll the night away. The soul returns, from
song, more terrible to war. Darkness settles on Erin. From hill to
hill bend the skirted clouds. Far and grey, on the heath, the dreadful
strides of ghosts are seen; the ghosts of those who fell bent forward
to their song. Bid, O Cathmor! the harps to rise, to brighten the dead,
on their wandering blasts.”
“Be all the dead forgot,” said Foldath’s bursting wrath. “Did not I
fail in the field? Shall I then hear the song? Yet was not my course
harmless in war. Blood was a stream around my steps. But the feeble
were behind me. The foe has escaped from my sword. In Clon-ra’s vale
touch thou the harp. Let Dura answer to the voice of Hidalla. Let some
maid look, from the wood, on thy long, yellow locks. Fly from Lubar’s
echoing plain. This is the field of heroes!”
“King of Erin,”[329] Malthos said, “it is thine to lead in war. Thou
art a fire to our eyes, on the dark-brown field. Like a blast thou hast
passed over hosts. Thou hast laid them low in blood. But who has heard
thy words returning from the field? The wrathful delight in death:
their remembrance rests on the wounds of their spear. Strife is folded
in their thoughts: their words are ever heard. Thy course, chief of
Moma, was like a troubled stream. The dead were rolled on thy path: but
others also lift the spear. We were not feeble behind thee; but the foe
was strong.”
Cathmor beheld the rising rage, and bending forward of either chief:
for, half-unsheathed, they held their swords, and rolled their silent
eyes. Now would they have mixed in horrid fray, had not the wrath of
Cathmor burned. He drew his sword: it gleamed through night, to the
high-flaming oak. “Sons of pride,” said the king, “allay your swelling
souls. Retire in night. Why should my rage arise? Should I contend with
both in arms? It is no time for strife! Retire, ye clouds, at my feast!
Awake my soul no more.”
They sunk from the king on either side: like[330] two columns of
morning mist, when the sun rises, between them, on his glittering
rocks. Dark is their rolling on either side; each towards its reedy
pool.
Silent sat the chiefs at the feast. They look at times on Atha’s king,
where he strode on his rock, amid his settling soul. The host lie along
the field. Sleep descends on Moi-lena. The voice of Fonar ascends
alone, beneath his distant tree. It ascends in the praise of Cathmor,
son of Larthon[331] of Lumon. But Cathmor did not hear his praise. He
lay at the roar of a stream. The rustling breeze of night flew over his
whistling locks.
His brother came to his dreams, half-seen from his low-hung cloud. Joy
rose darkly in his face. He had heard the song of Carril.[332] A blast
sustained his dark-skirted cloud; which he seized in the bosom of
night, as he rose with his fame towards his airy hall. Half-mixed with
the noise of the stream, he poured his feeble words.
“Joy met the soul of Cathmor. His voice was heard on Moi-lena. The bard
gave his song to Cairbar. He travels on the wind. My form is in my
father’s hall, like the gliding of a terrible light, which darts across
the desert, in a stormy night. No bard shall be wanting at thy tomb,
when thou art lowly laid. The sons of song love the valiant. Cathmor,
thy name is a pleasant gale. The mournful sounds arise! On Lubar’s
field there is a voice! Louder still, ye shadowy ghosts! The dead were
full of fame! Shrilly swells the feeble sound. The rougher blast alone
is heard! Ah! soon is Cathmor low! Rolled into himself he flew, wide
on the bosom of winds. The old oak felt his departure, and shook its
whistling head. Cathmor starts from rest. He takes his deathful spear.
He lifts his eyes around. He sees but dark-skirted night.
“It[333] was the voice of the king,” he said. “But now his form is
gone. Unmarked is your path in the air, ye children of the night.
Often, like a reflected beam, are ye seen in the desert wild: but ye
retire in your blasts, before our steps approach. Go then, ye feeble
race! Knowledge with you there is none! Your joys are weak, and like
the dreams of our rest, or the light-winged thought that flies across
the soul. Shall Cathmor soon be low? Darkly laid in his narrow house?
Where no morning comes, with her half-opened eyes? Away, thou shade!
to fight is mine! All further thought away! I rush forth, on eagle’s
wings, to seize my beam of fame. In the lonely vale of streams, abides
the narrow[334] soul. Years roll on, seasons return, but he is still
unknown. In a blast comes cloudy death, and lays his grey head low. His
ghost is folded in the vapour of the fenny field. Its course is never
on hills, nor mossy vales of wind. So shall not Cathmor depart. No boy
in the field was he, who only marks the bed of roes, upon the echoing
hills. My issuing forth was with kings. My joy in dreadful plains:
where broken hosts are rolled away, like seas before the wind.”
So spoke the king of Alnecma, brightening in his rising soul. Valour,
like a pleasant flame, is gleaming within his breast. Stately is his
stride on the heath. The beam of east is poured around. He saw his grey
host on the field, wide-spreading their ridges in light. He rejoiced,
like a spirit of heaven, whose steps come forth on the seas, when he
beholds them peaceful round, and all the winds are laid. But soon he
awakes the waves, and rolls them large to some echoing shore.
On the rushy bank of a stream, slept the daughter of Inis-huna. The
helmet had fallen from her head. Her dreams were in the lands of her
fathers. There morning is on the field. Grey streams leap down from the
rocks. The breezes, in shadowy waves, fly over the rushy fields. There
is the sound that prepares for the chase. There the moving of warriors
from the hall. But tall above the rest is seen the hero of streamy
Atha. He bends his eye of love on Sul-malla, from his stately steps.
She turns, with pride, her face away, and careless bends the bow.
Such were the dreams of the maid, when Cathmor of Atha came. He saw
her fair face before him, in the midst of her wandering locks. He knew
the maid of Lumon. What should Cathmor do? His sighs arise. His tears
come down. But straight he turns away. “This is no time, king of Atha,
to awake thy secret soul. The battle is rolled before thee, like a
troubled stream.”
He struck that warning boss,[335] wherein dwelt the voice of war. Erin
rose around him, like the sound of eagle-wing. Sul-malla started from
sleep, in her disordered locks. She seized the helmet from earth. She
trembled in her place. “Why should they know in Erin of the daughter
of Inis-huna?” She remembered the race of kings. The pride of her soul
arose. Her steps are behind a rock, by the blue-winding[336] stream of
a vale: where dwelt the dark-brown hind ere yet the war arose. Thither
came the voice of Cathmor, at times, to Sul-malla’s ear. Her soul is
darkly sad. She pours her words on wind.
“The dreams of Inis-huna departed. They are dispersed from my soul. I
hear not the chase in my land. I am concealed in the skirt of war. I
look forth from my cloud. No beam appears to light my path. I behold
my warrior low; for the broad-shielded king is near, he that overcomes
in danger, Fingal from Selma of spears. Spirit of departed Conmor! are
thy steps on the bosom of winds? Comest thou, at times, to other lands,
father of sad Sul-malla? Thou dost come! I have heard thy voice at
night; while yet I rose on the wave to Erin of the streams. The ghost
of fathers, they say,[337] call away the souls of their race, while
they behold them lonely in the midst of woe. Call me, my father, away!
When Cathmor is low on earth; then shall Sul-malla be lonely in the
midst of woe!”
FOOTNOTES:
[316] This episode has an immediate connection with the story of Connal
and Duth-caron in the latter end of the third book. Fingal, sitting
beneath an oak near the palace of Selma, discovers Connal just landing
from Ireland. The danger which threatened Cormac, king of Ireland,
induces him to sail immediately to that island. The story is introduced
by the king as a pattern for the future behaviour of Fillan, whose
rashness in the preceding battle is reprimanded.
[317] Ul-erin, _the guide to Ireland_, a star known by that name in the
days of Fingal, and very useful to those who sailed by night from the
Hebrides or Caledonia to the coast of Ulster.
[318] This is the first time I have noticed the “_Bay of Moi-lena_.”
But it evidently alludes to the shore of Belfast Lough, whose western
side for several miles is bounded by Moi-lena. _C._
[319] Ros-crána, _the beam of the rising sun_. She was the mother of
Ossian. The bards relate strange fictions concerning this princess.
[320] Cormac had said that the foes were _like the roar of streams_,
and Fingal continues the metaphor. The speech of the young hero is
spirited, and consistent with that sedate intrepidity which already
distinguishes his character throughout.
[321] Cairbar, the son of Cormac, was afterwards king of Ireland. His
reign was short. He was succeeded by his son Artho, the father of that
Cormac who was murdered by Cairbar, the son of Borbar-duthul. Cairbar,
the son of Cormac, long after his son Artho was grown to man’s estate,
had, by his wife Beltanno, another son, whose name was Ferad-artho.
He was the only one remaining of the race of Conar, the first king
of Ireland, when Fingal’s expedition against Cairbar, the son of
Borbar-duthul, happened. See more of Ferad-artho in the eighth book.
[322] The attitude of Ros-crána is illustrated by this simile; for the
ideas of those times concerning the spirits of the deceased were not
so gloomy and disagreeable as those of succeeding ages. The spirits
of women, it was supposed, retained that beauty which they possessed
while living, and transported themselves from place to place with that
gliding motion which Homer ascribes to the gods. The descriptions which
poets less ancient than Ossian have left us of those beautiful figures
that appeared sometimes on the hills, are elegant and picturesque. They
compare them to the _rain-bow on streams_, or _the gliding of sun-beams
on the hills_.
A chief who lived three centuries ago, returning from the war,
understood that his wife or mistress was dead. A bard introduces him
speaking the following soliloquy when he came within sight of the place
where he had left her at his departure.
“My soul darkens in sorrow. I behold not the smoke of my hall. No grey
dog bounds at my streams. Silence dwells in the valley of trees.
“Is that a rain-bow on Crunah? It flies: and the sky is dark. Again,
thou movest, bright, on the heath, thou sun-beam clothed in a shower!
Hah! is it she, my love! her gliding course on the bosom of winds!”
In succeeding times the beauty of Ros-crána passed into a proverb; and
the highest compliment that could be paid to a woman was to compare her
person with _the daughter of Cormac_.
’S tu fein an Ros-crána.
Siol Chormec ana n’toma lan.
[323] In order to illustrate this passage, I shall give here the
history on which it is founded as I have gathered it from tradition.
The nation of the Firbolg, who inhabited the south of Ireland,
being originally descended from the Belgæ, who possessed the south
and south-west coast of Britain, kept up for many ages an amicable
correspondence with their mother-country; and sent aid to the British
Belgæ, when they were pressed by the Romans or other new-comers from
the Continent. Con-mor, king of Inis-huna (that part of South Britain
which is over against the Irish coast), being attacked, by what enemy
is not mentioned, sent for aid to Cairbar, lord of Atha, the most
potent chief of the Firbolg. Cairbar despatched his brother Cathmor
to the assistance of Con-mor. Cathmor, after various vicissitudes of
fortune, put an end to the war by the total defeat of the enemies of
Inis-huna, and returned in triumph to the residence of Con-mor. There,
at a feast, Sul-malla, the daughter of Con-mor, fell desperately in
love with Cathmor, who, before her passion was disclosed, was recalled
to Ireland by his brother Cairbar, upon the news of the intended
expedition of Fingal to re-establish the family of Conar on the Irish
throne. The wind being contrary, Cathmor remained for three days in a
neighbouring bay, during which time Sul-malla disguised herself in the
habit of a young warrior, and came to offer him her service in the war.
Cathmor accepted of the proposal, sailed for Ireland, and arrived in
Ulster a few days before the death of Cairbar.
[324] Sul-malla, _slowly-rolling eyes_. Caon-mór, _mild and tall_.
Inis-huna, _green island_.
[325] Fithil, _an inferior bard_. It may either be taken here for the
proper name of a man or in the literal sense, as the bards were the
heralds and messengers of those times. Cathmor, it is probable, was
absent when the rebellion of his brother Cairbar and the assassination
of Cormac, king of Ireland, happened. Cathmor and his followers had
only arrived from Inis-huna, three days before the death of Cairbar,
which sufficiently clears his character from any imputation of being
concerned in the conspiracy with his brother.
[326] The ceremony which was used by Fingal when he prepared for an
expedition is related thus in tradition: A bard, at midnight, went to
the hall where the tribes feasted upon solemn occasions, raised the
_war-song_, and thrice called the spirits of their deceased ancestors
to come, _on their clouds_, to behold the actions of their children.
He then fixed the _shield of Trenmor_ on a tree on the rock of Selma,
striking it at times with the blunt end of a spear, and singing the
war-song between. Thus he did, for three successive nights, and in the
meantime messengers were despatched to call together the tribes; or, to
use an ancient expression, _to call them from all their streams_. This
phrase alludes to the situation of the residences of the clans, which
were generally fixed in valleys, where the torrents of the neighbouring
mountains were collected into one body, and became _large streams_ or
rivers. _The lifting up of the shield_ was the phrase for beginning a
war.
[327] The surly attitude of Foldath is a proper preamble to his
after-behaviour. Chafed with the disappointment of the victory which he
promised himself, he becomes passionate and overbearing. The quarrel
which succeeds between him and Malthos is introduced to raise the
character of Cathmor, whose superior worth shines forth in his manly
manner of ending the difference between the chiefs.
[328] Claon-rath, _winding field_. The _th_ are seldom pronounced
audibly in the Gaelic language.
[329] This speech of Malthos is throughout a severe reprimand to the
blustering behaviour of Foldath.
[330] This comparison is favourable to the superiority of Cathmor over
his two chiefs. I shall illustrate this passage with another from a
fragment of an ancient poem, just now in my hands. “As the sun is above
the vapours, which his beams have raised; so is the soul of the king
above the sons of fear. They roll dark below him: he rejoices in the
robe of his beams. But when feeble deeds wander on the soul of the
king, he is a darkened sun rolled along the sky: the valley is sad
below; flowers wither beneath the drops of the night.”
[331] Lear-thon, _sea-wave_, the name of the chief of that colony
of the Firbolg which _first migrated into Ireland_. Larthon’s first
settlement in that country is related in the seventh book. He was the
ancestor of Cathmor, and is here called _Larthon of Lumon_, from a
high hill of that name in Inis-huna, the ancient seat of the Firbolg.
The character of Cathmor is preserved. He had mentioned in the first
book the aversion of that chief to praise, and we find him here lying
at the side of a stream, that the noise of it might drown the voice of
Fonar, who, according to the custom of the times, sung his eulogium in
his _evening-song_. Though other chiefs, as well as Cathmor, might be
averse to hear their own praise, we find it the universal policy of the
times to allow the bards to be as extravagant as they pleased in their
encomiums on the leaders of armies, in the presence of their people.
The vulgar who had no great ability to judge for themselves received
the characters of their princes entirely upon the faith of their bards.
[332] Carril, the son of Kinfena, by the orders of Ossian, sung the
funeral elegy at the tomb of Cairbar. See the second book, towards the
end. In all these poems the visits of ghosts to their living friends
are short, and their language obscure, both which circumstances tend to
throw a solemn gloom on these supernatural scenes. Towards the latter
end of the speech of the ghost of Cairbar, he foretells the death of
Cathmor by enumerating those signals which, according to the opinion of
the times, preceded the death of a person renowned. It was thought that
the ghosts of deceased bards sung for three nights preceding the death
(near the place where his tomb was to be raised) round an unsubstantial
figure which represented the body of the person who was to die.
[333] The soliloquy of Cathmor suits the magnanimity of his character.
Though staggered at first with the prediction of Cairbar’s ghost, he
soon comforts himself with the agreeable prospect of his future renown:
and, like Achilles, prefers a short and a glorious life to an obscure
length of years in retirement and ease.
[334] An indolent and unwarlike life was held in extreme contempt.
Whatever a philosopher may say in praise of quiet and retirement, I am
far from thinking but they weaken and debase the human mind. When the
faculties of the soul are not exerted, they lose their vigour, and low
and circumscribed notions take the place of noble and enlarged ideas.
Action, on the contrary, and the vicissitudes of fortune which attend
it, call forth by turns all the powers of the mind, and, by exercising,
strengthen them. Hence it is that in great and opulent states, when
property and indolence are secured to individuals, we seldom meet with
that strength of mind which is so common in a nation not far advanced
in civilisation. It is a curious, but just observation, that great
kingdoms seldom produce great characters, which must be altogether
attributed to that indolence and dissipation which are the inseparable
companions of too much property and security. Rome, it is certain, had
more real great men within it when its power was confined within the
narrow bounds of Latium, than when its dominion extended over all the
known world; and one petty state of the Saxon heptarchy had perhaps
as much genuine spirit in it as the two British kingdoms united. As a
state, we are much more powerful than our ancestors, but we should lose
by comparing individuals with them. _M._
[335] In order to understand this passage, it is necessary to look to
the description of Cathmor’s shield in the seventh book. This shield
had seven principal bosses, the sound of each of which, when struck
with a spear, conveyed a particular order from the king to his tribes.
The sound of one of them, as here, was the signal for the army to
assemble.
[336] This was not the valley of Lona to which Sul-malla afterwards
retired.
[337] Conmor, the father of Sul-malla, was killed in that war from
which Cathmor delivered Inis-huna. Lormar his son succeeded Conmor.
It was the opinion of the times when a person was reduced to a pitch
of misery which could admit of no alleviation, that the ghosts of his
ancestors _called his soul away_. This supernatural kind of death was
called _the voice of the dead_, and is believed in by the superstitious
vulgar to this day.
BOOK V
ARGUMENT
The poet, after a short address to the harp of Cona, describes the
arrangement of both armies on either side of the river Lubar.
Fingal gives the command to Fillan; but, at the same time, orders
Gaul the son of Morni, who had been wounded in the hand in the
preceding battle, to assist him with his counsel. The army of the
Fir-bolg is commanded by Foldath. The general onset is described.
The great actions of Fillan. He kills Rothmar and Culmin. But
when Fillan conquers in one wing, Foldath presses hard on the
other. He wounds Dermid, the son of Duthno, and puts the whole
wing to flight. Dermid deliberates with himself, and at last
resolves to put a stop to the progress of Foldath by engaging him
in single combat. When the two chiefs were approaching towards
one another, Fillan came suddenly to the relief of Dermid,
engaged Foldath and killed him. The behaviour of Malthos towards
the fallen Foldath. Fillan puts the whole army of the Fir-bolg to
flight. The book closes with an address to Clatho, the mother of
that hero.
Thou dweller between the shields, that hang on high, in Ossian’s hall!
Descend from thy place, O harp, and let me hear thy voice! Son of
Alpin, strike the string. Thou must awake the soul of the bard. The
murmur of Lora’s[338] stream has rolled the tale away. I stand in the
cloud of years. Few are its openings toward the past; and when the
vision comes, it is but dim and dark. I hear thee, harp of Selma! my
soul returns, like a breeze, which the sun brings back to the vale,
where dwelt the lazy mist!
Lubar[339] is bright before me in the windings of its vale. On either
side, on their hills, rise the tall forms of the kings. Their people
are poured around them, bending forward to their words: as if their
fathers spoke descending from the winds. But they themselves are like
two rocks in the midst; each with its dark head of pines, when they
are seen in the desert, above low-sailing mist. High on their face are
streams, which spread their foam on blasts of wind!
Beneath the voice of Cathmor pours Erin, like the sound of flame. Wide
they come down to Lubar! Before them is the stride of Foldath. But
Cathmor retires to his hill, beneath his bending oak. The tumbling of
a stream is near the king. He lifts, at times, his gleaming spear. It
is a flame to his people, in the midst of war. Near him stands the
daughter of Conmor, leaning on a rock. She did not rejoice at the
strife. Her soul delighted not in blood. A[340] valley spreads green
behind the hill, with its three blue streams. The sun is there in
silence. The dun mountain-roes come down. On these are turned the eyes
of Sul-malla in her thoughtful mood.
Fingal beholds Cathmor, on high, the son of Borbar-duthul; he beholds
the deep-rolling of Erin, on the darkened plain. He strikes that
warning boss, which bids the people to obey, when he sends his chiefs
before them, to the field of renown. Wide rise their spears to the
sun. Their echoing shields reply around. Fear, like a vapour, winds
not among the host: for he, the king, is near, the strength of streamy
Selma. Gladness brightens the hero. We hear his words with joy.
“Like the coming forth of winds, is the sound of Selma’s sons! They are
mountain waters, determined in their course. Hence is Fingal renowned.
Hence is his name in other lands. He was not a lonely beam in danger;
for your steps were always near! But never was Fingal a dreadful form,
in your presence, darkened into wrath. My voice was no thunder to your
ears. Mine eyes sent forth no death. When the haughty appeared, I
beheld them not. They were forgot at my feasts. Like mist they melted
away. A young beam is before you! Few are his paths to war! They are
few, but he is valiant. Defend my dark-haired son. Bring Fillan back
with joy. Hereafter he may stand alone. His form is like his fathers.
His soul is a flame of their fire. Son of car-borne Morni, move behind
the youth. Let thy voice reach his ear, from the skirts of war. Not
unobserved rolls battle, before thee, breaker of the shields!”
The king strode, at once, away to Cormul’s lofty rock. Intermitting,
darts the light, from his shield, as slow the king of heroes moves.
Sidelong rolls his eye o’er the heath, as, forming, advance the
lines. Graceful fly his half-grey locks round his kingly features, now
lightened with dreadful joy. Wholly mighty is the chief! Behind him
dark and slow I moved. Straight came forward the strength of Gaul.
His shield hung loose on its thong. He spoke, in haste, to Ossian.
“Bind,[341] son of Fingal, this shield! Bind it high to the side of
Gaul. The foe may behold it, and think I lift the spear. If I should
fall, let my tomb be hid in the field; for fall I must without fame.
Mine arm cannot lift the steel. Let not Evir-choma hear it, to blush
between her locks. Fillan the mighty, behold us! Let us not forget
the strife. Why should they come, from their hills, to aid our flying
field?”
He strode onward, with the sound of his shield. My voice pursued him as
he went. “Can the son of Morni fall, without his fame in Erin? But the
deeds of the mighty are forgot by themselves. They rush careless over
the fields of renown. Their words are never heard!” I rejoiced over the
steps of the chief. I strode to the rock of the king, where he sat, in
his wandering locks, amid the mountain-wind!
In two dark ridges bend the hosts, toward each other, at Lubar. Here
Foldath rises a pillar of darkness: there brightens the youth of
Fillan. Each, with his spear in the stream, sent forth the voice of
war. Gaul struck the shield of Selma. At once they plunge in battle!
Steel pours its gleam on steel: like the fall of streams shone the
field, when they mix their foam together, from two dark-browed rocks!
Behold he comes, the son of fame! He lays the people low! Deaths sit on
blasts around him! Warriors strew thy paths, O Fillan!
Rothmar,[342] the shield of warriors, stood between two chinky rocks.
Two oaks, which winds have bent from high, spread their branches on
either side. He rolls his darkening eyes on Fillan, and, silent, shades
his friends. Fingal saw the approaching fight. The hero’s soul arose.
But as the stone of Loda[343] falls, shook, at once, from rocking
Druman-ard, when spirits heave the earth in their wrath: so fell
blue-shielded Rothmar.
Near are the steps of Culmin. The youth came, bursting into tears.
Wrathful he cut the wind, ere yet he mixed his strokes with Fillan.
He had first bent the bow with Rothmar, at the rock of his own blue
streams. There they had marked the place of the roe, as the sun-beam
flew over the fern. Why, son of Cul-allin! Why, Culmin, dost thou
rush on that beam[344] of light? It is a fire that consumes. Son of
Cul-allin, retire. Your fathers were not equal, in the glittering
strife of the field. The mother of Culmin remains in the hall. She
looks forth on blue-rolling Strutha. A whirlwind rises, on the stream,
dark-eddying round the ghost of her son. His dogs[345] are howling in
their place. His shield is bloody in the hall. “Art thou fallen, my
fair-haired son, in Erin’s dismal war?”
As a roe, pierced in secret, lies panting, by her wooded streams; the
hunter surveys her feet of wind. He remembers her stately bounding
before. So lay the son of Cul-allin beneath the eye of Fillan. His hair
is rolled in a little stream. His blood wanders on his shield. Still
his hand holds the sword, that failed him in the midst of danger. “Thou
art fallen,” said Fillan, “ere yet thy fame was heard. Thy father sent
thee to war. He expects to hear of thy deeds. He is grey, perhaps, at
his streams. His eyes are toward Moi-lena. But thou shalt not return
with the spoil of the fallen foe.”
Fillan pours the flight of Erin before him, over the resounding heath.
But, man on man, fell Morven before the dark-red rage of Foldath; for,
far on the field, he poured the roar of half his tribes. Dermid stands
before him in wrath. The sons of Selma gathered around. But his shield
is cleft by Foldath. His people fly over the heath.
Then said the foe, in his pride, “They have fled. My fame begins! Go,
Malthos, go bid Cathmor guard the dark-rolling of ocean; that Fingal
may not escape from my sword. He must lie on earth. Beside some fen
shall his tomb be seen. I shall rise without a song. His ghost shall
hover, in mist, over the reedy pool.”
Malthos heard, with darkening doubt. He rolled his silent eyes. He knew
the pride of Foldath. He looked up to Fingal on his hills; then darkly
turning, in doubtful mood, he plunged his sword in war.
In Clono’s[346] narrow vale, where bend two trees above the stream,
dark, in his grief, stood Duthno’s silent son. The blood pours from the
side of Dermid. His shield is broken near. His spear leans against a
stone. Why, Dermid, why so sad? “I hear the roar of battle. My people
are alone. My steps are slow on the heath; and no shield is mine. Shall
he then prevail? It is then after Dermid is slow! I will call thee
forth, O Foldath! and meet thee yet in fight.”
He took his spear, with dreadful joy. The son of Morni came. “Stay, son
of Duthno, stay thy speed. Thy steps are marked with blood. No bossy
shield is thine. Why shouldst thou fall unarmed?” “Son of Morni! give
thou thy shield. It has often rolled back the war. I shall stop the
chief in his course. Son of Morni! behold that stone! It lifts its grey
head through grass. There dwells a chief of the race of Dermid. Place
me there in night.”
He slowly rose against the hill. He saw the troubled field. The
gleaming ridges of battle, disjoined and broken round. As distant
fires on heath by night, now seem as lost in smoke: now rearing their
red streams on the hill, as blow or cease the winds: so met the
intermitting war the eye of broad-shielded Dermid. Through the host are
the strides of Foldath, like some dark ship on wintry waves, when she
issues from between two isles, to sport on resounding ocean.
Dermid, with rage, beholds his course. He strives to rush along. But
he fails amid his steps; and the big tear comes down. He sounds his
father’s horn. He thrice strikes his bossy shield. He calls thrice the
name of Foldath, from his roaring tribes. Foldath, with joy, beholds
the chief. He lifts aloft his bloody spear. As a rock is marked with
streams, that fell troubled down its side in a storm: so, streaked
with wandering blood, is the dark chief of Moma! The host, on either
side, withdraw from the contending of kings. They raise, at once,
their gleaming points. Rushing comes Fillan of Selma. Three paces back
Foldath withdraws, dazzled with that beam of light, which came, as
issuing from a cloud, to save the wounded chief. Growing in his pride
he stands. He calls forth all his steel.
As meet two broad-winged eagles, in their sounding strife, in winds:
so rush the two chiefs, on Moi-lena, into gloomy fight. By turns are
the steps of the kings[347] forward on their rocks above; for now the
dusky war seems to descend on their swords. Cathmor feels the joy of
warriors, on his mossy hill: their joy in secret, when dangers rise
to match their souls. His eye is not turned on Lubar, but on Selma’s
dreadful king. He beholds him, on Mora, rising in his arms.
Foldath[348] falls on his shield. The spear of Fillan pierced the
king. Nor looks the youth on the fallen, but onward rolls the war. The
hundred voices of death arise. “Stay, son of Fingal, stay thy speed.
Beholdest thou not that gleaming form, a dreadful sign of death? Awaken
not the king of Erin. Return, son of blue-eyed Clatho.”
Malthos[349] beholds Foldath low. He darkly stands above the chief.
Hatred is rolled from his soul. He seems a rock in a desert, on whose
dark side is the trickling of waters; when the slow-sailing mist has
left it, and all its trees are blasted with winds. He spoke to the
dying hero about the narrow house. “Whether shall thy gray stone rise
in Ullin, or in Moma’s[350] woody land? where the sun looks, in
secret, on the blue streams of Dal-rutho?[351] There are the steps of
thy daughter, blue-eyed Dardu-lena!”
“Rememberest thou her,” said Foldath, “because no son is mine: no
youth to roll the battle before him, in revenge of me? Malthos, I am
revenged. I was not peaceful in the field. Raise the tombs of those
I have slain around my narrow house. Often shall I forsake the blast
to rejoice above their graves, when I behold them spread around, with
their long-whistling grass.”
His soul rushed to the vale of Moma, to Dardu-lena’s dreams, where she
slept, by Dal-rutho’s stream, returning from the chase of the hinds.
Her bow is near the maid unstrung. The breezes fold her long hair on
her breasts. Clothed in the beauty of youth, the love of heroes lay.
Dark-bending from the skirts of the wood, her wounded father seemed to
come. He appeared at times, then hid himself in mist. Bursting into
tears she rose. She knew that the chief was low. To her came a beam
from his soul, when folded in its storms. Thou wert the last of his
race, O blue-eyed Dardu-lena.
Wide spreading over echoing Lubar, the flight of Bolga is rolled along.
Fillan hangs forward on their steps. He strews, with dead, the heath.
Fingal rejoices over his son. Blue-shielded Cathmor rose.[352]
Son of Alpin, bring the harp. Give Fillan’s praise to the wind. Raise
high his praise, in mine ear, while yet he shines in war.
“Leave, blue-eyed Clatho, leave thy hall! Behold that early beam of
thine! The host is withered in its course. No further look, it is dark.
Light-trembling from the harp, strike, virgins, strike the sound. No
hunter he descends from the dewy haunt of the bounding roe. He bends
not his bow on the wind; nor sends his gray arrow abroad.
“Deep-folded in red war! See battle roll against his side. Striding
amid the ridgy strife, he pours the deaths of thousands forth. Fillan
is like a spirit of heaven, that descends from the skirt of winds. The
troubled ocean feels his steps, as he strides from wave to wave. His
path kindles behind him. Islands shake their heads on the heaving seas!
Leave, blue-eyed Clatho, leave thy hall!”
FOOTNOTES:
[338] Lora is often mentioned. It was a small and rapid stream in the
neighbourhood of Selma. There is no vestige of this name now remaining;
though it appears from a very old song, which the translator has seen,
that one of the small rivers on the north-west coast was called Lora
_some centuries_ ago. _M._
[339] From several passages in the poem we may form a distinct idea
of the scene of the action of Temora. At a small distance from one
another rose the hills of Mora and Lora; _M._--now Lysle. _C._--The
first possessed by Fingal, the second by the army of Cathmor. Through
the intermediate plain ran the small river Lubar; on the banks of which
all the battles were fought excepting that between Cairbar and Oscar,
related in the first book. This last-mentioned engagement happened to
the north of the hill of Mora, of which Fingal took possession after
the army of Cairbar fell back to that of Cathmor. At some distance,
but within sight of Mora, towards the west, _Lubar_ issued from the
mountain of Crommal. _M._--It issues from Crommal--now _Tardree_, and
falls into the six mill water--an outlet of Lough Neagh near Doagh;
giving its name to the whole course of the river which falls into Lough
Neagh.--Lavath is probably Kells-water, on whose banks is a large
cave opposite to Connor-Temora. _C._--Behind the mountain of Crommal
ran the small stream of Lavath, on the banks of which Ferad-artho,
the son of Cairbar, the only person remaining of the race of Conar,
lived concealed in a cave during the usurpation of Cairbar, the son of
Borbar-duthul. _M._
[340] It was to this valley Sul-malla retired during the last and
decisive battle between Fingal and Cathmor. It is described in the
seventh book, where it is called the vale of Lona. _M._
[341] It is necessary to remember that Gaul was wounded; which
occasions his requiring here the assistance of Ossian to bind his
shield on his side.
[342] Roth-mar, _the sound of the sea before a storm_. Druman-ard,
_high ridge_. Cul-min, _soft-haired_. Cul-allin, _beautiful locks_.
Strutha, _streamy river_.
[343] By the stone of Loda is meant a place of worship among the
Scandinavians. The Caledonians, in their many expeditions to Orkney and
Scandinavia, became acquainted with some of the rites of the religion
which prevailed in those countries, and the ancient poetry frequently
alludes to them. There are some ruins and circular pales of stone
remaining still in Orkney and the islands of Shetland, which retain
to this day the name of _Loda_ or _Loden_. They seem to have differed
materially in their construction from those Druidical monuments which
remain in Britain and the western isles. The places of worship among
the Scandinavians were originally rude and unadorned. In after ages,
when they opened a communication with other nations, they adopted their
manners, and built temples. That at Upsal, in Sweden, was amazingly
rich and magnificent. Harquin of Norway built one near Drontheim,
little inferior to the former; and it went always under the name of
Loden. Mallet, _Introduction à l’Histoire de Dannemarc_.
[344] The poet, metaphorically, calls Fillan a beam of light. Culmin,
mentioned here, was the son of Clonmar, chief of Strutha, by the
beautiful Cul-allin. She was so remarkable for the beauty of her person
that she is introduced frequently in the similes and allusions of
ancient poetry. _Mar Chulaluin Strutha nàn sian_; _Lovely as Cul-allin
of Strutha of the storms_.
[345] Dogs were thought to be sensible of the death of their master,
let it happen at ever so great a distance. It was also the opinion
of the times that the arms which warriors left at home became bloody
when they themselves fell in battle. It was from these signs that
Cul-allin is supposed to understand that her son is killed; in which
she is confirmed by the appearance of his ghost. Her sudden and short
exclamation is more judicious in the poet than if she had extended her
complaints to a greater length. The attitude of the fallen youth, and
Fillan’s reflections over him, come forcibly back on the mind when we
consider that the supposed situation of the father of Culmin was so
similar to that of Fingal after the death of Fillan himself.
[346] This valley had its name from Clono son of Lethmal of Lora, one
of the ancestors of Dermid the son of Duthno. His history is thus
related in an old poem:--In the days of Conar the son of Tremnor,
the first king of Ireland, Clono passed over into that kingdom from
Caledonia to aid Conar against the Firbolg. Being remarkable for
the beauty of his person, he soon drew the attention of Sulmin, the
young wife of an Irish chief. She disclosed her passion, which was
not properly returned by the Caledonian. The lady sickened, through
disappointment, and her love for Clono came to the ears of her husband.
Fired with jealousy, he vowed revenge. Clono, to avoid his rage,
departed from Temora, in order to pass over into Scotland; and, being
benighted in the valley mentioned here, he laid him down to sleep.
_There Lethmal descended in the dreams of Clono, and told him that
danger was near._
+Ghost of Lethmal.+
“Arise from thy bed of moss; son of low-laid Lethmal, arise. The sound
of the coming of foes descends along the wind.”
+Clono.+
“Whose voice is that, like many streams, in the season of my rest?”
+Ghost of Lethmal.+
“Arise, thou dweller of the souls of the lovely; son of Lethmal, arise.”
+Clono.+
“How dreary is the night! The moon is darkened in the sky; red are
the paths of ghosts along its sullen face! Green-skirted meteors set
around. Dull is the roaring of streams, from the valley of dim forms.
I hear thee, spirit of my father, on the eddying course of the wind.
I hear thee; but thou bendest not, forward, thy tall form, from the
skirts of night.”
As Clono prepared to depart, the husband of Sulmin came up, with his
numerous attendants. Clono defended himself, but, after a gallant
resistance, he was overpowered and slain. He was buried in the place
where he was killed, and the valley was called after his name. Dermid,
in his request to Gaul the son of Morni, which immediately follows this
paragraph, alludes to the tomb of Clono, and his own connection with
that unfortunate chief.
[347] Fingal and Cathmor.
[348] The fall of Foldath, if we may believe tradition, was predicted
to him before he had left his own country to join Cairbar in his
designs on the Irish throne. He went to the cave of Moma to inquire of
the spirits of his fathers concerning the success of the enterprise of
Cairbar. The responses of oracles are always attended with obscurity
and liable to a double meaning: Foldath therefore put a favourable
interpretation on the prediction, and pursued his adopted plan of
aggrandising himself with the family of Atha.
+Foldath+, _addressing the spirits of his fathers_. “Dark, I stand in
your presence; fathers of Foldath, hear. Shall my steps pass over Atha,
to Ullin of the roes?”
_The answer._
“Thy steps shall pass over Atha, to the green dwelling of kings.
There shall thy stature arise, over the fallen, like a pillar of
thunderclouds. There, terrible in darkness, shalt thou stand, till
the _reflected beam_, or _Clon-cath_ of Moruth come; Moruth of many
streams, that roars in distant lands.”
Cloncath, or _reflected beam_, say my traditional authors, was the name
of the sword of Fillan; so that it was in the latent signification of
the word _Cloncath_ that the deception lay. My principal reason for
introducing this note is that this tradition serves to show that the
religion of the Fir-bolg differed from that of the Caledonians, as
we never find the latter enquiring of the spirits of their deceased
ancestors. _M._--Frequently. _C._
[349] The characters of Foldath and Malthos are sustained. They were
both dark and surly, but each in a different way. Foldath was impetuous
and cruel: Malthos stubborn and incredulous. Their attachment to the
family of Atha was equal; their bravery in battle the same. Foldath was
vain and ostentatious: Malthos unindulgent but generous. His behaviour
here towards his enemy Foldath shews that a good heart often lies
concealed under a gloomy and sullen character.
[350] Moma was the name of a country in the south of Connaught once
famous for being the residence of an Arch-Druid. The cave of Moma was
thought to be inhabited by the spirits of the chiefs of the Fir-bolg;
and their posterity sent to inquire there, as to an oracle, concerning
the issue of their wars.
[351] Dal-rhuäth, _parched or sandy field_. The etymology of Dardu-lena
is uncertain. The daughter of Foldath was probably so called from a
place in Ulster, where her father had defeated part of the adherents
of Artho, king of Ireland. Dardu-lena, _the dark wood of Moi-lena_. As
Foldath was proud and ostentatious, it would appear that he transferred
the name of a place where he himself had been victorious to his
daughter.
[352] The suspense in which the mind of the reader is left here conveys
the idea of Fillan’s danger more forcibly home than any description
that could be introduced. There is a sort of eloquence in silence
with propriety. A minute detail of the circumstances of an important
scene is generally cold and insipid. The human mind, free and fond of
thinking for itself, is disgusted to find everything done by the poet.
It is, therefore, his business only to mark the most striking outlines,
and to allow the imaginations of his readers to finish the figure for
themselves.
The book ends in the afternoon of the third day from the opening of the
poem.
BOOK VI.
ARGUMENT
This book opens with a speech of Fingal, who sees Cathmor descending
to the assistance of his flying army. The king despatches Ossian
to the relief of Fillan. He himself retires behind the rock of
Cormul, to avoid the sight of the engagement between his son and
Cathmor. Ossian advances. The descent of Cathmor described. He
rallies the army, renews the battle, and, before Ossian could
arrive, engages Fillan himself. Upon the approach of Ossian the
combat between the two heroes ceases. Ossian and Cathmor prepare
to fight, but night coming on prevents them. Ossian returns
to the place where Cathmor and Fillan fought. He finds Fillan
mortally wounded and leaning against a rock. Their discourse.
Fillan dies; his body is laid by Ossian in a neighbouring cave.
The Caledonian army return to Fingal. He questions them about his
son, and, understanding that he was killed, retires in silence to
the rock of Cormul. Upon the retreat of the army of Fingal, the
Firbolg advance. Cathmor finds Bran, one of the dogs of Fingal,
lying on the shield of Fillan before the entrance of the cave
where the body of that hero lay. His reflections thereupon. He
returns in a melancholy mood to his army. Malthos endeavours to
comfort him by the example of his father Borbar-duthul. Cathmor
retires to rest. The song of Sul-malla concludes the book, which
ends about the middle of the third night from the opening of the
poem.
“Cathmor rises on his hill! Shall Fingal take the sword of Luno? But
what should become of thy fame, son of white-bosomed Clatho? Turn not
thine eyes from Fingal, fair daughter of Inistore. I shall not quench
thy early beam. It shines along my soul. Rise, wood-skirted Mora,[353]
rise between the war and me! Why should Fingal behold the strife, lest
his dark-haired warrior should fall! Amidst the song, O Carril, pour
the sound of the trembling harp! Here are the voices of rocks! and
there the bright tumbling of waters. Father of Oscar, lift the spear.
Defend the young in arms. Conceal thy steps from Fillan. He must not
know that I doubt his steel. No cloud of mine shall rise, my son, upon
thy soul of fire!”
He sunk behind his rock, amid the sound of Carril’s song. Brightening,
in my growing soul, I took the spear of Temora.[354] I saw, along
Moi-lena, the wild tumbling of battle; the strife of death, in gleaming
rows, disjoined and broken round. Fillan is a beam of fire. From wing
to wing is his wasteful course. The ridges of war melt before him. They
are rolled in smoke, from the fields!
Now is the coming forth of Cathmor, in the armour of kings! Dark waves
the eagle’s wing, above his helmet of fire. Unconcerned are his steps,
as if they were to the chase of Erin. He raises, at times, his terrible
voice. Erin, abashed, gathers round. Their souls return back, like a
stream. They wonder at the steps of their fear. He rose, like the beam
of the morning, on a haunted heath: the traveller looks back, with
bending eye, on the field of dreadful forms! Sudden from the rock of
Moi-lena, are Sul-malla’s trembling steps. An oak takes the spear from
her hand. Half-bent she looses the lance. But then are her eyes on the
king, from amid her wandering locks! No friendly strife is before thee!
No light contending of bows, as when the youth of Inis-huna[355] come
forth beneath the eye of Conmor!
As the rock of Runo, which takes the passing clouds as they fly, seems
growing, in gathered darkness, over the streamy heath: so seems the
chief of Atha taller, as gather his people around. As different blasts
fly over the sea, each behind its dark blue wave: so Cathmor’s words,
on every side, pour his warriors forth. Nor silent on his hill is
Fillan. He mixes his words with his echoing shield. An eagle he seemed,
with sounding wings, calling the wind to his rock, when he sees the
coming forth of the roes, on Lutha’s[356] rushy field.
Now they bend forward in battle. Death’s hundred voices arise. The
kings, on either side, were like fires on the souls of the hosts.
Ossian bounded along. High rocks and trees rush tall between the war
and me. But I hear the noise of steel, between my clanging arms.
Rising, gleaming, on the hill, I behold the backward steps of hosts:
their backward steps, on either side, and wildly-looking eyes. The
chiefs were met in dreadful fight! The two blue-shielded kings! Tall
and dark, through gleams of steel, are seen the striving heroes! I
rush. My fears for Fillan fly, burning across my soul.
I come. Nor Cathmor flies; nor yet comes on; he sidelong stalks along.
An icy rock, cold, tall, he seems. I call forth all my steel. Silent
awhile we stride, on either side of a rushing stream; then, sudden
turning, all at once, we raise our pointed spears! We raise our spears,
but night comes down. It is dark and silent round; but where the
distant steps of hosts are sounding over the heath!
I come to the place where Fillan fought. Nor voice, nor sound is there.
A broken helmet lies on earth, a buckler cleft in twain. Where, Fillan,
where art thou, young chief of echoing Morven? He hears me leaning on a
rock, which bends its grey head over the stream. He hears; but sullen,
dark, he stands. At length I saw the hero!
“Why standest thou, robed in darkness, son of woody Selma? Bright
is thy path, my brother, in this dark-brown field! Long has been thy
strife in battle! Now the horn of Fingal is heard. Ascend to the cloud
of thy father, to his hill of feasts. In the evening mist he sits, and
hears the sound of Carril’s harp. Carry joy to the aged, young breakers
of the shields!”
“Can the vanquished carry joy? Ossian, no shield is mine. It lies
broken on the field. The eagle-wing of my helmet is torn. It is when
foes fly before them, that fathers delight in their sons. But their
sighs burst forth in secret, when their young warriors yield. No:
Fillan shall not behold the king! Why should the hero mourn?”
“Son of blue-eyed Clatho! O Fillan, awake not my soul! Wert thou not a
burning fire before him? Shall he not rejoice? Such fame belongs not to
Ossian; yet is the king still a sun to me. He looks on my steps with
joy. Shadows never rise on his face. Ascend, O Fillan, to Mora![357]
His feast is spread in the folds of mist.”
“Ossian! give me that broken shield: these feathers that are rolled in
the wind. Place them near to Fillan, that less of his fame may fall.
Ossian, I begin to fail. Lay me in that hollow rock. Raise no stone
above, lest one should ask about my fame. I am fallen in the first of
my fields, fallen without renown. Let thy voice alone send joy to my
flying soul. Why should the bard know where dwells the lost beam of
Clatho!”
“Is thy spirit on the eddying winds, O Fillan, young breaker of
shields? Joy pursue my hero, through his folded clouds. The forms
of thy fathers, O Fillan, bend to receive their son. I behold the
spreading of their fire on Mora: the blue-rolling of their misty
wreaths. Joy meet thee, my brother! But we are dark and sad! I behold
the foe round the aged. I behold the wasting away of his fame. Thou art
left alone in the field, O grey-haired king of Selma!”
I laid him in the hollow rock, at the roar of the nightly stream. One
red star looked in on the hero. Winds lift, at times, his locks. I
listen. No sound is heard. The warrior slept! As lightning on a cloud,
a thought came rushing along my soul. My eyes roll in fire: my stride
was in the clang of steel. “I will find thee, king of Erin! in the
gathering of thy thousands find thee. Why should that cloud escape that
quenched our early beam? Kindle your meteors on your hills, my fathers.
Light my daring steps. I will consume in wrath.[358] But should not I
return! The king is without a son, grey-haired among his foes! His arm
is not as in the days of old. His fame grows dim in Erin. Let me not
behold him, laid low in his latter field. But can I return to the king?
Will he not ask about his son? “Thou oughtest to defend young Fillan.”
Ossian will meet the foe? Green Erin, thy sounding tread is pleasant to
my ear, I rush on thy ridgy host, to shun the eyes of Fingal. I hear
the voice of the king, on Mora’s misty top! He calls his two sons! I
come, my father, in my grief. I come like an eagle, which the flame of
the night met in the desert, and spoiled of half his wings!”
Distant, round the king, on Mora, the broken ridges of Morven are
rolled. They turned their eyes: each darkly bends, on his own ashen
spear. Silent stood the king in the midst. Thought on thought rolled
over his soul. As waves on a secret mountain-lake, each with its back
of foam. He looked; no son appeared, with his long-beaming spear. The
sighs rose, crowding, from my soul; but he concealed his grief. At
length I stood beneath an oak. No voice of mine was heard. What could
I say to Fingal in his hour of woe? His words rose, at length, in the
midst: the people shrank backward as he spoke.
“Where is the son of Selma, he who led in war? I behold not his steps,
among my people, returning from the field. Fell the young bounding
roe, who was so stately on my hills? He fell; for ye are silent. The
shield of war is cleft in twain. Let his armour be near to Fingal; and
the sword of dark-brown Luno. I am waked on my hills; with mourning I
descend to war.”
High on Cormul’s rock,[359] an oak is flaming to the wind. The grey
skirts of mist are rolled around; thither strode the king in his wrath.
Distant from the host he always lay, when battle burnt within his soul.
On two spears hung his shield on high; the gleaming sign of death; that
shield, which he was wont to strike, by night, before he rushed to war.
It was then his warriors knew, when the king was to lead in strife;
for never was this buckler heard, till the wrath of Fingal arose.
Unequal were his steps on high, as he shone in the beam of the oak; he
was dreadful as the form of the spirits of night, when he clothes, on
hills, his wild gestures with mist; and, issuing forth, on the troubled
ocean, mounts the car of winds.
Nor settled, from the storm, is Erin’s sea of war! they glitter,
beneath the moon, and, low-humming, still roll on the field. Alone
are the steps of Cathmor, before them on the heath; he hangs forward,
with all his arms, on Morven’s flying host. Now had he come to the
mossy cave, where Fillan lay in night. One tree was bent above the
stream, which glittered over the rock. There shone to the moon the
broken shield of Clatho’s son; and near it, on grass, lay hairy-footed
Bran.[360] He had missed the chief on Mora, and searched him along
the wind. He thought that the blue-eyed hunter slept; he lay upon his
shield. No blast came over the heath, unknown to bounding Bran.
Cathmor saw the white-breasted dog; he saw the broken shield. Darkness
is blown back on his soul; he remembers the falling away of the people.
They come, a stream; are rolled away; another race succeeds. “But some
mark the fields, as they pass, with their own mighty names. The heath,
through dark-brown years, is theirs; some blue stream winds to their
fame. Of these be the chief of Atha, when he lays him down on earth.
Often may the voice of future times meet Cathmor in the air: when he
strides from wind to wind, or folds himself in the wing of a storm.”
Green Erin gathered round the king, to hear the voice of his power.
Their joyful faces bend, unequal, forward, in the light of the oak.
They who were terrible, were removed: Lubar[361] winds again in their
host. Cathmor was that beam from heaven which shone when his people
were dark. He was honoured in the midst. Their souls rose with ardour
around. The king alone no gladness shewed; no stranger he to war!
“Why is the king so sad?” said Malthos eagle-eyed. “Remains there a
foe at Lubar? Lives there among them who can lift the spear? Not so
peaceful was thy father, Borbar-duthul,[362] king of spears. His rage
was a fire that always burned; his joy over fallen foes was great.
Three days feasted the grey-haired hero, when he heard that Calmar
fell; Calmar, who aided the race of Ullin, from Lara of the streams.
Often did he feel, with his hands, the steel which, they said, had
pierced his foe. He felt it with his hands, for Borbar-duthul’s eyes
had failed. Yet was the king a sun to his friends; a gale to lift
their branches round. Joy was around him in his halls: he loved the
sons of Bolga. His name remains in Atha, like the awful memory of
ghosts, whose presence was terrible, but they blew the storm away.
Now let the voices[363] of Erin raise the soul of the king; he that
shone when war was dark, and laid the mighty low. Fonar, from that
grey-browed rock, pour the tale of other times: pour it on wide-skirted
Erin, as it settles round.”
“To me,” said Cathmor, “no song shall rise; nor Fonar sit on the rock
of Lubar. The mighty there are laid low. Disturb not their rushing
ghosts. Far, Malthos, far remove the sound of Erin’s song. I rejoice
not over the foe, when he ceases to lift the spear. With morning we
pour our strength abroad. Fingal is wakened on his echoing hill.”
Like waves blown back by sudden winds, Erin retired, at the voice
of the king. Deep-rolled into the field of night, they spread their
humming tribes. Beneath his own tree, at intervals, each bard[364]
sat down with his harp. They raised the song, and touched the string:
each to the chief he loved. Before a burning oak Sul-malla touched, at
times, the harp. She touched the harp, and heard, between, the breezes
in her hair. In darkness near, lay the king of Atha, beneath an aged
tree. The beam of the oak was turned from him; he saw the maid, but
was not seen. His soul poured forth, in secret, when he beheld her
tearful eye. “But battle is before thee, son of Borbar-duthul.”
Amidst the harp, at intervals, she listened whether the warrior slept.
Her soul was up; she longed, in secret, to pour her own sad song. The
field is silent. On their wings the blasts of night retire. The bards
had ceased; and meteors came, red-winding with their ghosts. The sky
grew dark: the forms of the dead were blended with the clouds. But
heedless bends the daughter of Conmor, over the decaying flame. Thou
wert alone in her soul, car-borne chief of Atha. She raised the voice
of the song, and touched the harp between.
“Clun-galo[365] came; she missed the maid. Where art thou, beam of
light? Hunters, from the mossy rock, saw ye the blue-eyed fair? Are her
steps on grassy Lumon; near the bed of roes? Ah, me! I behold her bow
in the hall. Where art thou, beam of light?”
“Cease,[366] love of Conmor, cease; I hear thee not on the ridgy heath.
My eye is turned to the king, whose path is terrible in war. He for
whom my soul is up in the season of my rest. Deep-bosomed in war he
stands, he beholds me not from his cloud. Why, sun of Sul-malla, dost
thou not look forth? I dwell in darkness here; wide over me flies the
shadowy mist. Filled with dew are my locks: look thou from thy cloud, O
sun of Sul-malla’s soul!”
FOOTNOTES:
[353] Fingal speaks. _M._--Mora of course lies between the present
situation of Fingal, and Temora where Cathmor was. _C._
[354] The _spear of Temora_ was that which Oscar had received in a
present from Cormac, the son of Artho, king of Ireland. It was of it
that Cairbar made the pretext for quarrelling with Oscar at the feast
in the first book.
[355] Clu-ba, _winding bay_; an arm of the sea in Inis-huna, or the
western coast of South Britain. It was in this bay that Cathmor was
wind-bound when Sul-malla came, in the disguise of a young warrior, to
accompany him in his voyage to Ireland. Conmor the father of Sul-malla,
as is insinuated at the close of the fourth book, was dead before the
departure of his daughter. _M._
[356] Lutha was the name of a valley in Morven. There dwelt Toscar the
son of Conloch, the father of Malvina, who, upon that account, is often
called the _maid of Lutha_. Lutha signifies _swift stream_.
[357] From this it appears that Fingal still remained on _Mora_ looking
down on the battle by the _Lubar_. _C._
[358] Here the sentence is designedly left unfinished. The sense is
that he was resolved, like a destroying fire, to consume Cathmor, who
had killed his brother. In the midst of this resolution, the situation
of Fingal suggests itself to him in a very strong light. He resolves
to return to assist the king in prosecuting the war. But then his
shame for not defending his brother recurs to him. He is determined
again to go and find out Cathmor. We may consider him as in the act of
advancing towards the enemy when the horn of Fingal sounded on Mora
and called back his people to his presence. This soliloquy is natural;
the resolutions which so suddenly follow one another are expressive
of a mind extremely agitated with sorrow and conscious shame; yet the
behaviour of Ossian, in his execution of the commands of Fingal, is so
irreprehensible that it is not easy to determine where he failed in his
duty. The truth is that when men fail in designs which they ardently
wish to accomplish, they naturally blame themselves as the chief cause
of their disappointment.
[359] This rock of Cormul is often mentioned in the preceding part of
the poem. It was on it Fingal and Ossian stood to view the battle. The
custom of retiring from the army on the night prior to their engaging
in battle was universal among the kings of the Caledonians. Trenmor,
the most renowned of the ancestors of Fingal, is mentioned as the first
who instituted this custom. Succeeding bards attributed it to a hero
of a latter period. In an old poem, which begins with _Mac-Arcath na
ceud frôl_, this custom of retiring from the army before an engagement
is numbered among the wise institutions of Fergus, the son of Arc or
Arcath, the first king of Scots. I shall here translate the passage;
in some other note I may probably give all that remains of the poem.
_Fergus of the hundred streams, son of Arcath who fought of old:
thou didst first retire at night: when the foe rolled before thee in
echoing fields. Nor bending in rest is the king: he gathers battles in
his soul. Fly, son of the stranger! with morn he shall rush abroad._
When, or by whom, this poem was written is uncertain. _M._--I am often
led to suspect that the translator frequently confounds and varies
names.--Hence I am of opinion that _Cronleach_--_Cromla_--_Crommal_ and
_Cormul_--are the same hill. _C._
[360] I remember to have met with an old poem wherein a story of
this sort is very happily introduced. In one of the invasions of the
Danes, Ullin-clundu, a considerable chief on the western coast of
Scotland, was killed in a rencounter with a flying party of the enemy,
who had landed at no great distance from the place of his residence.
The few followers who attended him were also slain. The young wife
of Ullin-clundu, who had not heard of his fall, fearing the worst on
account of his long delay, alarmed the rest of his tribe, who went
in search of him along the shore. They did not find him; and the
beautiful widow became disconsolate. At length he was discovered by
means of his dog, who sat on a rock beside the body for some days. The
stanza concerning the dog, whose name was Du-chos, or _Blackfoot_, is
descriptive.
“Dark-sided Duchos! feet of wind! cold is thy seat on rocks. He (the
dog) sees the roe: his ears are high; and half he bounds away. He looks
around; but Ullin sleeps; he droops again his head. The winds come
past; dark Duchos thinks that Ullin’s voice is there. But still he
beholds him silent, laid amidst the waving heath. Dark-sided Duchos,
his voice no more shall send thee over the heath!”
[361] In order to illustrate this passage, it is proper to lay before
the reader the scene of the two preceding battles. Between the hills of
Mora and Lora lay the plain of Moi-lena, through which ran the river
Lubar. The first battle, wherein Gaul the son of Morni commanded on
the Caledonian side, was fought on the banks of Lubar. As there was
little advantage obtained on either side, the armies after the battle
retained their former positions. _M._--The hill now known as Lysle-hill
corresponds with the position of Lora. _C._
In the second battle, wherein Fillan commanded, the Irish after the
fall of Foldath were driven up the hill of Lora; but, upon the coming
of Cathmor to their aid, they regained their former situation, and
drove back the Caledonians in their turn: so that _Lubar winded again
in their host_.
[362] Borbar-duthul, the father of Cathmor, was the brother of that
Colc-ulla who is said, in the beginning of the fourth book, to have
rebelled against Cormac king of Ireland. Borbar-duthul seems to have
retained all the prejudice of his family against the succession of
the posterity of Conar on the Irish throne. From this short episode
we learn some facts which tend to throw light on the history of the
times. It appears that when Swaran invaded Ireland he was only opposed
by the Gaël, who possessed Ulster and the north of that island. Calmar,
the son of Matha, whose gallant behaviour and death are related in the
third book of Fingal, was the only chief of the race of the Firbolg
that joined the Gaël or Irish Caledonians during the invasion of
Swaran. The indecent joy which Borbar-duthul expressed upon the death
of Calmar is well suited with that spirit of revenge which subsisted
universally in every country where the feudal system was established.
It would appear that some person had carried to Borbar-duthul that
weapon with which, it was pretended, Calmar had been killed.
[363] _The voices of Erin_, a poetical expression for the bards of
Ireland.
[364] Not only the kings but every petty chief had anciently their
bards attending them in the field; and those bards, in proportion to
the power of the chiefs who retained them, had a number of inferior
bards in their train. Upon solemn occasions all the bards in the army
would join in one chorus; either when they celebrated their victories
or lamented the death of a person worthy and renowned slain in the war.
The words were of the composition of the arch-bard retained by the king
himself, who generally attained to that high office on account of his
superior genius for poetry.
[365] Clun-galo, the wife of Conmor king of Inis-huna, and the mother
of Sul-malla. She is here represented as missing her daughter after she
had fled with Cathmor.
[366] Sul-malla replies to the supposed questions of her mother.
Towards the middle of this paragraph she calls Cathmor _the sun of her
soul_, and continues the metaphor throughout. This book ends, we may
suppose, about the middle of the third night from the opening of the
poem.
BOOK VII
ARGUMENT
This book begins about the middle of the third night from the opening
of the poem. The poet describes a kind of mist which rose by
night from the lake of Lego and was the usual residence of the
souls of the dead during the interval between their decease and
the funeral song.[367] The appearance of the ghost of Fillan
above the cave where his body lay. His voice comes to Fingal
on the rock of Cormul. The king strikes the shield of Trenmor,
which was an infallible sign of his appearing in arms himself.
The extraordinary effect of the sound of the shield. Sul-malla,
starting from sleep, awakes Cathmor. Their affecting discourse.
She insists with him to sue for peace; he resolves to continue
the war. He directs her to retire to the neighbouring valley of
Lona, which was the residence of an old Druid, until the battle
of the next day should be over. He awakes his army with the sound
of his shield. The shield described. Fonar the bard, at the
desire of Cathmor, relates the first settlement of the Firbolg
in Ireland under their leader Larthon. Morning comes. Sul-malla
retires to the valley of Lona. A lyric song concludes the book.
From the wood-skirted waters of Leno, ascend, at times, grey-bosomed
mists; when the gates of the west are closed, on the sun’s eagle eye.
Wide, over Lara’s stream, is poured the vapour dark and deep: the moon,
like a dim shield, is swimming through its folds. With this, clothe the
spirits of old, their sudden gestures on the wind, when they stride,
from blast to blast, along the dusky night. Often, blended with the
gale, to some warrior’s grave,[368] they roll the mist, a grey dwelling
to his ghost, until the songs arise.
A sound came from the desert; it was Conar, king of Inis-fail. He
poured his mist on the grave of Fillan, at blue-winding Lubar. Dark
and mournful sat the ghost, in his grey ridge of smoke. The blast, at
times, rolled him together: but the form returned again. It returned
with bending eyes, and dark winding of locks of mist.
It was dark. The sleeping host were still in the skirts of night.
The flame decayed, on the hill of Fingal; the king lay lonely on his
shield. His eyes were half-closed in sleep: the voice of Fillan came.
“Sleeps the husband of Clatho? Dwells the father of the fallen in rest?
Am I forgot in the folds of darkness; lonely in the season of night?”
“Why dost thou mix,” said the king, “with the dreams of thy father? Can
I forget thee, my son, or thy path of fire in the field? Not such come
the deeds of the valiant on the soul of Fingal. They are not there a
beam of lightning, which is seen, and is then no more. I remember thee,
O Fillan! and my wrath begins to rise.”
The king took his deathful spear, and struck the deeply sounding
shield: his shield that hung high in night, the dismal sign of war.
Ghosts fled on every side, and rolled their gathered forms on the wind.
Thrice from the winding vale arose the voice of deaths. The harps[369]
of the bards, untouched, sound mournful over the hill.
He struck again the shield; battles rose in the dreams of his host.
The wide-tumbling strife is gleaming over their souls. Blue-shielded
kings descend to war. Backward-looking armies fly; and mighty deeds are
half-hid in the bright gleams of steel.
But when the third sound arose, deer started from the clefts of their
rocks. The screams of fowl are heard, in the desert, as each flew,
frighted on his blast. The sons of Selma half-rose, and half-assumed
their spears. But silence rolled back on the host: they knew the shield
of the king. Sleep returned to their eyes; the field was dark and still.
No sleep was thine in darkness, blue-eyed daughter of Conmor! Sul-malla
heard the dreadful shield, and rose, amid the night. Her steps are
towards the king of Atha. “Can danger shake his daring soul!” In doubt,
she stands, with bending eyes. Heaven burns with all its stars.
Again the shield resounds! She rushed. She stopped. Her voice
half-rose. It failed. She saw him, amidst his arms, that gleamed to
heaven’s fire. She saw him dim in his locks, that rose to nightly wind.
Away, for fear, she turned her steps. “Why should the king of Erin
awake? Thou art not a dream to his rest, daughter of Inis-huna.”
More dreadful rings the shield. Sul-malla starts. Her helmet falls.
Loud echoes Lubar’s rock, as over it rolls the steel. Bursting from the
dreams of night, Cathmor half-rose, beneath his tree. He saw the form
of the maid, above him, on the rock. A red star, with twinkling beam,
looked through her floating hair.
“Who comes through night to Cathmor, in the season of his dreams?
Bring’st thou aught of war? Who art thou, son of night! Stand’st thou
before me, a form of the times of old? A voice from the fold of a
cloud, to warn me of the danger of Erin?”
“Nor lonely scout am I, nor voice from folded cloud,” she said; “but I
warn thee of the danger of Erin. Dost thou hear that sound? It is not
the feeble king of Atha that rolls his sounds on night.”
“Let the warrior roll his sounds,” he replied; “to Cathmor they are the
sounds of harps. My joy is great, voice of night, and burns over all
my thoughts. This is the music of kings, on lonely hills, by night;
when they light their daring souls, the sons of mighty deeds! The
feeble dwell alone, in the valley of the breeze; where mists lift their
morning skirts, from the blue winding streams.”
“Not feeble, king of men, were they, the fathers of my race. They dwelt
in the folds of battle, in their distant lands. Yet delights not my
soul in the signs of death! He,[370] who never yields, comes forth: O
send the bard of peace!”
Like a dropping rock, in the desert, stood Cathmor in his tears. Her
voice came, a breeze, on his soul, and waked the memory of her land;
where she dwelt by her peaceful streams, before he came to the war of
Conmor.
“Daughter of strangers,” he said--then trembling turned away--“long
have I marked thee in my steel, young pine of Inis-huna. But my soul, I
said, is folded in a storm. Why should that beam arise, till my steps
return in peace? Have I been pale in thy presence, as thou bidst me to
fear the king? The time of danger, O maid, is the season of my soul;
for then it swells, a mighty stream, and rolls me on the foe.”
“Beneath the moss-covered rock of Lona, near his own loud stream; grey
in his locks of age, dwells Conmal,[371] king of harps. Above him is
his echoing tree, and the dun bounding of roes. The noise of our strife
reaches his ear, as he bends in the thoughts of years. There let thy
rest be, Sul-malla, until our battle cease. Until I return, in my arms,
from the skirts of the evening mist, that rises, on Lona, round the
dwelling of my love.”
A light fell on the soul of the maid; it rose kindled before the king.
She turned her face to Cathmor, from amidst her waving locks. “Sooner
shall the eagle of heaven be torn from the stream of his roaring wind,
when he sees the dun prey before him, the young sons of the bounding
roe, than thou, O Cathmor, be turned from the strife of renown. Soon
may I see thee, warrior, from the skirts of the evening mist, when it
is rolled around me, on Lona of streams. While yet thou art distant
far, strike, Cathmor, strike the shield, that joy may return to my
darkened soul, as I lean on the mossy rock. But if thou shouldest fall,
I am in the land of strangers; O send thy voice, from thy cloud, to the
maid of Inis-huna!”
“Young branch of green-headed Lumon, why dost thou shake in the storm?
Often has Cathmor returned, from darkly-rolling wars. The darts of
death are but hail to me; they have often rattled along my shield. I
have risen brightened from battle, like a meteor from a stormy cloud.
Return not, fair beam, from thy vale, when the roar of battle grows.
Then might the foe escape, as from my fathers of old.
“They told to Son-mor,[372] of Clunar,[373] who was slain by Cormac in
fight. Three days darkened Son-mor, over his brother’s fall. His spouse
beheld the silent king, and foresaw his steps to war. She prepared the
bow, in secret, to attend her blue-shielded hero. To her dwelt darkness
at Atha, when he was not there. From their hundred streams, by night,
poured down the sons of Alnecma. They had heard the shield of the king,
and their rage arose. In clanging arms, they moved along, towards Ullin
of the groves. Son-mor struck his shield, at times, the leader of the
war.
“Far behind followed Sul-allin,[374] over the streamy hills. She was a
light on the mountain, when they crossed the vale below. Her steps were
stately on the vale, when they rose on the mossy hill. She feared to
approach the king, who left her in echoing Atha. But when the roar of
battle rose; when host was rolled on host; when Son-mor burnt, like the
fire of heaven in clouds, with her spreading hair came Sul-allin: for
she trembled for her king. He stopped the rushing strife to save the
love of heroes. The foe fled by night; Clunar slept without his blood;
the blood which ought to be poured upon the warrior’s tomb.
“Nor rose the rage of Son-mor, but his days were silent and dark.
Sul-allin wandered, by her grey streams, with her tearful eyes. Often
did she look on the hero when he was folded in his thoughts. But she
shrunk from his eyes, and turned her lone steps away. Battles rose,
like a tempest, and drove the mist from his soul. He beheld, with joy,
her steps in the hall, and the white rising of her hands on the harp.”
In his arms[375] strode the chief of Atha, to where his shield hung,
high, in night; high on a mossy bough, over Lubar’s streamy roar. Seven
bosses rose on the shield, the seven voices of the king, which his
warriors received, from the wind, and marked over all their tribes.
On each boss is placed a star of night; Can-mathon with beams unshorn;
Col-derna rising from a cloud; Uloicho robed in mist; and the soft
beam of Cathlin glittering on a rock. Smiling, on its own blue wave,
Reldurath half-sinks its western light. The red eye of Berthin looks,
through a grove, on the hunter, as he returns, by night, with the
spoils of the bounding roe. Wide, in the midst, arose the cloudless
beams of Ton-théna, that star which looked, by night, on the course
of the sea-tossed Larthon: Larthon, the first of Bolga’s race, who
travelled on the winds.[376] White-bosomed spread the sails of the
king, towards streamy Inis-fail; dun night was rolled before him, with
its skirts of mist. Unconstant blew the winds, and rolled him from
wave to wave. Then rose the fiery-haired Ton-thèna, and smiled from
her parted cloud. Larthon[377] blessed the well-known beam, as it
faint-gleamed on the deep.
Beneath the spear of Cathmor, rose that voice which awakes the bards.
They came, dark-winding, from every side; each with the sound of his
harp. Before them rejoiced the king, as the traveller in the day of the
sun when he hears, far-rolling around, the murmur of mossy streams;
streams that burst, in the desert, from the rock of roes.
“Why,” said Fonar, “hear we the voice of the king, in the season of his
rest? Were the dim forms of thy fathers bending in thy dreams? Perhaps
they stand on that cloud, and wait for Fonar’s song; often they come to
the fields where their sons are to lift the spear. Or shall our voice
arise for him who lifts the spear no more; he that consumed the field,
from Moma of the groves?”
“Not forgot is that cloud in war, bard of other times. High shall his
tomb rise, on Moi-lena, the dwelling of renown. But, now, roll back my
soul to the times of my fathers; to the years when first they rose, on
Inis-huna’s waves. Nor alone pleasant to Cathmor is the remembrance of
wood-covered Lumon. Lumon of the streams, the dwelling of white-bosomed
maids.”
“Lumon[378] of the streams, thou risest on Fonar’s soul! Thy sun is on
thy side, on the rocks of thy bending trees. The dun roe is seen from
thy furze; the deer lifts his branchy head: for he sees, at times, the
hound, on the half-covered heath. Slow, on the vale, are the steps of
maids; the white-armed daughters of the bow: they lift their blue eyes
to the hill, from amidst their wandering locks. Not there is the stride
of Larthon, chief of Inis-huna. He mounts the wave on his own dark
oak, in Cluba’s ridgy bay. That oak which he cut from Lumon, to bound
along the sea. The maids turn their eyes away, lest the king should be
lowly-laid; for never had they seen a ship, dark rider of the wave!
“Now he dares to call the winds, and to mix with the mist of ocean.
Blue Inis-fail rose, in smoke; but dark-skirted night came down. The
sons of Bolga feared. The fiery-haired Ton-thèna rose. Culbin’s bay
received the ship, in the bosom of its echoing woods. There issued a
stream from Duthuma’s horrid cave; where spirits gleamed, at times,
with their half-finished forms.
“Dreams descended on Larthon: he saw seven spirits of his fathers. He
heard their half-formed words, and dimly beheld the times to come.
He beheld the kings of Atha, the sons of future days. They led their
hosts, along the field, like ridges of mist, which winds pour, in
autumn, over Atha of the groves.
“Larthon in the hall of Samla,[379] raised the music of the harp. He
went forth to the roes of Erin, to their wonted streams. Nor did he
forget green-headed Lumon; he often bounded over his seas, to where
white-handed Flathal[380] looked from the hill of roes. Lumon of the
foamy streams, thou risest on Fonar’s soul!”
Morning pours from the east. The misty heads of the mountains rise.
Valleys shew, on every side, the grey winding of their streams. His
host heard the shield of Cathmor: at once they rose around; like a
crowded sea, when first it feels the wings of the wind. The waves know
not whither to roll; they lift their troubled heads.
Sad and slow retired Sul-malla to Lona of the streams. She went, and
often turned; her blue eyes rolled in tears. But when she came to the
rock, darkly-covered Lona’s vale, she looked, from her bursting soul,
on the king; and sunk, at once, behind.
Son of Alpin, strike the string. Is there aught of joy in the harp?
Pour it then on the soul of Ossian: it is folded in mist. I hear thee,
O bard! in my night. But cease the lightly trembling sound. The joy of
grief belongs to Ossian, amidst his dark-brown years.
Green thorn of the hill of ghosts, that shakest thy head to nightly
winds! I hear no sound in thee; is there no spirit’s windy skirt
now rustling in thy leaves? Often are the steps of the dead, in the
dark-eddying blasts; when the moon, a dun shield, from the east, is
rolled along the sky.
Ullin, Carril, and Ryno, voices of the days of old! Let me hear you,
while yet it is dark, to please and awake my soul. I hear you not, ye
sons of song; in what hall of the clouds is your rest? Do you touch the
shadowy harp, robed with morning mist, where the rustling sun comes
forth from his green-headed waves?
FOOTNOTES:
[367] Here it is evident that Macpherson confounds the pure air of the
Ulster vale with the pestilential vapours, which he before described,
of the Lake of _Lano_--not _Lego_--in Scandinavia. _C._
[368] As the mist which rose from the lake of Leno occasioned diseases
and death, the bards feigned that it was the residence of the ghosts
of the deceased during the interval between their death and the
pronouncing of the funeral elegy over their tombs; for it was not
allowable without that ceremony was performed for the spirits of the
dead to mix with their ancestors, _in their airy halls_. It was the
business of the spirit of the nearest relation to the deceased to take
the mist of Leno and pour it over the grave. We find here Conar, the
son of Trenmor the first king of Ireland, performing this office for
Fillan, as it was in the cause of the family of Conar that that hero
was killed.
[369] It was the opinion of ancient times that, on the night preceding
the death of a person worthy and renowned, the harps of those bards
who were retained by his family emitted melancholy sounds. This was
attributed to _the light touch of ghosts_, who were supposed to have
a fore-knowledge of events. The same opinion prevailed long in the
north, and the particular sound was called _the warning voice of the
dead_. _The voice of death_ mentioned in the preceding sentence was of
a different kind. Each person was supposed to have an attendant spirit
who assumed his form and voice on the night preceding his death, and
appeared to some in the attitude in which the person was to die. The
+VOICES OF DEATH+ were the foreboding shrieks of these spirits.
[370] Fingal is said to have never been overcome in battle. From this
proceeded that title of honour which is always bestowed on him in
tradition, _Fiön gal na buai’_, +Fingal of victories+. In a poem just
now in my hands, which celebrates some of the great actions of Arthur,
the famous British hero, that appellation is often bestowed on him.
The poem, from the phraseology, appears to be ancient; and is perhaps,
though that is not mentioned, a translation from the Welsh language.
[371] Clan-mal, _crooked eye-brow_. From the retired life of this
person it is insinuated that he was of the order of the Druids; which
supposition is not at all invalidated by the appellation of _king of
harps_ here bestowed on him; for all agree that the bards were of the
number of the Druids, originally.
[372] Son-mor, _tall, handsome man_. He was the father of
Borbar-duthul, chief of Atha, and grandfather to Cathmor himself.
[373] Cluan-er, _man of the field_. This chief was killed in battle by
Cormac Mac-Conar, king of Ireland, the father of Ros-crána, the first
wife of Fingal. The story is alluded to in some ancient poems.
[374] Suil-alluin, _beautiful_, the wife of Sun-mor.
[375] To avoid multiplying notes I shall give here the signification
of the names of the stars engraved on the shield. Cean-mathon, _head
of the bear_. Col-derna, _slant and sharp beam_. Ul-oicho, _ruler
of night_. Cath-lin, _beam of the wave_. Reul-durath, _star of the
twilight_. Berthin, _fire of the hill_. Ton-thena, _meteor of the
waves_. These etymologies, excepting that of cean-mathon, are pretty
exact. Of it I am not so certain; for it is not very probable that the
Firbolg had distinguished a constellation so very early as the days of
Larthon, by the name of the bear.
[376] _To travel on the winds_, a poetical expression for sailing.
[377] Larthon is compounded of _Lear_, sea, and _thon_, wave. This
name was given to the chief of the first colony of the Firbolg who
settled in Ireland on account of his knowledge in navigation. A part
of an old poem is still extant concerning this hero. It abounds with
those romantic fables of giants and magicians which distinguished the
compositions of the less ancient bards. The descriptions contained in
it are ingenious, and proportionable to the magnitude of the persons
introduced; but, being unnatural, they are insipid and tedious. Had the
bard kept within the bounds of probability, his genius was far from
being contemptible. The exordium of his poem is not destitute of merit;
but it is the only part of it that I think worthy of being presented to
the reader.
“Who first sent the black ship, through ocean, like a whale through the
bursting of foam? Look, from thy darkness on Cronath, Ossian of the
harps of old! Send thy light on the blue-rolling waters, that I may
behold the king. I see him dark in his own shell of oak! sea-tossed
Lathorn, thy soul is strong. It is careless as the wind of thy sails;
as the wave that rolls by thy side. But the silent green isle is before
thee, with its sons, who are tall as woody Lumon; Lumon which sends
from its top a thousand streams, white-wandering down its sides.”
It may perhaps be for the credit of this bard to translate no more of
this poem, for the continuation of his description of the Irish giants
betrays his want of judgment.
[378] Lumon was a hill in Inis-huna near the residence of Sul-malla.
This episode has an immediate connection with what is said of Larthon
in the description of Cathmor’s shield.
[379] Samla, _apparitions_; so called from the vision of Larthon
concerning his posterity.
[380] Flathal, _heavenly_, _exquisitely beautiful_. She was the wife of
Larthon.
BOOK VIII
ARGUMENT
The fourth morning from the opening of the poem comes on. Fingal,
still continuing in the place to which he had retired on the
preceding night, is seen at intervals through the mist which
covered the rock of Cormul. The descent of the king is described.
He orders Gaul, Dermid, and Carril the bard, to go to the
valley of Cluna, and conduct from thence to the Caledonian army
Ferad-artho, the son of Cairbar, the only person remaining of the
family of Conar the first king of Ireland. The king takes the
command of the army and prepares for battle. Marching towards the
enemy, he comes to the cave of Lubar, where the body of Fillan
lay. Upon seeing his dog Bran, who lay at the entrance of the
cave, his grief returns. Cathmor arranges the Irish army in order
of battle. The appearance of that hero. The general conflict
is described. The actions of Fingal and Cathmor. A storm. The
total rout of the Firbolg. The two kings engage, in a column of
mist, on the banks of Lubar. Their attitude and conference after
the combat. The death of Cathmor. Fingal resigns _the spear of
Trenmor_ to Ossian. The ceremonies observed on that occasion.
The spirit of Cathmor in the meantime appears to Sul-malla in
the valley of Lona. Her sorrow. Evening comes on. A feast is
prepared. The coming of Ferad-artho is announced by the song of
an hundred bards. The poem closes with a speech of Fingal.
As when the wintry winds have seized the waves of the mountain lake,
have seized them, in stormy night, and clothed them over with ice;
white to the hunter’s early eye, the billows seem to roll. He turns his
ear to the sound of each unequal ridge. But each is silent, gleaming,
strewn with boughs and tufts of grass, which shake and whistle to the
wind, over their grey seats of frost. So silent shone to the morning
the ridges of Morven’s host, as each warrior looked up from his helmet
towards the hill of the king; the cloud-covered hill of Fingal, where
he strode, in the folds of mist. At times is the hero seen, greatly
dim in all his arms. From thought to thought rolled the war, along his
mighty soul.
Now is the coming forth of the king. First appeared the sword of Luno,
the spear half issuing from a cloud, the shield still dim in mist. But
when the stride of the king came abroad, with all his grey, dewy locks
in the wind; then rose the shouts of his host over every moving tribe.
They gathered gleaming round, with all their echoing shields. So rise
the green seas round a spirit, that comes down from the squally wind.
The traveller hears the sound afar, and lifts his head over the rock.
He looks on the troubled bay, and thinks he dimly sees the form. The
waves sport unwieldy round, with all their backs of foam.
Far-distant stood the son of Morni, Duthno’s race, and Cona’s bard. We
stood far-distant; each beneath his tree. We shunned the eyes of the
king: we had not conquered in the field. A little stream rolled at my
feet; I touched its light wave, with my spear. I touched it with my
spear; nor there was the soul of Ossian. It darkly rose from thought to
thought, and sent abroad the sigh.
“Son of Morni,” said the king, “Dermid, hunter of roes! why are ye
dark, like two rocks, each with its trickling waters? No wrath gathers
on Fingal’s soul, against the chiefs of men. Ye are my strength in
battle; the kindling of my joy in peace. My early voice has been a
pleasant gale to your ears, when Fillan prepared the bow. The son of
Fingal is not here, nor yet the chase of the bounding roes. But why
should the breakers of shields stand, darkened far away?”
Tall they strode towards the king; they saw him turned to Mora’s wind.
His tears came down, for his blue-eyed son, who slept in the cave of
streams. But he brightened before them, and spoke to the broad-shielded
kings.
“Crommal, with woody rocks, and misty top, the field of winds, pours
forth, to the sight, blue Lubar’s streamy roar. Behind it rolls
clear-winding Lavath, in the still vale of deer. A cave is dark
in a rock, above it strong-winged eagles dwell; broad-headed oaks
before it, sound in Cluna’s wind. Within, in his locks of youth, is
Ferad-artho,[381] blue-eyed king, the son of broad-shielded Cairbar,
from Ullin of the roes. He listens to the voice of Condan, as, grey, he
bends in feeble light. He listens, for his foes dwell in the echoing
halls of Temora. He comes, at times, abroad, in the skirts of mist, to
pierce the bounding roes. When the sun looks on the field, nor by the
rock, nor stream, is he! He shuns the race of Bolga, who dwell in his
father’s hall. Tell him that Fingal lifts the spear, and that his foes,
perhaps, may fail.”
“Lift up, O Gaul, the shield before him. Stretch, Dermid, Temora’s
spear. Be thy voice in his ear, O Carril, with the deeds of his
fathers. Lead him to green Moi-lena, to the dusky field of ghosts; for
there, I fall forward, in battle, in the folds of war. Before dun night
descends, come to high Dunmora’s top. Look, from the grey skirts of
mist, on Lena of the streams. If there my standard shall float on wind,
over Lubar’s gleaming stream, then has not Fingal failed in the last of
his fields.”
Such were his words; nor aught replied the silent, striding kings.
They looked side-long, on Erin’s host, and darkened, as they went.
Never before had they left the king, in the midst of the stormy field.
Behind them, touching at times his harp, the grey-haired Carril moved.
He foresaw the fall of the people, and mournful was the sound! It was
like a breeze that comes, by fits, over Lego’s reedy lake; when sleep
half-descends on the hunter, within his mossy cave.
“Why bends the bard of Cona,” said Fingal, “over his secret stream? Is
this a time for sorrow, father of low-laid Oscar? Be the warriors[382]
remembered in peace, when echoing shields are heard no more. Bend,
then, in grief, over the flood where blows the mountain breeze. Let
them pass on thy soul, the blue-eyed dwellers of the tomb. But Erin
rolls to war, wide-tumbling, rough, and dark. Lift, Ossian, lift the
shield. I am alone, my son!”
As comes the sudden voice of winds to the becalmed ship of Inis-huna,
and drives it large, along the deep, dark rider of the wave: so the
voice of Fingal sent Ossian, tall, along the heath. He lifted high his
shining shield, in the dusky wing of war: like the broad, blank moon,
in the skirt of a cloud, before the storms arise.
Loud, from moss-covered Mora[383] poured down, at once, the
broad-winged war. Fingal led his people forth, king of Morven of
streams. On high spreads the eagle’s wing. His grey hair is poured on
his shoulders broad. In thunder are his mighty strides. He often stood,
and saw behind, the wide-gleaming rolling of armour. A rock he seemed,
grey over with ice, whose woods are high in wind. Bright streams leap
from its head, and spread their foam on blasts.
Now he came to Lubar’s cave, where Fillan darkly slept. Bran still lay
on the broken shield: the eagle wing is strewed by the winds. Bright,
from withered furze, looked forth the hero’s spear. Then grief stirred
the soul of the king, like whirlwinds blackening on a lake. He turned
his sudden step, and leaned on his bending spear.
White-breasted Bran came bounding with joy to the known path of
Fingal. He came, and looked towards the cave, where the blue-eyed
hunter lay, for he was wont to stride, with morning, to the dewy bed
of the roe. It was then the tears of the king came down, and all his
soul was dark. But as the rising wind rolls away the storm of rain, and
leaves the white streams to the sun, and high hills with their heads of
grass: so the returning war brightened the mind of Fingal. He bounded
on his spear over Lubar, and struck his echoing shield. His ridgy host
bend forward, at once with all their pointed steel.
Nor Erin heard, with fear, the sound; wide they came rolling along.
Dark-Malthos, in the wing of war, looks forward from shaggy brows. Next
rose that beam of light, Hidalla! then the side-long looking gloom of
Maronnan. Blue-shielded Clonar lifts the spear; Cormar shakes his bushy
locks on the wind. Slowly from behind a rock, rose the bright form
of Atha. First appeared his two pointed spears, then the half of his
burnished shield: like the rising of a nightly meteor, over the vale of
ghosts. But when he shone all abroad: the hosts plunged, at once, into
strife. The gleaming waves of steel are poured on either side.
As meet two troubled seas, with the rolling of all their waves, when
they feel the wings of contending winds, in the rock-sided frith of
Lumon; along the echoing hills is the dim course of ghosts; from the
blast fall the torn groves on the deep, amidst the foamy path of
whales. So mixed the host! Now Fingal; now Cathmor came abroad. The
dark tumbling of death is before them: the gleam of broken steel is
rolled on their steps, as, loud, the high-bounding kings hewed down the
ridge of shields.
Maronnan fell, by Fingal laid large across a stream. The waters
gathered by his side, and leapt grey over his bossy shield. Clonar is
pierced by Cathmor: nor yet lay the chief on earth. An oak seized his
hair in his fall. His helmet rolled on the ground. By its thong, hung
his broad shield; over it wandered his streaming blood. Tlamin[384]
shall weep, in the hall, and strike her heaving breast.
Nor did Ossian forget the spear, in the wing of his war. He strewed
the field with dead. Young Hidalla came. “Soft voice of streamy Clonar!
Why dost thou lift the steel? O that we met in the strife of song, in
thy own rushy vale!” Malthos beheld him low, and darkened as he rushed
along. On either side of a stream, we bend in the echoing strife.
Heaven comes rolling down: around burst the voices of squally winds.
Hills are clothed, at times, in fire. Thunder rolls in wreaths of mist.
In darkness shrunk the foe: Morven’s warriors stood aghast. Still I
bent over the stream, amidst my whistling locks. Then rose the voice of
Fingal, and the sound of the flying foe. I saw the king, at times, in
lightning, darkly-striding in his might. I struck my echoing shield,
and hung forward on the steps of Alnecma: the foe is rolled before me,
like a wreath of smoke.
The sun looked forth from his cloud. The hundred streams of Moi-lena
shone.[385] Slow rose the blue columns of mist, against the glittering
hill. “Where are the mighty kings?[386] Nor by that stream, nor wood
are they! I hear the clang of arms! Their strife is in the bosom of
that mist. Such is the contending of spirits in a nightly cloud, when
they strive for the wintry wings of winds, and the rolling of the
foam-covered waves.”
I rushed along. The grey mist rose. Tall, gleaming, they stood at
Lubar. Cathmor leaned against a rock. His half-fallen shield received
the stream, that leapt from the moss above. Towards him is the stride
of Fingal: he saw the hero’s blood. His sword fell slowly to his side.
He spoke, midst his darkening joy.
“Yields the race of Borbar-duthul? Or still does he lift the spear? Not
unheard is thy name, at Atha, in the green dwelling of strangers. It
has come like the breeze of his desert, to the ear of Fingal. Come to
my hill of feasts: the mighty fail, at times. No fire am I to low-laid
foes: I rejoice not over the fall of the brave. To close the wound is
mine: I have known the herbs[387] of the hills. I seized their fair
heads, on high, as they waved by their secret streams. Thou art dark
and silent, king of Atha of strangers!”
“By Atha of the stream,” he said, “there rises a mossy rock. On its
head is the wandering of boughs, within the course of winds. Dark,
in its face, is a cave, with its own loud rill. There have I heard
the tread of strangers, when they passed to my hall of shells. Joy
rose, like a flame, on my soul: I blessed the echoing rock. Here be my
dwelling, in darkness; in my grassy vale. From this I shall mount the
breeze, that pursues my thistle’s beard; or look down, on blue-winding
Atha, from its wandering mist.[388]
“Why speaks the king of the tomb? Ossian! the warrior has failed! Joy
meet thy soul, like a stream, Cathmor, friend of strangers! My son, I
hear the call of years; they take my spear as they pass along. Why does
not Fingal, they seem to say, rest within his hall? Dost thou always
delight in blood? In the tears of the sad? No: ye dark-rolling years,
Fingal delights not in blood. Tears are wintry streams that waste away
my soul. But, when I lie down to rest, then comes the mighty voice of
war. It awakes me, in my hall, and calls forth all my steel. It shall
call it forth no more; Ossian, take thou thy father’s spear. Lift it,
in battle, when the proud arise.
“My fathers, Ossian, trace my steps; my deeds are pleasant to their
eyes. Wherever I came forth to battle, on my field are their columns
of mist. But mine arm rescued the feeble, the haughty found my rage
was fire. Never over the fallen did mine eye rejoice. For this,[389]
my fathers shall meet me, at the gates of their airy halls, tall,
with robes of light, with mildly-kindled eyes. But, to the proud in
arms, they are darkened moons in heaven, which send the fire of night
red-wandering over their face.
“Father of heroes, Trenmor, dweller of eddying winds! I give thy spear
to Ossian, let thine eye rejoice. Thee have I seen, at times, bright
from between thy clouds; so appear to my son, when he is to lift the
spear: then shall he remember thy mighty deeds, though thou art now
but a blast.”
He gave the spear to my hand, and raised, at once, a stone on high, to
speak to future times, with its grey head of moss. Beneath he placed
a sword[390] in earth, and one bright boss from his shield. Dark in
thought, a while, he bends: his words, at length, came forth.
“When thou, O stone, shalt moulder down, and loose thee, in the moss
of years, then shall the traveller come, and whistling pass away. Thou
know’st not, feeble man, that fame once shone on Moi-lena. Here Fingal
resigned his spear, after the last of his fields. Pass away, thou empty
shade! in thy voice there is no renown. Thou dwellest by some peaceful
stream; yet a few years, and thou art gone. No one remembers thee, thou
dweller of thick mist! But Fingal shall be clothed with fame, a beam of
light to other times; for he went forth, in echoing steel, to save the
weak in arms.”
Brightening in his fame, the king strode to Lubar’s sounding oak, where
it bent, from its rock, over the bright-tumbling stream. Beneath it
is a narrow plain, and the sound of the fount of the rock. Here the
standard[391] of Morven poured its wreaths on the wind, to mark the way
of Ferad-artho, from his secret vale. Bright from his parted west, the
sun of heaven looked abroad. The hero saw his people, and heard their
shouts of joy. In broken ridges round, they glittered to the beam. The
king rejoiced, as a hunter in his own green vale, when, after the storm
is rolled away, he sees the gleaming sides of the rocks. The green
thorn shakes its head in their face; from their top look forward the
roes.
Grey,[392] at his mossy cave, is bent the aged form of Clonmal. The
eyes of the bard had failed. He leaned forward, on his staff. Bright
in her locks, before him, Sul-malla listened to the tale; the tale of
the kings of Atha, in the days of old. The noise of battle had ceased
in his ear: he stopped, and raised the secret sigh. The spirits of the
dead, they said, often lightened along his soul. He saw the king of
Atha low, beneath his bending tree.
“Why art thou dark?” said the maid. “The strife of arms is past.
Soon[393] shall he come to thy cave, over thy winding streams. The sun
looks from the rocks of the west. The mists of the lake arise. Grey,
they spread on that hill, the rushy dwelling of roes. From the mist
shall my king appear! Behold, he comes in his arms. Come to the cave of
Clonmal, O my best beloved!”
It was the spirit of Cathmor, stalking, large, a gleaming form. He
sunk by the hollow stream, that roared between the hills. “It was but
the hunter,” she said, “who searches for the bed of the roe. His steps
are not forth to war; his spouse expects him with night. He shall,
whistling, return with the spoils of the dark-brown hinds.” Her eyes
were turned to the hill; again the stately form came down. She rose in
the midst of joy. He retired again in mist. Gradual vanish his limbs
of smoke, and mix with the mountain-wind. Then she knew that he fell!
“King of Erin, art thou low!” Let Ossian forget her grief; it wastes
the soul of age.[394]
Evening came down on Moi-lena. Grey rolled the streams of the land.
Loud came forth the voice of Fingal: the beam of oaks arose. The people
gathered round with gladness, with gladness blended with shades. They
side-long looked to the king, and beheld his unfinished joy. Pleasant,
from the way of the desert, the voice of music came. It seemed, at
first, the noise of a stream, far distant on its rocks. Slow it rolled
along the hill, like the ruffled wing of a breeze, when it takes the
tufted beard of the rocks, in the still season of night. It was the
voice of Condan, mixed with Carril’s trembling harp. They came, with
blue-eyed Ferad-artho, to Mora of the streams.
Sudden bursts the song from our bards, on Lena: the host struck their
shields midst the sound. Gladness rose brightening on the king, like
the beam of a cloudy day, when it rises, on the green hill, before the
roar of winds. He struck the bossy shield of kings, at once they cease
around. The people lean forward, from their spears, towards the voice
of their land.[395]
“Sons of Morven, spread the feast; send the night away in song. Ye have
shone around me, and the dark storm is past. My people are the windy
rocks, from which I spread my eagle-wings, when I rush forth to renown,
and seize it on its field. Ossian, thou hast the spear of Fingal: it
is not the staff of a boy with which he strews the thistle round,
young wanderer of the field. No: it is the lance of the mighty, with
which they stretched forth their hands to death. Look to thy fathers,
my son; they are awful beams. With morning lead Ferad-artho forth to
the echoing halls of Temora. Remind him of the kings of Erin; the
stately forms of old. Let not the fallen be forgot, they were mighty
in the field. Let Carril pour his song, that the kings may rejoice in
their mist. To-morrow I spread my sails to Selma’s shaded walls; where
streamy Duthula winds through the seats of roes.”
FOOTNOTES:
[381] Ferad-artho was the son of Cairbar Mac-Cormac, king of Ireland.
He was the only one remaining of the race of Conar, the son of Trenmor,
the first Irish monarch, according to Ossian. In order to make this
passage thoroughly understood, it may not be improper to recapitulate
some part of what has been said in preceding notes. Upon the death
of Conar the son of Trenmor, his son Cormac succeeded on the Irish
throne. Cormac reigned long. His children were Cairbar, who succeeded
him, and Ros-crána, the first wife of Fingal. Cairbar, long before the
death of his father Cormac, had taken to wife Bos-gala, the daughter of
Colgar, one of the most powerful chiefs in Connaught, and had by her
Artho, afterwards king of Ireland. Soon after Artho arrived at man’s
estate, his mother Bos-gala died, and Cairbar married Beltanno, the
daughter of Conachar of Ullin, who brought him a son, whom he called
Ferad-artho--_i.e._ _a man in the place of Artho_. The occasion of
the name was this: Artho, when his brother was born, was absent, on
an expedition, in the south of Ireland. A false report was brought to
his father that he was killed. _Cairbar_, to use the words of a poem
on the subject, _darkened for his fair-haired son. He turned to the
young beam of light, the son of Baltanno of Conachar. Thou shalt be
Ferad-artho, he said, a fire before thy race._ Cairbar soon after died;
nor did Artho long survive him. Artho was succeeded on the Irish throne
by his son Cormac, who, in his minority, was murdered by Cairbar, the
son of Borbar-duthul. Ferad-artho, says tradition, was very young
when the expedition of Fingal to settle him on the throne of Ireland
happened. During the short reign of young Cormac, Ferad-artho lived at
the royal residence of Temora. Upon the murder of the king, Condan the
bard conveyed Ferad-artho privately to the _cave of Cluna_, behind the
mountain _Crommal_ in Ulster, where they both lived concealed during
the usurpation of the family of Atha. A late bard has delivered the
whole history in a poem just now in my possession. It has little merit
if we except the scene between Ferad-artho and the messengers of Fingal
upon their arrival in the valley of Cluna. After hearing of the great
actions of Fingal, the young prince proposes the following questions
concerning him to Gaul and Dermid: “Is the king tall as the rock of my
cave? Is his spear a fir of Cluna? Is he a rough-winged blast, on the
mountain, which takes the green oak by the head, and tears it from its
hill? Glitters Lubar within his stride, when he sends his stately steps
along?” “Nor is he tall,” said Gaul, “as that rock: nor glitter streams
within his strides; but his soul is a mighty flood, like the strength
of Ullin’s seas.”
[382] Malvina is supposed to speak the following soliloquy:
“Malvina is like the bow of the shower, in the secret valley of
streams; it is bright, but the drops of heaven are rolling on its
blended light. They say that I am fair within my locks, but, on my
brightness, is the wandering of tears. Darkness flies over my soul,
as the dusky wave of the breeze, along the grass of Lutha. Yet have
not the roes failed me, when I moved between the hills. Pleasant,
beneath my white hand, arose the sound of harps. What then, daughter
of Lutha, travels over thy soul, like the dreary path of a ghost along
the nightly beam? Should the young warrior fall, in the roar of his
troubled fields! Young virgins of Lutha arise, call back the wandering
thoughts of Malvina. Awake the voice of the harp along my echoing vale.
Then shall my soul come forth, like a light from the gates of the morn,
when clouds are rolled around them, with their broken sides.”
“Dweller of my thoughts, by night, whose form ascends in troubled
fields, why dost thou stir up my soul, thou far-distant son of the
king? Is that the ship of my love, its dark course through the ridges
of ocean? How art thou so sudden, Oscar, from the heath of shields?”
The rest of this poem consists of a dialogue between Ullin and Malvina,
wherein the distress of the latter is carried to the highest pitch.
[383] From this description the rest of the scenes are deducible--and
the epithet _moss-covered_ Mora is as strictly true as it is poetical.
_C._
[384] Tla-min, _mildly soft_. The loves of Clonar and Tlamin were
rendered famous in the north by a fragment of a lyric poem. It is a
dialogue between Clonar and Tlamin. She begins with a soliloquy which
he overhears.
+Tlamin.+
“Clonar, son of Conglas of I-mor, young hunter of dun-sided roes; where
art thou laid, amidst rushes, beneath the passing wing of the breeze? I
behold thee, my love, in the plain of thy own dark streams! The clung
thorn is rolled by the wind, and rustles along his shield. Bright in
his locks he lies: the thoughts of his dreams fly, darkening, over his
face. Thou thinkest of the battles of Ossian, young son of the echoing
isle!
“Half hid in the grove, I sit down. Fly back, ye mists of the hill. Why
should ye hide her love from the blue eyes of Tlamin of harps?”
+Clonar.+
“As the spirit, seen in a dream, flies off from our opening eyes, we
think, we behold his bright path between the closing hills; so fled the
daughter of Clungal, from the sight of Clonar of shields. Arise from
the gathering of trees; blue-eyed Tlamin, arise.”
+Tlamin.+
“I turn me away from his steps. Why should he know of my love! My white
breast is heaving over sighs, as foam on the dark course of streams.
But he passes away, in his arms! Son of Conglas, my soul is sad.”
+Clonar.+
“It was the shield of Fingal! the voice of kings from Selma of harps!
My path is towards green Erin. Arise, fair light, from thy shades. Come
to the field of my soul, there is the spreading of hosts. Arise, on
Clonar’s troubled soul, young daughter of the blue-shielded Clungal.”
Clungal was the chief of I-mor, one of the Hebrides.
[385] Though a poetical number, if all were reckoned in and about Lena,
I think this amount would not be far from the truth. _C._
[386] Fingal and Cathmor. The conduct here is perhaps proper. The
numerous descriptions of single combats have already exhausted the
subject. Nothing new nor adequate to our high idea of the kings can be
said. _A column of mist_ is thrown over the whole, and the combat is
left to the imagination of the reader. Poets have almost universally
failed in their descriptions of this sort. Not all the strength of
Homer could sustain with dignity the _minutiæ_ of a single combat. The
throwing of a spear and the braying of a shield, as some of our own
poets most elegantly express it, convey no magnificent, though they are
striking, ideas. Our imagination stretches beyond, and consequently
despises the description. It were, therefore, well for some poets, in
my opinion (though it is perhaps somewhat singular), to have sometimes
thrown _mist_ over their single combats.
[387] Fingal is very much celebrated in tradition for his knowledge in
the virtues of herbs.
[388] Cathmor reflects with pleasure, even in his last moments, on
the relief he had afforded to strangers. The very tread of their feet
was pleasant in his ear. His hospitality was not passed unnoticed by
the bards; for with them it became a proverb when they described the
hospitable disposition of a hero _that he was like Cathmor of Atha, the
friend of strangers_.
[389] The Celtic nations had some idea of rewards, and perhaps of
punishments, after death. Those who behaved in life with bravery and
virtue were received with joy to the airy halls of their fathers; but
_the dark in soul_, to use the expression of the poet, were spurned
away _from the habitation of heroes to wander on all the winds_.
Another opinion which prevailed in those times tended not a little to
make individuals emulous to excel one another in martial achievements.
It was thought that in the _hall of clouds_ every one had a seat,
raised above others in proportion as he excelled them in valour when he
lived.
[390] There are some stones still to be seen in the north of Ireland
which were erected as memorials of some remarkable transactions between
the ancient chiefs. There are generally found beneath them some piece
of arms and a bit of half-burnt wood. The cause of placing the last
there is not mentioned in tradition.
[391] The erecting of his standard on the bank of Lubar was the signal
which Fingal, in the beginning of the book, promised to give to the
chiefs who went to conduct Ferad-artho to the army, should he himself
prevail in battle. This standard here is called the _sun-beam_. The
reason of this appellation I gave in my notes on the poem entitled
Fingal.
[392] The scene is changed to the valley of Lona, whither Sul-malla
had been sent by Cathmor before the battle. Clonmal, an aged bard,
or rather Druid, as he seems here to be endued with a prescience of
events, had long dwelt there in a cave. This scene is calculated to
throw a melancholy gloom over the mind.
[393] Cathmor had promised, in the seventh book, to come to the cave of
Clonmal, after the battle was over.
[394] Tradition relates that Ossian, the next day after the decisive
battle between Fingal and Cathmor, went to find out Sul-malla in the
valley of Lona. His address to her follows:
“Awake, thou daughter of Conmor, from the fern-skirted cavern of Lona.
Awake, thou sun-beam in deserts; warriors one day must fail. They move
forth, like terrible lights; but often their cloud is near. Go to the
valley of streams, to the wandering of herds, on Lumon; there dwells,
in his lazy mist, the man of many days. But he is unknown, Sul-malla,
like the thistle of the rocks of roes; it shakes its grey beard in the
wind, and falls unseen of our eyes. Not such are the kings of men,
their departure is a meteor of fire, which pours its red course from
the desert over the bosom of night. [The fern-skirted cavern of Lona is
true and poetical. _C._]
“He is mixed with the warriors of old, those sires that have hid their
heads. At times shall they come forth in song. Not forgot has the
warrior failed. He has not seen, Sul-malla, the fall of a beam of his
own: no fair-haired son, in his blood, young troubler of the field. I
am lonely, young branch of Lumon, I may hear the voice of the feeble
when my strength shall have failed in years, for young Oscar has ceased
on his field....”
Sul-malla returned to her own country. She makes a considerable figure
in another poem; her behaviour in that piece accounts for that partial
regard with which the poet speaks of her throughout Temora.
[395] Before I finish my notes, it may not be altogether improper to
obviate an objection which may be made to the credibility of the story
of Temora. It may be asked whether it is probable that Fingal could
perform such actions as are ascribed to him in this book at an age when
his grandson Oscar had acquired so much reputation in arms. To this it
may be answered that Fingal was but very young (book 4th) when he took
to wife Ros-crána, who soon after became the mother of Ossian. Ossian
was also extremely young when he married Evirallin, the mother of
Oscar. Tradition relates that Fingal was but eighteen years old at the
birth of his son Ossian; and that Ossian was much about the same age
when Oscar his son was born. Oscar, perhaps, might be about twenty when
he was killed in the battle of Gabhra (book 1st); so the age of Fingal,
when the decisive battle was fought between him and Cathmor, was just
fifty-six years. In those times of activity and health the natural
strength and vigour of a man was little abated at such an age; so that
there is nothing improbable in the actions of Fingal as related in this
book. _M._--But the chronology of the Irish bards is wrong: a battle at
the pass of Goura, a valley in the chain of Cromla, should be placed in
+A.D.+ 388, instead of 288. _C._
CATHLIN OF CLUTHA
CATHLIN OF CLUTHA
A Poem
ARGUMENT
An address to Malvina, the daughter of Toscar. The poet relates the
arrival of Cathlin in _Selma_ to solicit against Duth-carmor of
Cluba, who had killed Cathmol for the sake of his daughter Lanul.
Fingal, declining to make a choice among his heroes, who were all
claiming the command of the expedition, they retired _each to
his hill of ghosts_; to be determined by dreams. The spirit of
Trenmor appears to Ossian and Oscar: they sail from the bay of
Carmona; and on the fourth day appear off the valley of Rath-col,
in Inis-huna, where Duth-carmor had fixed his residence. Ossian
despatches a bard to Duth-carmor to demand battle. Night comes
on. The distress of Cathlin of Clutha. Ossian devolves the
command on Oscar, who, according to the custom of the kings
of Morven, before battle retired to a neighbouring hill. Upon
the coming on of day the battle joins. Oscar and Duth-carmor
meet. The latter falls. Oscar carries the mail and helmet of
Duth-carmor to Cathlin, who had retired from the field. Cathlin
is discovered to be the daughter of Cathmol in disguise, who
had been carried off by force by, and had made her escape from,
Duth-carmor.
Come,[396] thou beam that art lonely, from watching in the night! The
squally winds are around thee, from all their echoing hills. Red, over
my hundred streams, are the light-covered paths of the dead. They
rejoice, on the eddying winds, in the season of night. Dwells there no
joy in song, white hand of the harps of Lutha? Awake the voice of the
string; roll my soul to me. It is a stream that has failed. Malvina,
pour the song.
I hear thee, from thy darkness, in Selma, thou that watchest, lonely,
by night! Why didst thou withhold the song, from Ossian’s failing soul?
As the falling brook to the ear of the hunter, descending from his
storm-covered hill; in a sun-beam rolls the echoing stream; he hears,
and shakes his dewy locks: such is the voice of Lutha, to the friend of
the spirits of heroes. My swelling bosom beats high. I look back on the
days that are past. Come, thou beam that art lonely, from watching in
the night!
In the echoing bay of Carmona[397] we saw, one day, the bounding ship.
On high, hung a broken shield; it was marked with wandering blood.
Forward came a youth, in arms, and stretched his pointless spear. Long,
over his tearful eyes, hung loose his disordered locks. Fingal gave
the shell of kings. The words of the stranger arose. “In his hall lies
Cathmol of Clutha, by the winding of his own dark streams. Duth-carmor
saw white-bosomed Lanul,[398] and pierced her father’s side. In the
rushy desert were my steps. He fled in the season of night. Give thine
aid to Cathlin to revenge his father. I sought thee not as a beam,
in a land of clouds. Thou, like the son, art known, king of echoing
Selma!”[399]
Selma’s king looked around. In his presence, we rose in arms. But who
should lift the shield? for all had claimed the war. The night came
down; we strode, in silence; each to his hill of ghosts: that spirits
might descend, in our dreams, to mark us for the field. We struck the
shield of the dead; we raised the hum of songs. We thrice called the
ghosts of our fathers. We laid us down in dreams. Trenmor came, before
mine eyes, the tall form of other years! His blue hosts were behind him
in half-distinguished rows. Scarce seen is their strife in mist, or
their stretching forward to deaths. I listened; but no sound was there.
The forms were empty wind!
I started from the dream of ghosts. On a sudden blast flew my whistling
hair. Low-sounding, in the oak, is the departure of the dead. I took
my shield from its bough. Onward came the rattling of steel. It was
Oscar[400] of Lego. He had seen his fathers. “As rushes forth the
blast, on the bosom of whitening waves; so careless shall my course
be, through ocean, to the dwelling of foes. I have seen the dead, my
father! My beating soul is high! My fame is bright before me, like
the streak of light on a cloud, when the broad sun comes forth, red
traveller of the sky!”
“Grandson of Branno,” I said, “not Oscar alone shall meet the foe. I
rush forward, through ocean, to the woody dwelling of heroes. Let us
contend, my son, like eagles, from one rock; when they lift their broad
wings, against the stream of winds.” We raised our sails in Carmona.
From three ships, they marked my shield on the wave, as I looked on
nightly Ton-thèna,[401] red traveller between the clouds. Four days
came the breeze abroad. Lumon came forward in mist. In winds were its
hundred groves. Sun-beams marked at times its brown side. White, leaped
the foamy streams, from all its echoing rocks.
A green field, in the bosom of hills, winds silent with its own blue
stream. Here, midst the waving of oaks, were the dwellings of kings
of old. But silence for many dark-brown years, had settled in grassy
Rath-col[402]; for the race of heroes had failed, along the pleasant
vale. Duth-carmor was here, with his people, dark rider of the wave.
Ton-thèna had hid her head in the sky. He bound his white-bosomed
sails. His course is on the hills of Rath-col, to the seats of roes.
We came. I sent the bard, with songs, to call the foe to fight.
Duth-carmor heard him, with joy. The king’s soul was like a beam of
fire; a beam of fire, marked with smoke, rushing, varied, through the
bosom of night. The deeds of Duth-carmor were dark, though his arm was
strong.
Night came, with the gathering of clouds. By the beam of the oak we sat
down. At a distance stood Cathlin of Clutha. I saw the changeful[403]
soul of the stranger. As shadows fly over the field of grass, so
various is Cathlin’s cheek. It was fair, within locks, that rose on
Rath-col’s wind. I did not rush, amidst his soul, with my words. I bade
the song to rise.
“Oscar of Lego,” I said, “be thine the secret hill,[404] to-night.
Strike the shield, like Morven’s kings. With day, thou shalt lead in
war. From my rock, I shall see thee, Oscar, a dreadful form ascending
in fight, like the appearance of ghosts, amidst the storms they raise.
Why should mine eyes return to the dim times of old, ere yet the song
had bursted forth, like the sudden rising of winds? But the years, that
are past, are marked with mighty deeds. As the nightly rider of waves
looks up to Ton-thèna of beams, so let us turn our eyes to Trenmor, the
father of kings.”
“Wide, in Caracha’s echoing field, Carmal had poured his tribes. They
were a dark ridge of waves. The grey-haired bards were like moving foam
on their face. They kindled the strife around, with their red-rolling
eyes. Nor alone were the dwellers of rocks; a son of Loda was there;
a voice, in his own dark land, to call the ghosts from high. On his
hill he had dwelt, in Lochlin, in the midst of a leafless grove. Five
stones lifted, near, their heads. Loud roared his rushing stream. He
often raised his voice to the winds, when meteors marked their nightly
wings; when the dark-robed moon was rolled behind her hill. Nor unheard
of ghosts was he! They came with the sound of eagle wings. They turned
battle, in fields, before the kings of men.
“But, Trenmor, they turned not from battle. He drew forward that
troubled war; in its dark skirt was Trathal, like a rising light. It
was dark; and Loda’s son poured forth his signs, on night. The feeble
were not before thee, son of other lands![405] Then rose the strife of
kings, about the hill of night; but it was soft as two summer gales,
shaking their light wings, on a lake. Trenmor yielded to his son; for
the fame of the king had been heard. Trathal came forth before his
father, and the foes failed, in echoing Caracha. The years that are
past, my son, are marked with mighty deeds.”[406]
In clouds rose the eastern light. The foe came forth in arms. The
strife is mixed on Rath-col, like the roar of streams. Behold the
contending of kings! They meet beside the oak. In gleams of steel
the dark forms are lost; such is the meeting of meteors, in a vale
by night; red light is scattered round, and men foresee the storm!
Duth-carmor is low in blood! The son of Ossian overcame! Not harmless
in battle was he, Malvina hand of harps!
Nor, in the field, were the steps of Cathlin. The stranger stood by a
secret stream, where the foam of Rath-col skirted the mossy stones.
Above, bends the branchy birch, and strews its leaves, on wind. The
inverted spear of Cathlin touched, at times, the stream. Oscar brought
Duth-carmor’s mail: his helmet with its eagle wing. He placed them
before the stranger, and his words were heard. “The foes of thy father
have failed. They are laid in the field of ghosts. Renown returns to
Morven like a rising wind. Why art thou dark, chief of Clutha? Is there
cause for grief?”
“Son of Ossian of harps, my soul is darkly sad. I behold the arms of
Cathmol, which he raised in war. Take the mail of Cathlin, place it
high in Selma’s hall, that thou mayest remember the hapless in thy
distant land.” From white breasts descended the mail. It was the race
of kings; the soft-handed daughter of Cathmol, at the stream of Clutha!
Duth-carmor saw her bright in the hall; he had come, by night, to
Clutha. Cathmol met him, in battle, but the hero fell. Three days dwelt
the foe, with the maid. On the fourth she fled in arms. She remembered
the race of kings, and felt her bursting soul!
Why, maid of Toscar of Lutha, should I tell how Cathlin failed? Her
tomb is at rushy Lumon, in a distant land. Near it were the steps of
Sul-malla, in the days of grief. She raised the song, for the daughter
of strangers, and touched the mournful harp.
Come, from the watching of night, Malvina, lonely beam!
FOOTNOTES:
[396] The traditions which accompany this poem inform us that it went
of old under the name of _Laoi-Oi-lutha_--_i.e._ _the hymn of the maid
of Lutha_. They pretend also to fix the time of its composition to the
third year after the death of Fingal--that is, during the expedition
of Fergus the son of Fingal to the banks of _Uisca-duthon_. In support
of this opinion the Highland senachies have prefixed to this poem an
address of Ossian to Congal the young son of Fergus, which I have
rejected as having no manner of connection with the rest of the piece.
It has poetical merit; and probably it was the opening of one of
Ossian’s other poems, though the bards injudiciously transferred it to
the piece now before us.
“Congal, son of Fergus of Durath, thou light between thy locks, ascend
to the rock of Selma, to the oak of the breaker of shields. Look over
the bosom of night, it is streaked with the red paths of the dead: look
on the night of ghosts, and kindle, O Congal! thy soul. Be not, like
the moon on a stream, lonely in the midst of clouds: darkness closes
around it; and the beam departs. Depart not, son of Fergus! ere thou
markest the field with thy sword. Ascend to the rock of Selma; to the
oak of the breaker of shields.”
[397] Carmona, _bay of the dark brown hills_, an arm of the sea in the
neighbourhood of Selma.
In this paragraph are mentioned the signals presented to Fingal by
those who came to demand his aid. The suppliants held in one hand a
shield covered with blood, and in the other, a broken spear; the first
a symbol of the death of their friends, the last an emblem of their
own helpless situation. If the king chose to grant succours, which
generally was the case, he reached to them _the shell of feasts_ as a
token of his hospitality and friendly intentions towards them.
It may not be disagreeable to the reader to lay here before him the
ceremony of the Cran-tara, which was of a similar nature, and, till
very lately, used in the Highlands. When the news of an enemy came to
the residence of the chief, he immediately killed a goat with his own
sword, dipped the end of a half-burnt piece of wood in the blood, and
gave it to one of his servants to be carried to the next hamlet. From
hamlet to hamlet this _tessara_ was carried with the utmost expedition,
and in the space of a few hours the whole clan were in arms and
convened in an appointed place; the name of which was the only word
that accompanied the delivery of the _Cran-tara_. This symbol was the
manifesto of the chief, by which he threatened fire and sword to those
of his clan that did not immediately appear at his standard.
[398] Lanul, _full eyed_, a surname which, according to tradition, was
bestowed on the daughter of Cathmol on account of her beauty; this
tradition, however, may have been founded on that partiality which the
bards have shown to _Cathlin of Clutha_; for, according to them, no
_falsehood could dwell in the soul of the lovely_.
[399] The occurrences in this poem had their rise during the time
Ossian lived on the banks of the lake of Lego after his marriage with
Evirallin the mother of Oscar! and in order of time this composition
should have taken place after the poems Fingal and Temora. _C._
[400] Oscar is here called _Oscar of Lego_, from his mother being the
daughter of Branno, a powerful chief on the banks of that lake. It is
remarkable that Ossian addresses no poem to Malvina in which her lover
Oscar was not one of the principal actors. His attention to her after
the death of his son shows that delicacy of sentiment is not confined,
as some fondly imagine, to our own polished times.
[401] Ton-thèna, _fire of the wave_, was the remarkable star mentioned
in the seventh book of Temora, which directed the course of Larthon to
Ireland. It seems to have been well known to those who sailed on that
sea which divides Ireland from South-Britain. As the course of Ossian
was along the coast of Inis-huna, he mentions with propriety that star
which directed the voyage of the colony from that country to Ireland.
[402] Rath-col, _woody field_, does not appear to have been the
residence of Duth-carmor: he seems rather to have been forced thither
by a storm; at least I should think that to be the meaning of the poet
from his expression that _Ton-thèna had hid her head_, and that _he
bound his white-bosomed sails_, which is as much as to say that the
weather was stormy and that Duth-carmor put into the bay of Rath-col
for shelter. _M._--Probably the mouth of the Bann. _C._
[403] From this circumstance succeeding bards feigned that Cathlin, who
is here in the disguise of a young warrior, had fallen in love with
Duth-carmor at a feast to which he had been invited by her father.
Her love was converted into detestation for him after he had murdered
her father. But _as those rainbows of heaven are changeful_, say my
authors, speaking of women, she felt the return of her former passion
upon the approach of Duth-carmor’s danger. I myself, who think more
favourably of the sex, must attribute the agitation of Cathlin’s mind
to her extreme sensibility to the injuries done her by Duth-carmor; and
this opinion is favoured by the sequel of the story.
[404] This passage alludes to the well-known custom among the ancient
kings of Scotland to retire from their army on the night preceding
a battle. The story which Ossian introduces in the next paragraph
concerns the fall of the Druids. It is said in many old poems that the
Druids, in the extremity of their affairs, had solicited and obtained
aid from Scandinavia. Among the auxiliaries there came many pretended
magicians, which circumstance Ossian alludes to in his description of
the _son of Loda_. Magic and incantation could not, however, prevail;
for Trenmor, assisted by the valour of his son Trathal, entirely broke
the power of the Druids.
[405] Trenmor and Trathal. Ossian introduced this episode as an example
to his son from ancient times.
[406] Those who deliver down this poem in tradition lament that there
is a great part of it lost. In particular, they regret the loss of
an episode which was here introduced with the sequel of the story
of Carmal and his Druids. Their attachment to it was founded on the
descriptions of magical enchantments which it contained.
DAR-THULA
DAR-THULA
A Poem
ARGUMENT
It may not be improper here to give the story which is the
foundation of this poem as it is handed down by tradition.
Usnoth, lord of Etha, which is probably that part of Argyllshire
which is near Loch Eta, an arm of the sea in Lorn, had three
sons, Nathos, Althos, and Ardan, by Slissáma, the daughter of
Semo, and sister to the celebrated Cuthullin. The three brothers,
when very young, were sent over to Ireland by their father to
learn the use of arms under their uncle Cuthullin, who made a
great figure in that kingdom. They were just landed in Ulster
when the news of Cuthullin’s death arrived. Nathos, though very
young, took the command of Cuthullin’s army, made head against
Cairbar the usurper, and defeated him in several battles. Cairbar
at last having found means to murder Cormac the lawful king,
the army of Nathos shifted sides, and he himself was obliged to
return into Ulster, in order to pass over into Scotland.
Dar-thula, the daughter of Colla, with whom Cairbar was in love,
resided at that time in _Seláma_,[407] _a castle in Ulster_. She
saw, fell in love, and fled with Nathos; but, a storm rising
at sea, they were unfortunately driven back on that part of
the coast of Ulster where Cairbar was encamped with his army.
The three brothers, after having defended themselves for some
time with great bravery, were overpowered and slain, and the
unfortunate Dar-thula killed herself upon the body of her beloved
Nathos.
The poem opens on the night preceding the death of the sons of
Usnoth, and brings in by way of episode what passed before.
It relates the death of Dar-thula differently from the common
tradition; this account is the most probable, as suicide seems to
have been unknown in those early times: for no traces of it are
found in the old poetry.
Daughter of heaven, fair art thou! the silence of thy face is pleasant!
Thou comest forth in loveliness. The stars attend thy blue course in
the east. The clouds rejoice in thy presence, O moon! They brighten
their dark-brown sides. Who is like thee in heaven, light of the silent
night? The stars are ashamed in thy presence. They turn away their
sparkling eyes. Whither dost thou retire from thy course, when the
darkness of thy countenance grows? Hast thou thy hall, like Ossian?
Dwellest thou in the shadow of grief? Have thy sisters fallen from
heaven? Are they who rejoiced with thee, at night, no more? Yes! they
have fallen, fair light! and thou dost often retire to mourn. But thou
thyself shalt fail, one night; and leave thy blue path in heaven.
The stars will then lift their heads: they, who were ashamed in thy
presence, will rejoice. Thou art now clothed with thy brightness. Look
from thy gates in the sky. Burst the cloud, O wind! that the daughter
of night may look forth! that the shaggy mountains may brighten, and
the ocean roll its white waves, in light.
Nathos[408] is on the deep, and Althos, that beam of youth. Ardan is
near his brothers. They move in the gloom of their course. The sons of
Usnoth move in darkness, from the wrath of Cairbar[409] of Erin. Who
is that, dim by their side? The night has covered her beauty! Her hair
sighs on ocean’s wind. Her robe streams in dusky wreaths. She is like
the fair spirit of heaven in the midst of his shadowy mist. Who is it
but Dar-thula,[410] the first of Erin’s maids? She has fled from the
love of Cairbar, with blue-shielded Nathos. But the winds deceive thee,
O Dar-thula! They deny the woody Etha, to thy sails. These are not the
mountains of Nathos; nor is that the roar of his climbing waves. The
halls of Cairbar are near: the towers of the foe lift their heads!
Erin stretches its green head into the sea. Tura’s bay[411] receives
the ship. Where have ye been, ye southern winds! when the sons of my
love were deceived? But ye have been sporting on plains, pursuing the
thistle’s beard. O that ye had been rustling in the sails of Nathos,
till the hills of Etha arose! till they arose in their clouds, and saw
their returning chief! Long hast thou been absent, Nathos! the day of
thy return is past!
But the land of strangers saw thee lovely! thou wast lovely in the eyes
of Dar-thula. Thy face was like the light of the morning. Thy hair like
the raven’s wing. Thy soul was generous and mild, like the hour of the
setting sun. Thy words were the gale of the reeds; the gliding stream
of Lora! But when the rage of battle rose, thou wast a sea in a storm.
The clang of thy arms was terrible: the host vanished at the sound of
thy course. It was then Dar-thula beheld thee, from the top of her
mossy tower: from the tower of Seláma,[412] where her fathers dwelt.
“Lovely art thou, O stranger!” she said, for her trembling soul arose.
“Fair art thou in thy battles, friend of the fallen Cormac![413] Why
dost thou rush on in thy valour, youth of the ruddy look? Few are
thy hands in fight, against the dark-browed Cairbar! O that I might
be freed from his love![414] that I might rejoice in the presence of
Nathos! Blest are the rocks of Etha! they will behold his steps at the
chase! they will see his white bosom, when the winds lift his flowing
hair!” Such were thy words, Dar-thula, in Seláma’s mossy towers. But
now, the night, is around thee. The winds have deceived thy sails. The
winds have deceived thy sails, Dar-thula! Their blustering sound is
high. Cease a little while, O north wind! let me hear the voice of the
lovely. Thy voice is lovely, Dar-thula, between the rustling blasts!
“Are these the rocks of Nathos?” she said. “This the roar of his
mountain-streams? Comes that beam of light from Usnoth’s nightly hall?
The mist spreads around; the beam is feeble and distant far. But the
light of Dar-thula’s soul dwells in the chief of Etha! Son of the
generous Usnoth, why that broken sigh? Are we in the land of strangers,
chief of echoing Etha?”
“These are not the rocks of Nathos,” he replied, “nor this the roar of
his streams. No light comes from Etha’s halls, for they are distant
far. We are in the land of strangers, in the land of cruel Cairbar.
The winds have deceived us, Dar-thula. Erin here lifts her hills. Go
towards the north, Althos; be thy steps, Ardan, along the coast: that
the foe may not come in darkness, and our hopes of Etha fail.” “I will
go towards that mossy tower, to see who dwells about the beam. Rest,
Dar-thula, on the shore! rest in peace, thou lovely light! the sword
of Nathos is around thee, like the lightning of heaven!”
He went. She sat alone; she heard the rolling of the wave. The big tear
is in her eye. She looks for returning Nathos. Her soul trembles at
the blast. She turns her ear towards the tread of his feet. The tread
of his feet is not heard. “Where art thou, son of my love! The roar of
the blast is around me. Dark is the cloudy night. But Nathos does not
return. What detains thee, chief of Etha? Have the foes met the hero in
the strife of the night?”
He returned, but his face was dark. He had seen his departed friend. It
was the wall of Tura. The ghost of Cuthullin stalked there alone.[415]
The sighing of his breast was frequent. The decayed flame of his eyes
was terrible! His spear was a column of mist. The stars looked dim
through his form. His voice was like hollow wind in a cave: his eye a
light seen afar. He told the tale of grief. The soul of Nathos was sad,
like the sun in the day of mist, when his face is watery and dim.
“Why art thou sad, O Nathos?” said the lovely daughter of Colla. “Thou
art a pillar of light to Dar-thula. The joy of her eyes is in Etha’s
chief. Where is my friend, but Nathos? My father, my brother is fallen!
Silence dwells on Seláma. Sadness spreads on the blue streams of my
land. My friends have fallen with Cormac. The mighty were slain in the
battles of Erin. Hear, son of Usnoth! hear, O Nathos! my tale of grief.
“Evening darkened on the plain. The blue streams failed before mine
eyes. The unfrequent blast came rustling, in the tops of Seláma’s
groves. My seat was beneath a tree, on the walls of my fathers. Truthil
passed before my soul, the brother of my love; he that was absent
in battle, against the haughty Cairbar. Bending on his spear, the
grey-haired Colla came. His downcast face is dark, and sorrow dwells
in his soul. His sword is on the side of the hero: the helmet of his
fathers on his head. The battle grows in his breast. He strives to hide
the tear.
“Dar-thula, my daughter,” he said, “thou art the last of Colla’s race!
Truthil is fallen in battle. The chief of Seláma is no more! Cairbar
comes, with his thousands towards Seláma’s walls. Colla will meet
his pride, and revenge his son. But where shall I find thy safety,
Dar-thula with the dark-brown hair! thou art lovely as the sun-beam
of heaven, and thy friends are low!” “Is the son of battle fallen?”
I said, with a bursting sigh. “Ceased the generous soul of Truthil
to lighten through the field? My safety, Colla, is in that bow. I
have learned to pierce the deer. Is not Cairbar, like the hart of the
desert, father of fallen Truthil?”
“The face of age brightened with joy. The crowded tears of his eyes
poured down. The lips of Colla trembled. His grey beard whistled in the
blast. “Thou art the sister of Truthil,” he said; “thou burnest in the
fire of his soul. Take, Dar-thula, take that spear, that brazen shield,
that burnished helm: they are the spoils of a warrior, a son of early
youth! When the light rises on Seláma, we go to meet the car-borne
Cairbar. But keep thou near the arm of Colla, beneath the shadow of
my shield. Thy father, Dar-thula, could once defend thee; but age is
trembling on his hand. The strength of his arm has failed. His soul is
darkened with grief.”
“We passed the night in sorrow. The light of morning rose. I shone in
the arms of battle. The grey-haired hero moved before. The sons of
Seláma convened, around the sounding shield of Colla. But few were they
in the plain, and their locks were grey. The youths had fallen with
Truthil, in the battle of car-borne Cormac. “Friends of my youth!” said
Colla, “it was not thus you have seen me in arms. It was not thus I
strode to battle, when the great Confadan fell. But ye are laden with
grief. The darkness of age comes like the mist of the desert. My shield
is worn with years! my sword is fixed[416] in its place! I said to my
soul: Thy evening shall be calm; thy departure like a fading light. But
the storm has returned. I bend like an aged oak. My boughs are fallen
on Seláma. I tremble in my place. Where art thou, with thy fallen
heroes, O my beloved Truthil! Thou answerest not from thy rushing
blast. The soul of thy father is sad. But I will be sad no more,
Cairbar or Colla must fall! I feel the returning strength of my arm. My
heart leaps at the sound of war.”
“The hero drew his sword. The gleaming blades of his people rose. They
moved along the plain. Their grey hair streamed in the wind. Cairbar
sat at the feast, in the silent plain of Lona.[417] He saw the coming
of the heroes. He called his chiefs to war. Why[418] should I tell to
Nathos, how the strife of battle grew? I have seen thee in the midst
of thousands, like the beam of heaven’s fire: it is beautiful, but
terrible; the people fall in its dreadful course. The spear of Colla
flew. He remembered the battles of his youth. An arrow came with its
sound. It pierced the hero’s side. He fell on his echoing shield. My
soul started with fear. I stretched my buckler over him: but my heaving
breast was seen! Cairbar came with his spear. He beheld Seláma’s maid.
Joy rose on his dark-brown face. He stayed the lifted steel. He raised
the tomb of Colla. He brought me weeping to Seláma. He spoke the words
of love, but my soul was sad. I saw the shields of my fathers; the
sword of car-borne Truthil. I saw the arms of the dead; the tear was on
my cheek. Then thou didst come, O Nathos! and gloomy Cairbar fled. He
fled like the ghost of the desert before the morning’s beam. His host
was not near: and feeble was his arm against thy steel! Why art thou
sad, O Nathos!” said the lovely daughter of Colla.
“I have met,” replied the hero, “the battle in my youth. My arm could
not lift the spear when danger first arose. My soul brightened in
the presence of war, as the green narrow vale when the sun pours
his streamy beams, before he hides his head in a storm. The lonely
traveller feels a mournful joy. He sees the darkness that slowly comes.
My soul brightened in danger before I saw Seláma’s fair; before I
saw thee, like a star, that shines on the hill, at night: the cloud
advances, and threatens the lovely light! We are in the land of foes.
The winds have deceived us, Dar-thula! The strength of our friends is
not near, nor the mountains of Etha. Where shall I find thy peace,
daughter of mighty Colla! The brothers of Nathos are brave! and his
own sword has shone in fight. But what are the sons of Usnoth to the
host of dark-browed Cairbar! O that the winds had brought thy sails,
Oscar[419] king of men! Thou didst promise to come to the battles of
fallen Cormac! Then would my hand be strong, as the flaming arm of
death. Cairbar would tremble in his halls, and peace dwell round the
lovely Dar-thula. But why dost thou fall, my soul? The sons of Usnoth
may prevail!”
“And they will prevail, O Nathos!” said the rising soul of the maid.
“Never shall Dar-thula behold the halls of gloomy Cairbar. Give me
those arms of brass, that glitter to the passing meteor. I see them
dimly in the dark-bosomed ship. Dar-thula will enter the battle of
steel. Ghost of the noble Colla! do I behold thee on that cloud? Who
is that dim beside thee? Is it the car-borne Truthil? Shall I behold
the halls of him that slew Seláma’s chief? No: I will not behold them,
spirits of my love!”
Joy rose in the face of Nathos, when he heard the white-bosomed maid.
“Daughter of Seláma! thou shinest along my soul. Come, with thy
thousands, Cairbar! the strength of Nathos is returned! Thou, O aged
Usnoth! shalt not hear that thy son has fled. I remember thy words on
Etha; when my sails began to rise: when I spread them towards Erin,
towards the mossy walls of Tura! “Thou goest,” he said, “O Nathos, to
the king of shields! Thou goest to Cuthullin, chief of men, who never
fled from danger. Let not thine arm be feeble: neither be thy thoughts
of flight; lest the son of Semo should say that Etha’s race are weak.
His words may come to Usnoth, and sadden his soul in the hall.” The
tear was on my father’s cheek. He gave this shining sword!
“I came to Tura’s bay: but the halls of Tura were silent. I looked
around, and there was none to tell of the son of generous Semo. I went
to the hall of shells, where the arms of his fathers hung. But the arms
were gone, and aged Lamhor[420] sat in tears. “Whence are the arms of
steel?” said the rising Lamhor. “The light of the spear has long been
absent from Tura’s dusky walls. Come ye from the rolling sea? or from
Temora’s[421] mournful halls?”
“We come from the sea,” I said, “from Usnoth’s rising towers. We are
the sons of Slis-sáma,[422] the daughter of car-borne Semo. Where is
Tura’s chief, son of the silent hall? But why should Nathos ask? for
I behold thy tears. How did the mighty fall, son of the lonely Tura?”
“He fell not,” Lamhor replied, “like the silent star of night, when it
flies through darkness and is no more. But he was like a meteor that
shoots into a distant land. Death attends its dreary course. Itself
is the sign of wars. Mournful are the banks of Lego; and the roar of
streamy Lara! There the hero fell, son of the noble Usnoth!” “The hero
fell in the midst of slaughter,” I said, with a bursting sigh. “His
hand was strong in war. Death dimly sat behind his sword.”
We came to Lego’s sounding banks. We found his rising tomb.[423] His
friends in battle are there: his bards of many songs. Three days we
mourned over the hero: on the fourth, I struck the shield of Caithbat.
The heroes gathered around with joy, and shook their beamy spears.
Corlath was near with his host, the friend of car-borne Cairbar. We
came like a stream by night. His heroes fell before us. When the people
of the valley rose, they saw their blood with morning’s light. But we
rolled away, like wreaths of mist, to Cormac’s echoing hall. Our swords
rose to defend the king. But Temora’s halls were empty. Cormac had
fallen in his youth. The king of Erin was no more!
Sadness seized the sons of Erin. They slowly, gloomily retired: like
clouds that, long having threatened rain, vanish behind the hills. The
sons of Usnoth moved, in their grief, towards Tura’s sounding bay. We
passed by Seláma.[424] Cairbar retired like Lano’s mist, when it is
driven before the winds. It was then I beheld thee, O Dar-thula! like
the light of Etha’s sun. “Lovely is that beam!” I said. The crowded
sigh of my bosom rose. “Thou camest in thy beauty, Dar-thula, to Etha’s
mournful chief. But the winds have deceived us, daughter of Colla, and
the foe is near!”
“Yes, the foe is near,” said the rushing strength of Althos.[425]
“I heard their clanging arms on the coast. I saw the dark wreaths
of Erin’s standard. Distinct is the voice of Cairbar.[426] Loud as
Cromla’s falling stream. He had seen the dark ship on the sea, before
the dusky night came down. His people watch on Lena’s plain. They
lift ten thousand swords.” “And let them lift ten thousand swords,”
said Nathos, with a smile. “The sons of car-borne Usnoth will never
tremble in danger! Why dost thou roll with all thy foam, thou roaring
sea of Erin? Why do ye rustle on your dark wings, ye whistling storms
of the sky? Do ye think, ye storms, that ye keep Nathos on the coast?
No: his soul detains him, children of the night! Althos! bring my
father’s arms: thou seest them beaming to the stars. Bring the spear of
Semo.[428] It stands in the dark-bosomed ship!”
He brought the arms. Nathos covered his limbs, in all their shining
steel. The stride of the chief is lovely. The joy of his eyes was
terrible. He looks towards the coming of Cairbar. The wind is rustling
in his hair. Dar-thula is silent at his side. Her look is fixed on the
chief. She strives to hide the rising sigh. Two tears swell in her
radiant eyes!
“Althos,” said the chief of Etha, “I see a cave in that rock.[429]
Place Dar-thula there. Let thy arm, my brother, be strong. Ardan! we
meet the foe; call to battle gloomy Cairbar. O that he came in his
sounding steel, to meet the son of Usnoth! Dar-thula! if thou shalt
escape, look not on the fallen Nathos! lift thy sails, O Althos!
towards the echoing groves of my land.
“Tell the chief[430] that his son fell with fame; that my sword did
not shun the fight. Tell him I fell in the midst of thousands. Let
the joy of his grief be great. Daughter of Colla! call the maids to
Etha’s echoing hall! let their songs arise for Nathos, when shadowy
autumn returns. O that the voice of Cona, that Ossian, might be heard
in my praise! then would my spirit rejoice in the midst of the rushing
winds.” “And my voice shall praise thee, Nathos, chief of the woody
Etha! The voice of Ossian shall rise in thy praise, son of the generous
Usnoth! Why was I not on Lena, when the battle rose? Then would the
sword of Ossian defend thee; or himself fall low!”
We sat, that night, in Selma, round the strength of the shell. The wind
was abroad, in the oaks. The spirit of the mountain[431] roared. The
blast came rustling through the hall, and gently touched my harp. The
sound was mournful and low, like the song of the tomb. Fingal heard it
the first. The crowded sighs of his bosom rose. “Some of my heroes are
low,” said the grey-haired king of Morven. “I hear the sound of death
on the harp. Ossian, touch the trembling string. Bid the sorrow rise;
that their spirits may fly with joy to Morven’s woody hills!” I touched
the harp before the king; the sound was mournful and low. “Bend forward
from your clouds,” I said, “ghosts of my fathers! bend. Lay by the red
terror of your course. Receive the falling chief; whether he comes from
a distant land, or rises from the rolling sea. Let his robe of mist be
near; his spear that is formed of a cloud. Place an half-extinguished
meteor by his side, in the form of the hero’s sword. And, oh! let his
countenance be lovely, that his friends may delight in his presence.
Bend from your clouds,” I said, “ghosts of my fathers! bend!”
Such was my song, in Selma, to the lightly-trembling harp. But Nathos
was on Erin’s shore, surrounded by the night. He heard the voice of the
foe, amidst the roar of tumbling waves. Silent he heard their voice,
and rested on his spear. Morning rose, with its beams. The sons of Erin
appear, like grey rocks, with all their trees, they spread along the
coast. Cairbar stood in the midst. He grimly smiled when he saw the
foe. Nathos rushed forward, in his strength: nor could Dar-thula stay
behind. She came with the hero, lifting her shining spear. “And who
are these, in their armour, in the pride of youth? Who but the sons of
Usnoth, Althos and dark-haired Ardan?”
“Come,” said Nathos, “come! chief of high Temora! Let our battle be on
the coast, for the white-bosomed maid. His people are not with Nathos;
they are behind these rolling seas. Why dost thou bring thy thousands
against the chief of Etha? Thou didst fly[432] from him in battle, when
his friends were around his spear.” “Youth of the heart of pride, shall
Erin’s king fight with thee? Thy fathers were not among the renowned,
nor of the kings of men. Are the arms of foes in their halls? Or the
shields of other times? Cairbar is renowned in Temora, nor does he
fight with feeble men!”
The tear started from car-borne Nathos. He turned his eyes to his
brothers. Their spears flew at once. Three heroes lay on earth. Then
the light of their swords gleamed on high. The ranks of Erin yield; as
a ridge of dark clouds before a blast of wind. Then Cairbar ordered his
people, and they drew a thousand bows. A thousand arrows flew. The sons
of Usnoth fell in blood. They fell like three young oaks, which stood
alone on the hill. The traveller saw the lovely trees, and wondered how
they grew so lonely: the blast of the desert came by night, and laid
their green heads low; next day he returned, but they were withered,
and the heath was bare.
Dar-thula stood in silent grief, and beheld their fall. No tear is in
her eye. But her look is wildly sad. Pale was her cheek. Her trembling
lips broke short an half-formed word. Her dark hair flew on wind. The
gloomy Cairbar came. “Where is thy lover now? the car-borne chief of
Etha? Hast thou beheld the halls of Usnoth? or the dark-brown hills
of Fingal? My battle would have roared on Morven, had not the winds
met Dar-thula. Fingal himself would have been low, and sorrow dwelling
in Selma!” Her shield fell from Dar-thula’s arm. Her breast of snow
appeared. It appeared; but it was stained with blood. An arrow was
fixed in her side. She fell on the fallen Nathos, like a wreath of
snow. Her hair spreads wide on his face. Their blood is mixing round.
“Daughter of Colla! thou art low!” said Cairbar’s hundred bards.
“Silence is at the blue streams of Seláma. Truthil’s[433] race have
failed. When wilt thou rise in thy beauty, first of Erin’s maids? Thy
sleep is long in the tomb. The morning distant far. The sun shall not
come to thy bed and say, “Awake, Dar-thula! awake, thou first of women!
the wind of spring is abroad. The flowers shake their heads on the
green hills. The woods wave their growing leaves.” Retire, O sun! the
daughter of Colla is asleep. She will not come forth in her beauty. She
will not move in the steps of her loveliness!”
Such was the song of the bards, when they raised the tomb. I sung over
the grave, when the king of Morven came; when he came to green Erin to
fight with car-borne Cairbar.
FOOTNOTES:
[407] This affirms my supposition relative to the site of Selma
being where Grey Abbey now stands, on the shore between Belfast and
Carrickfergus. _C._
[408] Nathos signifies _youthful_; Ailthos, _exquisite beauty_; Ardan,
_pride_.
[409] Cairbar, who murdered Cormac king of Ireland and usurped the
throne. He was afterwards killed by Oscar the son of Ossian in a
single combat. The poet upon other occasions gives him the epithet of
red-haired.
[410] Dar-thula, or Dart-’huile, _a woman with fine eyes_. She was
the most famous beauty of antiquity. To this day, when a woman is
praised for her beauty, the common phrase is that _she is as lovely as
Dar-thula_, the Irish _Deirdrê_.
[411] Some part of that arm of the sea is doubtless meant which is
known as Belfast Lough--Carrickfergus Bay--Tura--being generally the
place of landing from the opposite coast of Morven. _C._
[412] The word signifies either _beautiful to behold_, or a place _with
a pleasant or wide prospect_. In early times they built their houses
upon eminences to command a view of the country, and to prevent their
being surprised: many of them on that account were called Seláma. The
famous Selma of Fingal is derived from the same root.
[413] Cormac, the young king of Ireland, who was privately murdered by
Cairbar.
[414] That is, of the love of Cairbar.
[415] There is no place in Ireland so veiled in the mists of antiquity
as Carrickfergus Castle. That place and Connor--Temora--were considered
the most ancient as far back as 1316, when Sir Edward, brother of King
Robert Bruce, landed in Ireland. Tradition says it was built by King
Fergus and took his name. _C._
[416] It was the custom of ancient times that every warrior at a
certain age, or when he became unfit for the field, fixed his arms in
the great hall where the tribe feasted upon joyful occasions. He was
afterwards never to appear in battle; and this stage of life was called
the _time of fixing of the arms_.
[417] Lona, _a marshy plain_. Cairbar had just provided an
entertainment for his army upon the defeat of Truthil, the son of
Colla, and the rest of the party of Cormac, when Colla and his aged
warriors arrived to give him battle.
[418] The poet, by an artifice, avoids the description of the battle of
Lona, as it would be improper in the mouth of a woman, and could have
nothing new, after the numerous descriptions of that kind in the rest
of the poems. He at the same time gives an opportunity to Dar-thula to
pass a fine compliment on her lover. _M._--“The plains,” near Belfast,
are now called Ma-Lona, and as they were in the neighbourhood of
Cairbar’s country, so it is possible, nay probable, that they are the
scenes of the battle of Lona. _C._
[419] Oscar, the son of Ossian, had long resolved on the expedition
into Ireland against Cairbar, who had assassinated his friend Cathol,
the son of Moran, an Irishman of noble extraction, and in the interest
of the family of Cormac.
[420] Lamh-mhor, _mighty hand_.
[421] Temora was the residence of the supreme kings of Ireland. It
is here called mournful on account of the death of Cormac, who was
murdered there by Cairbar who usurped his throne. _M._--Temora is the
Connor of the moderns. It is about twelve miles from Carrickfergus on
the western side of Mora hills, which bounds Lena’s heath. _C._
[422] Slis-seamha, _soft bosom_. She was the wife of Usnoth, and
daughter of Semo the chief of the _isle of mist_.
[423] Here are the grounds upon which I dispute the fall of Cuthullin
in _Connaught_. Here I am borne out in the idea that he fell in battle
on the banks of the _Legon_. _C._
[424] His nephews on their return moved towards “Tura’s sounding
bay--they passed by _Seláma_!” It was on their way along the Lough.
[425] Althos had just returned from viewing the coast of Lena, whither
he had been sent by Nathos the beginning of the night. _M._--The coast
of Lena extends from Carmona bay in Belfast Lough to the north of
Carrickfergus. _C._
[426] Cairbar had gathered an army to the coast of Ulster in order
to oppose Fingal, who prepared for an expedition into Ireland to
re-establish the house of Cormac on the throne which Cairbar had
usurped. Between the wings of Cairbar’s army was the Bay of Tura,[427]
into which the ship of the sons of Usnoth was driven; so that there was
no possibility of their escaping. _M._
[427] Here it is evident that Cairbar was encamped on Lena, which is
the rising ground along the coast of Carrickfergus Bay. _C._
[428] Semo was grandfather to Nathos by the mother’s side. The spear
mentioned here was given to Usnoth on his marriage, it being the custom
then for the father of the lady to give his arms to his son-in-law.
[429] I need scarcely add that there is a very noted and spacious cave
in the rock on which Carrickfergus--Tura’s--Castle is built. _C._
[430] Usnoth.
[431] By the spirit of the mountain is meant that deep and melancholy
sound which precedes a storm; well known to those who live in a high
country.
[432] He alludes to the flight of Cairbar from Seláma.
[433] Truthil was the founder of Dar-thula’s family.
THE WAR OF CAROS
THE WAR OF CAROS
A Poem
ARGUMENT
Caros is probably the noted usurper Carausius, by birth a Menapian,
who assumed the purple in the year 284: and, seizing on Britain,
defeated the Emperor Maximian Herculius in several naval
engagements, which gives propriety to his being called in this
poem _the King of Ships_. He repaired Agricola’s wall in order
to obstruct the incursions of the Caledonians; and when he was
employed in that work it appears he was attacked by a party
under the command of Oscar the son of Ossian. This battle is the
foundation of the present poem, which is addressed to Malvina the
daughter of Toscar.
Bring, daughter of Toscar! bring the harp! the light of the song rises
in Ossian’s soul! It is like the field, when darkness covers the hills
around, and the shadow grows slowly on the plain of the sun. I behold
my son, O Malvina! near the mossy rock of Crona.[434] But it is the
mist of the desert, tinged with the beam of the west! Lovely is the
mist, that assumes the form of Oscar! turn from it, ye winds, when ye
roar on the side of Ardven!
Who comes towards my son, with the murmur of a song? His staff is in
his hand, his grey hair loose on the wind. Surly joy lightens his face.
He often looks back to Caros. It is Ryno[435] of songs, he that went to
view the foe. “What does Caros, king of ships?” said the son of the
now mournful Ossian. “Spreads he the wings[436] of his pride, bard of
the times of old?” “He spreads them, Oscar,” replied the bard, “but it
is behind his gathered heap.[437] He looks over his stones with fear.
He beholds thee terrible as the ghost of night, that rolls the wave to
his ships!”
“Go, thou first of my bards!” says Oscar, “take the spear of Fingal.
Fix a flame on its point. Shake it to the winds of heaven. Bid him, in
songs, to advance, and leave the rolling of his wave. Tell to Caros
that I long for battle; that my bow is weary of the chase of Cona. Tell
him the mighty are not here; and that my arm is young.”
He went with the murmur of songs. Oscar reared his voice on high. It
reached his heroes on Ardven, like the noise of a cave, when the sea
of Togorma rolls before it, and its trees meet the roaring winds. They
gather round my son like the streams of the hill; when, after rain,
they roll in the pride of their course. Ryno came to the mighty Caros.
He struck his flaming spear. Come to the battle of Oscar, O thou that
sittest on the rolling of waves! Fingal is distant far; he hears the
songs of bards in Morven: the wind of his hall is in his hair. His
terrible spear is at his side; his shield that is like the darkened
moon! Come to the battle of Oscar; the hero is alone!
He came not over the streamy Carun.[438] The bard returned with his
song. Grey night grows dim on Crona. The feast of shells is spread. A
hundred oaks burn to the wind; faint light gleams over the heath. The
ghosts of Ardven pass through the beam, and show their dim and distant
forms. Comala[439] is half unseen on her meteor; Hidallan is sullen and
dim, like the darkened moon behind the mist of night.
“Why art thou sad?” said Ryno; for he alone beheld the chief. “Why
art thou sad, Hidallan! hast thou not received thy fame? The songs of
Ossian have been heard: thy ghost has brightened in wind, when thou
didst bend from thy cloud, to hear the song of Morven’s bard!” “And
do thine eyes,” said Oscar, “behold the chief, like the dim meteor of
night? Say, Ryno, say, how fell Hidallan, the renowned in the days of
my fathers? His name remains on the rocks of Cona. I have often seen
the streams of his hills!”
Fingal, replied the bard, drove Hidallan from his wars. The king’s soul
was sad for Comala, and his eyes could not behold the chief. Lonely,
sad along the heath, he slowly moved, with silent steps. His arms hang
disordered on his side. His hair flies loose from his brow. The tear
is in his down-cast eyes; a sigh half-silent in his breast! Three
days he strayed unseen, alone, before he came to Lamor’s halls: the
mossy halls of his fathers, at the stream of Balva.[440] There Lamor
sat alone beneath a tree; for he had sent his people with Hidallan to
war. The stream ran at his feet, his grey head rested on his staff.
Sightless are his aged eyes. He hums the song of other times. The noise
of Hidallan’s feet came to his ear: he knew the tread of his son.
“Is the son of Lamor returned; or is it the sound of his ghost? Hast
thou fallen on the banks of Carun, son of the aged Lamor? Or, if I hear
the sound of Hidallan’s feet, where are the mighty in war? where are my
people, Hidallan! that were wont to return with their echoing shields?
Have they fallen on the banks of Carun?”
“No”: replied the sighing youth, “the people of Lamor live. They are
renowned in war, my father! but Hidallan is renowned no more. I must
sit alone on the banks of Balva, when the roar of the battle grows.”
“But thy fathers never sat alone,” replied the rising pride of Lamor.
“They never sat alone on the banks of Balva, when the roar of battle
rose. Dost thou not behold that tomb? My eyes discern it not; there
rests the noble Garmállon, who never fled from war! Come, thou renowned
in battle, he says, come to thy father’s tomb. How am I renowned,
Garmállon? my son has fled from war!”
“King of the streamy Balva!” said Hidallan with a sigh, “why dost
thou torment my soul? Lamor, I never fled. Fingal was sad for Comala;
he denied his wars to Hidallan. Go to the grey streams of thy land,
he said; moulder like a leafless oak, which the winds have bent over
Balva, never more to grow!”
“And must I hear,” Lamor replied, “the lonely tread of Hidallan’s
feet? When thousands are renowned in battle shall he bend over my grey
streams? Spirit of the noble Garmállon! carry Lamor to his place; his
eyes are dark; his soul is sad; his son has lost his fame!”
“Where,” said the youth, “shall I search for fame to gladden the soul
of Lamor? From whence shall I return with renown, that the sound of my
arms may be pleasant in his ear? If I go to the chase of hinds, my name
will not be heard. Lamor will not feel my dogs, with his hands, glad at
my arrival from the hill. He will not inquire of his mountains, or of
the dark-brown deer of his deserts!”
“I must fall,” said Lamor, “like a leafless oak: it grew on a rock!
it was overturned by the winds! My ghost will be seen on my hills,
mournful for my young Hidallan. Will not ye, ye mists! as ye rise, hide
him from my sight? My son! go to Lamor’s hall; there the arms of our
fathers hang. Bring the sword of Garmállon; he took it from a foe!”
He went and brought the sword with all its studded thongs. He gave it
to his father. The grey-haired hero felt the point with his hand.
“My son! lead me to Garmállon’s tomb: it rises beside that rustling
tree. The long grass is withered; I hear the breezes whistling there. A
little fountain murmurs near, and sends its water to Balva. There let
me rest; it is noon: the sun is on our fields!”
He led him to Garmállon’s tomb. Lamor pierced the side of his son. They
sleep together: their ancient halls moulder away. Ghosts are seen there
at noon: the valley is silent, and the people shun the place of Lamor.
“Mournful is thy tale,” said Oscar, “son of the times of old! My soul
sighs for Hidallan; he fell in the days of his youth. He flies on the
blast of the desert, his wandering is in a foreign land. Sons of the
echoing Morven! draw near to the foes of Fingal. Send the night away in
songs; watch the strength of Caros. Oscar goes to the people of other
times; to the shades of silent Ardven, where his fathers sit dim in
their clouds, and behold the future war. And art thou there, Hidallan,
like a half-extinguished meteor! Come to my sight in thy sorrow, chief
of the winding Balva!”
The heroes move with their songs. Oscar slowly ascends the hill. The
meteors of night set on the heath before him. A distant torrent faintly
roars. Unfrequent blasts rush through aged oaks. The half enlightened
moon sinks dim and red behind her hill. Feeble voices are heard on the
heath. Oscar drew his sword!
“Come,” said the hero, “O ye ghosts of my fathers! ye that fought
against the kings of the world! Tell me the deeds of future times; and
your converse in your caves, when you talk together and behold your
sons in the fields of the brave.”
Trenmor came, from his hill, at the voice of his mighty son. A cloud,
like the steed of the stranger, supported his airy limbs. His robe is
of the mist of Lano, that brings death to the people. His sword is a
green meteor half-extinguished. His face is without form, and dark. He
sighed thrice over the hero: thrice the winds of night roared around!
Many were his words to Oscar; but they only came by halves to our ears:
they were dark as the tales of other times, before the light of the
song arose. He slowly vanished, like a mist that melts on the sunny
hill. It was then, O daughter of Toscar! my son began first to be sad.
He foresaw the fall of his race. At times, he was thoughtful and dark;
like the sun when he carries a cloud on his face, but again he looks
forth from his darkness on the green hills of Cona.
Oscar passed the night among his fathers, grey morning met him on
Carun’s banks. A green vale surrounded a tomb which arose in the times
of old. Little hills lift their head at a distance; and stretch their
old trees to the wind. The warriors of Caros sat there, for they had
passed the stream by night. They appeared, like the trunks of aged
pines, to the pale light of the morning. Oscar stood at the tomb, and
raised thrice his terrible voice. The rocking hills echoed around! the
starting roes bounded away: and the trembling ghosts of the dead fled,
shrieking on their clouds. So terrible was the voice of my son when he
called his friends!
A thousand spears arose around; the people of Caros rose. Why,
daughter of Toscar, why that tear? My son, though alone, is brave.
Oscar is like a beam of the sky; he turns around, and the people fall.
His hand is the arm of a ghost, when he stretches it from a cloud; the
rest of his thin form is unseen; but the people die in the vale! My
son beheld the approach of the foe; he stood in the silent darkness of
his strength. “Am I alone,” said Oscar, “in the midst of a thousand
foes? Many a spear is there! many a darkly-rolling eye! Shall I fly
to Ardven? But did my fathers ever fly? The mark of their arm is in a
thousand battles. Oscar, too, shall be renowned! Come, ye dim ghosts
of my fathers, and behold my deeds in war! I may fall; but I will be
renowned like the race of the echoing Morven.” He stood, growing in his
place, like a flood in a narrow vale! The battle came, but they fell:
bloody was the sword of Oscar!
The noise reached his people at Crona; they came like a hundred
streams. The warriors of Caros fled; Oscar remained like a rock left by
the ebbing sea. Now dark and deep, with all his steeds, Caros rolled
his might along: the little streams are lost in his course; the earth
is rocking round. Battle spreads from wing to wing: ten thousand swords
gleam at once in the sky. But why should Ossian sing of battles? For
never more shall my steel shine in war. I remember the days of my youth
with grief, when I feel the weakness of my arm. Happy are they who fell
in their youth, in the midst of their renown! They have not beheld the
tombs of their friends, or failed to bend the bow of their strength.
Happy art thou, O Oscar! in the midst of thy rushing blast. Thou often
goest to the fields of thy fame, where Caros fled from thy lifted sword.
Darkness comes on my soul, O fair daughter of Toscar! I behold not the
form of my son at Carun; nor the figure of Oscar on Crona. The rustling
winds have carried him far away; and the heart of his father is sad.
But lead me, O Malvina! to the sound of my woods; to the roar of my
mountain streams. Let the chase be heard on Cona; let me think on the
days of other years. And bring me the harp, O maid! that I may touch
it, when the light of my soul shall arise. Be thou near, to learn the
song: future times shall hear of me! The sons of the feeble hereafter
will lift the voice on Cona; and, looking up to the rocks, say, “Here
Ossian dwelt.” They shall admire the chiefs of old, the race that are
no more! while we ride on our clouds, Malvina! on the wings of the
roaring winds. Our voices shall be heard, at times, in the desert; we
shall sing on the breeze of the rock.
FOOTNOTES:
[434] Crona is the name of a small stream which runs into the Carron.
[435] Ryno is often mentioned in the ancient poetry. He seems to have
been a bard of the first rank in the days of Fingal.
[436] The Roman eagle.
[437] Agricola’s wall which Carausius repaired.
[438] The river Carron.
[439] This is the scene of Comala’s death, which is the subject of
the dramatic poem. The poet mentions her in this place in order to
introduce the sequel of Hidallan’s story, who, on account of her death,
had been expelled from the wars of Fingal.
[440] This is perhaps that small stream still retaining the name
of Balva which runs through the romantic valley of Glentivar in
Stirlingshire. Balva signifies _a silent stream_; and Glentivar _the
sequestered vale_.
CONLATH AND CUTHONA
CONLATH AND CUTHONA
A Poem
ARGUMENT
Conlath was the youngest of Morni’s sons and brother to the
celebrated Gaul. He was in love with Cuthóna, the daughter of
Rumar, when Toscar the son of Kinfena, accompanied by Fercuth
his friend, arrived from Ireland at Mora, where Conlath dwelt.
He was hospitably received, and according to the custom of the
times feasted three days with Conlath. On the fourth he set sail,
and coasting the _island of waves_, one of the Hebrides, he saw
Cuthóna hunting, fell in love with her, and carried her away
by force in his ship. He was forced by stress of weather into
I-thona, a desert isle. In the meantime Conlath, hearing of the
rape, sailed after him, and found him on the point of sailing for
the coast of Ireland. They fought; and they and their followers
fell by mutual wounds. Cuthóna did not long survive: for she
died of grief the third day after. Fingal, hearing of their
unfortunate death, sent Stormal the son of Moran to bury them,
but forgot to send a bard to sing the funeral song over their
tombs. The ghost of Conlath comes long after to Ossian to entreat
him to transmit to posterity his and Cuthóna’s fame. For it was
the opinion of the times that the souls of the deceased were not
happy till their elegies were composed by a bard.
Did not Ossian hear a voice? or is it the sound of days that are no
more? Often does the memory of former times come, like the evening sun,
on my soul. The noise of the chase is renewed. In thought I lift the
spear. But Ossian did hear a voice! Who art thou, son of night? The
children of the feeble are asleep. The midnight wind is in my hall.
Perhaps it is the shield of Fingal that echoes to the blast. It hangs
in Ossian’s hall. He feels it sometimes with his hands. Yes! I hear
thee, my friend! Long has thy voice been absent from mine ear! What
brings thee, on thy cloud, to Ossian, son of generous Morni? Are the
friends of the aged near thee? Where is Oscar, son of fame? He was
often near thee, O Conlath, when the sound of battle arose.
GHOST OF CONLATH.
Sleeps the sweet voice of Cona, in the midst of his rustling hall?
Sleeps Ossian in his hall, and his friends without their fame? The sea
rolls round dark I-thona.[441] Our tombs are not seen in our isle. How
long shall our fame be unheard, son of resounding Selma?
OSSIAN.
O that mine eyes could behold thee! Thou sittest, dim on thy cloud! Art
thou like the mist of Lano? An half-extinguished meteor of fire? Of
what are the skirts of thy robe? Of what is thine airy bow? He is gone
on his blast like the shade of a wandering cloud. Come from thy wall, O
harp! Let me hear thy sound. Let the light of memory rise on I-thona.
Let me behold again my friends! And Ossian does behold his friends on
the dark-blue isle. The cave of Thona appears, with its mossy rocks
and bending tree. A stream roars at its mouth. Toscar bends over its
course. Fercuth is sad by his side. Cuthóna[442] sits at a distance and
weeps. Does the wind of the waves deceive? Or do I hear them speak?
TOSCAR.
The night was stormy. From their hills the groaning oaks came down.
The sea darkly-tumbled beneath the blast. The roaring waves climbed
against our rocks. The lightning came often and shewed the blasted
fern. Fercuth! I saw the ghost who embroiled the night.[443] Silent he
stood, on that bank. His robe of mist flew on the wind. I could behold
his tears. An aged man he seemed, and full of thought!
FERCUTH.
It was thy father, O Toscar. He foresees some death among his race.
Such was his appearance on Cromla, before the great Ma-ronnan[444]
fell. Erin of hills of grass! how pleasant are thy vales! Silence is
near thy blue streams. The sun is on thy fields. Soft is the sound of
the harp in Seláma.[445] Lovely the cry of the hunter on Crómla. But we
are in dark I-thona, surrounded by the storm. The billows lift their
white heads above the rocks. We tremble amidst the night.
TOSCAR.
Whither is the soul of battle fled, Fercuth with locks of age? I have
seen thee undaunted in danger: thine eyes burning with joy in the
fight. Whither is the soul of battle fled? Our fathers never feared.
Go: view the settling sea: the stormy wind is laid. The billows still
tremble on the deep. They seem to fear the blast. Go, view the settling
sea. Morning is grey on our rocks. The sun will look soon from his
east; in all his pride of light! I lifted up my sails, with joy, before
the halls of generous Conlath. My course was by a desert isle: where
Cuthóna pursued the deer. I saw her, like that beam of the sun that
issues from the cloud. Her hair was on her heaving breast. She, bending
forward, drew the bow. Her white arm seemed, behind her, like the snow
of Crómla. Come to my soul, I said, huntress of the desert isle! But
she wastes her time in tears. She thinks of the generous Conlath. Where
can I find thy peace, Cuthóna, lovely maid.
CUTHÓNA.[446]
A distant steep bends over the sea, with aged trees and mossy rocks.
The billow rolls at its feet. On its side is the dwelling of roes. The
people call it Mora.[447] There the towers of my love arise. There
Conlath looks over the sea for his only love. The daughters of the
chase returned. He beheld their downcast eyes. “Where is the daughter
of Rumar?” But they answered not. My peace dwells on Mora, son of the
distant land!
TOSCAR.
Cuthóna shall return to her peace: to the towers of generous Conlath.
He is the friend of Toscar! I have feasted in his halls! Rise, ye
gentle breezes of Erin. Stretch my sails toward Mora’s shores. Cuthóna
shall rest on Mora: but the days of Toscar must be sad. I shall sit in
my cave in the field of the sun. The blast will rustle in my trees. I
shall think it is Cuthóna’s voice. But she is distant far, in the halls
of the mighty Conlath!
CUTHÓNA.
Ha! what cloud is that? It carries the ghosts of my fathers. I see the
skirts of their robes, like grey and watery mist. When shall I fall,
O Rumar? Sad Cuthóna foresees her death. Will not Conlath behold me,
before I enter the narrow house?[448]
OSSIAN.
He shall behold thee, O maid! He comes along the heaving sea. The
death of Toscar is dark on his spear. A wound is in his side! He is
pale at the cave of Thona. He shews his ghastly wound. Where art thou
with thy tears, Cuthóna? The chief of Mora dies. The vision grows dim
on my mind. I behold the chiefs no more! But, O ye bards of future
times, remember the fall of Conlath with tears. He fell before his day.
Sadness darkened in his hall. His mother looked to his shield on the
wall, and it was bloody.[449] She knew that her hero fell. Her sorrow
was heard on Mora. Art thou pale on thy rock, Cuthóna, beside the
fallen chiefs? Night comes, and day returns, but none appears to raise
their tomb. Thou frightenest the screaming fowls away. Thy tears for
ever flow. Thou art pale as a watery cloud, that rises from a lake!
The sons of green Selma came. They found Cuthóna cold. They raised a
tomb over the heroes. She rests at the side of Conlath! Come not to
my dreams, O Conlath! Thou hast received thy fame. Be thy voice far
distant from my hall; that sleep may descend at night. O that I could
forget my friends: till my footsteps should cease to be seen! till I
come among them with joy; and lay my aged limbs in the narrow house!
FOOTNOTES:
[441] I-thónn, _island of waves_, one of the uninhabited western isles.
[442] Cuthóna, the daughter of Rumar, whom Toscar had carried away by
force.
[443] It was long thought in the north of Scotland that storms were
raised by the ghosts of the deceased. This notion is still entertained
by the vulgar; for they think that whirlwinds and sudden squalls of
wind are occasioned by spirits, who transport themselves in that manner
from one place to another.
[444] Ma-ronnan was the brother of Toscar.
[445] Selámath, _beautiful to behold_, the name of Toscar’s residence;
affirmed to be on the coast of Ulster _near_ the _mountain Crómla_, _M._
[446] Cu-thóna, _the mournful sound of the waves_, a poetical name
given her on account of her mourning to the sound of the waves; her
name in tradition is Gorm-huil, _the blue-eyed maid_.
[447] This Mora cannot be the one near Connor. _C._
[448] The grave.
[449] It was the opinion of the times that the arms left by the heroes
at home became bloody the very instant their owners were killed, though
at ever so great a distance.
SUL-MALLA OF LUMON
SUL-MALLA OF LUMON
A Poem
ARGUMENT
This poem, which properly speaking is a continuation of _Cathlin
of Clutha_, opens with an address to Sul-malla, the daughter
of the king of Inis-huna, whom Ossian met at the chase as he
returned from the battle of Rath-col. Sul-malla invites Ossian
and Oscar to a feast at the residence of her father, who was
then absent in the wars. Upon hearing their name and family, she
relates an expedition of Fingal into Inis-huna. She casually
mentioning Cathmor, chief of Atha (who then assisted her father
against his enemies), Ossian introduces the episode of Culgorm
and Suran-dronlo, two Scandinavian kings, in whose wars Ossian
himself and Cathmor were engaged on opposite sides. The story
is imperfect, a part of the original being lost. Ossian, warned
in a dream by the ghost of Trenmor, sets sail from Inis-huna.
_M._--This poem should have taken precedence of some of the
foregoing ones; and I am induced to hazard an opinion that the
conjecture of the translator relative to the country of Inis-huna
is _badly_ founded. Lumon, I think, is nearly opposite Coleraine,
on the Derry side of the river Bann. This is borne out by the
sequel. _C._
Who[450] moves so stately, on Lumon, at the roar of the foamy waters?
Her hair falls upon her heaving breast. White is her arm behind, as
slow she bends the bow. Why dost thou wander in deserts, like a light
through a cloudy field? The young roes are panting, by their secret
rocks. Return, thou daughter of kings! the cloudy night is near! It
was the young branch of green Inis-huna, Sul-malla of blue eyes. She
sent the bard from her rock, to bid us to her feast. Amidst the song we
sat down, in Cluba’s echoing hall. White moved the hands of Sul-malla,
on the trembling strings. Half-heard amidst the sound, was the name
of Atha’s king: he that was absent in battle for her own green land.
Nor absent from her soul was he; he came midst her thoughts by night.
Ton-thèna looked in, from the sky, and saw her tossing arms.
The sound of shells had ceased. Amidst long locks, Sul-malla rose. She
spoke with bended eyes, and asked of our course through seas; “for of
the kings of men are ye, tall riders of the wave.”[451] “Not unknown,”
I said, “at his streams is he, the father of our race. Fingal has been
heard of at Cluba, blue-eyed daughter of kings. Nor only, at Cona’s
stream, is Ossian and Oscar known. Foes trembled at our voice, and
shrunk in other lands.”
“Not unmarked,” said the maid, “by Sul-malla, is the shield of Morven’s
king. It hangs high, in my father’s hall, in memory of the past; when
Fingal came to Cluba, in the days of other years. Loud roared the boar
of Culdarnu,[452] in the midst of his rocks and woods. Inis-huna sent
her youths, but they failed; and virgins wept over tombs. Careless went
Fingal to Culdarnu. On his spear rolled the strength of the woods. He
was bright, they said, in his locks, the first of mortal men. Nor at
the feast were heard his words. His deeds passed from his soul of fire,
like the rolling of vapours from the face of the wandering sun. Not
careless looked the blue eyes of Cluba on his stately steps. In white
bosoms rose the king of Selma, in the midst of their thoughts by night.
But the winds bore the stranger to the echoing vales of his roes. Nor
lost to other lands was he, like a meteor that sinks in a cloud. He
came forth, at times, in his brightness, to the distant dwelling of
foes. His fame came, like the sound of winds, to Cluba’s woody vale.
“Darkness dwells in Cluba of harps, the race of kings is distant far;
in battle is my father Conmor; and Lormar[453] my brother, king of
streams. Nor darkening alone are they; a beam from other lands, is
nigh; the friend of strangers[454] in Atha, the troubler of the field.
High from their misty hills, look forth the blue eyes of Erin; for he
is far away, young dweller of their souls! Nor, harmless, white hands
of Erin! is Cathmor in the skirts of war; he rolls ten thousand before
him, in his distant field.”
“Not unseen by Ossian,” I said, “rushed Cathmor from his streams, when
he poured his strength on I-thorno,[455] isle of many waves! In strife
met two kings in I-thorno, Culgorm and Suran-dronlo: each from his
echoing isle, stern hunters of the boar!
“They met a boar, at a foamy stream: each pierced him with his spear.
They strove for the fame of the deed; and gloomy battle rose. From isle
to isle they sent a spear, broken and stained with blood, to call the
friends of their fathers in their sounding arms. Cathmor came, from
Erin, to Culgorm, red-eyed king: I aided Suran-dronlo, in his land of
boars.
“We rushed on either side of a stream, which roared through a blasted
heath. High broken rocks were round, with all their bending trees.
Near were two circles of Loda, with the stone of power; where spirits
descended, by night, in dark-red streams of fire. There, mixed with the
murmur of waters, rose the voice of aged men; they called the forms of
night, to aid them in the war.
“Heedless[456] I stood, with my people, where fell the foamy stream
from rocks. The moon moved red from the mountain. My song, at times,
arose. Dark, on the other side, young Cathmor heard my voice; for he
lay, beneath the oak, in all his gleaming arms. Morning came; we rushed
to fight: from wing to wing is the rolling of strife. They fell like
the thistle’s head, beneath autumnal winds.
“In armour came a stately form: I mixed my strokes with the chief. By
turns our shields are pierced: loud rung our steely mails. His helmet
fell to the ground. In brightness shone the foe. His eyes, two pleasant
flames, rolled between his wandering locks. I knew Cathmor of Atha, and
threw my spear on earth. Dark, we turned, and silent passed to mix with
other foes.
“Not so passed the striving kings.[457] They mixed in echoing fray,
like the meeting of ghosts, in the dark wing of winds. Through either
breast rushed the spears, nor yet lay the foes on earth! A rock
received their fall; half-reclined they lay in death. Each held the
lock of his foe; each grimly seemed to roll his eyes. The stream of the
rock leaped on their shields, and mixed below with blood.
“The battle ceased in I-thorno. The strangers met in peace: Cathmor
from Atha of streams, and Ossian, king of harps. We placed the dead in
earth. Our steps were by Runar’s bay. With the bounding boat, afar,
advanced a ridgy wave. Dark was the rider of seas, but a beam of light
was there, like the ray of the sun, in Stromlo’s rolling smoke. It
was the daughter[458] of Suran-dronlo, wild in brightened looks. Her
eyes were wandering flames, amidst disordered locks. Forward is her
white arm, with the spear; her high heaving breast is seen, white as
foamy waves that rise, by turns, amidst rocks. They are beautiful but
terrible, and mariners call the winds!”
“Come, ye dwellers of Loda!” she said, “come, Carchar, pale in the
midst of clouds! Sluthmor that stridest in airy halls! Corchtur,
terrible in winds! Receive, from his daughter’s spear, the foes of
Suran-dronlo. No shadow, at his roaring streams; no mildly-looking form
he! When he took up his spear, the hawks shook their sounding wings:
for blood was poured around the steps of dark-eyed Suran-dronlo. He
lighted me, no harmless beam, to glitter on his streams. Like meteors,
I was bright, but I blasted the foes of Suran-dronlo.”
* * * * *
Nor unconcerned heard Sul-malla, the praise of Cathmor of shields. He
was within her soul, like a fire in secret heath, which awakes at the
voice of the blast, and sends its beam abroad. Amidst the song removed
the daughter of kings, like the voice of a summer-breeze: when it lifts
the heads of flowers, and curls the lakes and streams. The rustling
sound gently spreads o’er the vale, softly-pleasing as it saddens the
soul.
By night came a dream to Ossian; formless stood the shadow of Trenmor.
He seemed to strike the dim shield, on Selma’s streamy rock. I rose, in
my rattling steel; I knew that war was near, before the winds our sails
were spread; when Lumon shewed its streams to the morn.
Come from the watching of night, Malvina, lovely beam!
FOOTNOTES:
[450] The expedition of Ossian to Inis-huna happened a short time
before Fingal passed over into Ireland to dethrone Cairbar, the son of
Borbar-duthul. Cathmor, the brother of Cairbar, was aiding Conmor, king
of Inis-huna, in his wars at the time that Ossian defeated Duth-carmor
in the valley of Rath-col. The poem is more interesting that it
contains so many particulars concerning those personages who make so
great a figure in Temora.
[451] Sul-malla here discovers the quality of Ossian and Oscar from
their stature and stately gait. Among nations not far advanced in
civilisation, a superior beauty and stateliness of person were
inseparable from nobility of blood. _M._
[452] _Cluba_, _Atha_, _Culdarna_, are all Celtic or Erse names--not
those of Scandinavia or Lochlin. _C._
[453] Lormar was the son of Conmor, and the brother of Sul-malla. After
the death of Conmor, Lormar succeeded him in the throne. _M._
[454] Cathmor, the son of Borbar-duthul. It would appear from the
partiality with which Sul-malla speaks of that hero that she had
seen him previous to his joining her father’s army; though tradition
positively asserts that it was after his return that she fell in love
with him.
[455] I-thorno, says tradition, was an island of Scandinavia. In it
at a hunting party met Culgorm and Suran-dronlo, the kings of two
neighbouring isles. They differed about the honour of killing a boar;
and a war was kindled between them. From this episode we may learn that
the manners of the Scandinavians were much more savage and cruel than
those of Britain. It is remarkable that the names introduced in this
story are not of Gaelic origin, which circumstance affords room to
suppose that it had its foundation in true history. _M._
[456] From the circumstance of Ossian not being present at the rites
described in the preceding paragraph we may suppose that he held them
in contempt. This difference of sentiment with regard to religion is a
sort of argument that the Caledonians were not originally a colony of
Scandinavians, as some have imagined. Concerning so remote a period,
mere conjecture must supply the place of argument and positive proofs.
_M._--But circumstantial evidence is against the scene of the poem
being in Scandinavia; the epithets of the land of boars and the circles
of Loda are equally applicable to ancient Wales, Morven, and Ireland as
they could be to Scandinavia. _C._
[457] Culgorm and Suran-dronlo. The combat of the kings and their
attitude in death are highly picturesque, and expressive of that
ferocity of manners which distinguished the northern nations.
[458] Tradition has handed down the name of this princess. The bards
call her Runo-forlo, which has no other sort of title for being genuine
but its not being of Gaelic origin, a distinction which the bards
had not the art to preserve when they feigned names for foreigners.
The Highland senachies, who very often endeavoured to supply the
deficiency they thought they found in the tales of Ossian, have given
us the continuation of the story of the daughter of Suran-dronlo.
The catastrophe is so unnatural, and the circumstances of it so
ridiculously pompous, that for the sake of the inventors I shall
conceal them.
The wildly beautiful appearance of Runo-forlo made a deep impression
on a chief some ages ago, who was himself no contemptible poet. The
story is romantic but not incredible, if we make allowances for the
lively imagination of a man of genius. Our chief, sailing in a storm
along one of the islands of Orkney, saw a woman in a boat near the
shore whom he thought, as he expresses it himself, _as beautiful as
a sudden ray of the sun on the dark heaving deep_. The verses of
Ossian, on the attitude of Runo-forlo, which was so similar to that
of the woman in the boat, wrought so much on his fancy that he fell
desperately in love. The winds, however, drove him from the coast, and
after a few days he arrived at his residence in Scotland. There his
passion increased to such a degree that two of his friends, fearing the
consequence, sailed to the Orkneys to carry to him the object of his
desire. Upon inquiry, they soon found the nymph, and carried her to
the enamoured chief; but mark his surprise when, instead _of a ray of
the sun_, he saw a skinny fisherwoman more than middle-aged appearing
before him. Tradition here ends the story, but it may be easily
supposed that the passion of the chief soon subsided.
THE WAR OF INIS-THONA
THE WAR OF INIS-THONA
A Poem
ARGUMENT
Reflections on the poet’s youth. An apostrophe to Selma. Oscar
obtains leave to go to Inis-thona, an island of Scandinavia. The
mournful story of Argon and Ruro, the two sons of the king of
Inis-thona. Oscar revenges their death, and returns in triumph to
Selma. A soliloquy by the poet himself.
Our youth is like the dream of the hunter on the hill of heath. He
sleeps in the mild beams of the sun; he awakes amidst a storm; the red
lightning flies around: trees shake their heads to the wind! He looks
back with joy, on the day of the sun; and the pleasant dreams of his
rest! When shall Ossian’s youth return? When his ear delight in the
sound of arms? When shall I, like Oscar, travel in the light of my
steel? Come, with your streams, ye hills of Cona! listen to the voice
of Ossian. The song rises, like the sun, in my soul. I feel the joys of
other times!
I behold thy towers, O Selma! the oaks of thy shaded wall: thy streams
sound in my ear; thy heroes gather around. Fingal sits in the midst. He
leans on the shield of Trenmor: his spear stands against the wall; he
listens to the song of his bards. The deeds of his arm are heard; the
actions of the king in his youth! Oscar had returned from the chase,
and heard the hero’s praise. He took the shield of Branno[459] from the
wall; his eyes were filled with tears. Red was the cheek of youth. His
voice was trembling low. My spear shook its bright head in his hand: he
spoke to Morven’s king.
“Fingal! thou king of heroes! Ossian, next to him in war! ye have
fought in your youth; your names are renowned in song. Oscar is like
the mist of Cona; I appear and I vanish away. The bard will not know
my name. The hunter will not search in the heath for my tomb. Let me
fight, O heroes, in the battles of Inis-thona. Distant is the land of
my war! ye shall not hear of Oscar’s fall! Some bard may find me there;
some bard may give my name to song. The daughter of the stranger shall
see my tomb, and weep over the youth, that came from afar. The bard
shall say, at the feast, “Hear the song of Oscar from the distant land!”
“Oscar,” replied the king of Morven; “thou shalt fight, son of my fame;
prepare my dark-bosomed ship to carry my hero to Inis-thona. Son of
my son, regard our fame; thou art of the race of renown! Let not the
children of strangers say, feeble are the sons of Morven! Be thou, in
battle, a roaring storm! mild as the evening sun in peace! Tell, Oscar,
to Inis-thona’s king, that Fingal remembers his youth, when we strove
in the combat together in the days of Agandecca.”
They lifted up the sounding sail; the wind whistled through the
thongs[460] of their masts. Waves lash the oozy rocks: the strength
of ocean roars. My son beheld, from the wave, the land of groves. He
rushed into Runa’s sounding bay, and sent his sword to Annir of spears.
The grey-haired hero rose, when he saw the sword of Fingal. His eyes
were full of tears; he remembered his battles in youth. Twice had
they lifted the spear, before the lovely Agandecca: heroes stood far
distant, as if two spirits were striving in winds.
“But now,” began the king, “I am old; the sword lies useless in my
hall. Thou, who art of Morven’s race! Annir has seen the battle of
spears; but now he is pale and withered, like the oak of Lano. I
have no son to meet thee with joy, to bring thee to the halls of his
fathers. Argon is pale in the tomb, and Ruro is no more. My daughter
is in the hall of strangers: she longs to behold my tomb. Her spouse
shakes ten thousand spears; he comes[461] a cloud of death from Lano.
Come, to share the feast of Annir, son of echoing Morven!”
Three days they feasted together; on the fourth, Annir heard the name
of Oscar. They rejoiced in the shell.[462] They pursued the boars of
Runa. Beside the fount of mossy stones, the weary heroes rest. The tear
steals in secret from Annir: he broke the rising sigh. “Here darkly
rest,” the hero said, “the children of my youth. This stone is the tomb
of Ruro; that tree sounds over the grave of Argon. Do ye hear my voice,
O my sons, within your narrow house? Or do ye speak in these rustling
leaves, when the winds of the desert rise?”
“King of Inis-thona,” said Oscar, “how fell the children of youth?
The wild boar rushes over their tombs, but he does not disturb their
repose. They pursue deer[463] formed of clouds, and bend their airy
bow. They still love the sport of their youth; and mount the wind with
joy.”
“Cormalo,” replied the king, “is a chief of ten thousand spears. He
dwells at the waters of Lano,[464] which sends forth the vapour of
death. He came to Runa’s echoing halls, and sought the honour of the
spear.[465] The youth was lovely as the first beam of the sun; few
were they who could meet him in fight! My heroes yielded to Cormalo:
my daughter was seized in his love. Argon and Ruro returned from the
chase; the tears of their pride descend: they roll their silent eyes on
Runa’s heroes, who had yielded to a stranger. Three days they feasted
with Cormalo: on the fourth young Argon fought. But who could fight
with Argon! Cormalo is overcome. His heart swelled with the grief of
pride; he resolved, in secret, to behold the death of my sons. They
went to the hills of Runa: they pursued the dark-brown hinds. The arrow
of Cormalo flew in secret; my children fell in blood. He came to the
maid of his love; to Inis-thona’s long-haired maid. They fled over the
desert. Annir remained alone. Night came on, and day appeared: nor
Argon’s voice, nor Ruro’s came. At length their much-loved dog was
seen; the fleet and bounding Runar. He came into the hall and howled;
and seemed to look towards the place of their fall. We followed him: we
found them here; we laid them by this mossy stream. This is the haunt
of Annir, when the chase of the hinds is passed. I bend like the trunk
of an aged oak; my tears for ever flow!”
“O Ronnan!” said the rising Oscar, “Ogar king of spears! call my heroes
to my side, the sons of streamy Morven. To-day we go to Lano’s water,
that sends forth the vapour of death. Cormalo will not long rejoice:
death is often at the point of our swords!”
They came over the desert like stormy clouds, when the winds roll them
along the heath; their edges are tinged with lightning; the echoing
groves foresee the storm! The horn of Oscar’s battle is heard; Lano
shook over all its waves. The children of the lake convened around
the sounding shield of Cormalo. Oscar fought, as he was wont in war.
Cormalo fell beneath his sword: the sons of dismal Lano fled to their
secret vales! Oscar brought the daughter of Inis-thona to Annir’s
echoing halls. The face of age is bright with joy, he blessed the king
of swords!
How great was the joy of Ossian, when he beheld the distant sail of
his son! it was like a cloud of light that rises in the east, when the
traveller is sad in a land unknown; and dismal night, with her ghosts,
is sitting around in shades! We brought him with songs to Selma’s
halls. Fingal spread the feast of shells. A thousand bards raised the
name of Oscar: Morven answered to the sound. The daughter of Toscar was
there; her voice was like the harp; when the distant sound comes, in
the evening, on the soft-rustling breeze of the vale!
O lay me, ye that see the light, near some rock of my hills! let the
thick hazels be around, let the rustling oak be near. Green be the
place of my rest; let the sound of the distant torrent be heard.
Daughter of Toscar, take the harp, and raise the lovely song of Selma;
that sleep may overtake my soul in the midst of joy; that the dreams
of my youth may return, and the days of the mighty Fingal. Selma! I
behold thy towers, thy trees, thy shaded wall! I see the heroes of
Morven; I hear the song of bards; Oscar lifts the sword of Cormalo; a
thousand youths admire its studded thongs. They look with wonder on
my son. They admire the strength of his arm. They mark the joy of his
father’s eyes; they long for an equal fame. And ye shall have your
fame, O sons of streamy Morven! My soul is often brightened with song;
I remember the friends of my youth. But sleep descends in the sound of
the harp; pleasant dreams begin to rise. Ye sons of the chase stand far
distant, nor disturb my rest. The bard of other times holds discourse
with his fathers, the chiefs of the days of old! Sons of the chase,
stand far distant! disturb not the dreams of Ossian!
FOOTNOTES:
[459] This is Branno, the father of Evirallin, and grandfather to
Oscar; he was of Irish extraction, and lord of the country round the
lake of Lego. His great actions are handed down by tradition, and his
hospitality has passed into a proverb. _M._
[460] Leather thongs were used among the Celtic nations instead of
ropes.
[461] Cormalo had resolved on a war against his father-in-law, Annir,
king of Inis-thona, in order to deprive him of his kingdom; the
injustice of his designs was so much resented by Fingal that he sent
his grandson Oscar to the assistance of Annir. Both armies came soon to
a battle, in which the conduct and valour of Oscar obtained a complete
victory. An end was put to the war by the death of Cormalo, who fell in
a single combat by Oscar’s hand. Thus is the story delivered down by
tradition: though the poet, to raise the character of his son, makes
Oscar himself propose the expedition.
[462] _To rejoice in the shell_ is a phrase for feasting sumptuously
and drinking freely.
[463] The notion of Ossian concerning the state of the deceased was the
same with that of the ancient Greeks and Romans. They imagined that the
souls pursued, in their separate state, the employments and pleasures
of their former life.
[464] Lano was a lake of Scandinavia, remarkable in the days of Ossian
for emitting a pestilential vapour in autumn. _And thou, O valiant
Duchômar like the mist of marshy Lano, when it sails over the plains of
autumn, and brings death to the host._ Fingal, Book I.
[465] By _the honour of the spear_ is meant the tournament practised
among the ancient northern nations.
BERRATHON
BERRATHON
A Poem
ARGUMENT
Fingal in his voyage to Lochlin, whither he had been invited by
Starno the father of Agandecca, touched at Berrathon, an island
of Scandinavia, where he was kindly entertained by Larthmor, the
petty king of the place, who was a vassal of the supreme kings
of Lochlin. The hospitality of Larthmor gained him Fingal’s
friendship, which that hero manifested, after the imprisonment
of Larthmor by his own son, by sending Ossian and Toscar the
father of Malvina, so often mentioned, to rescue Larthmor, and to
punish the unnatural behaviour of Uthal. Uthal was handsome and,
by the ladies, much admired. Nina-thoma, the beautiful daughter
of Torthóma, a neighbouring prince, fell in love and fled with
him. He proved inconstant: for another lady, whose name is not
mentioned, gaining his affections, he confined Nina-thoma to
a desert island near the coast of Berrathon. She was relieved
by Ossian, who, in company with Toscar, landing on Berrathon,
defeated the forces of Uthal, and killed him in a single combat.
Nina-thoma, whose love not all the bad behaviour of Uthal could
erase, hearing of his death, died of grief. In the meantime
Larthmor is restored, and Ossian and Toscar return in triumph to
Fingal.
The poem opens with an elegy on the death of Malvina the daughter of
Toscar, and closes with presages of Ossian’s death.
Bend thy blue course, O stream! round the narrow plain of Lutha.[466]
Let the green woods hang over it, from their hills: the sun look on
it at noon. The thistle is there on its rock, and shakes its beard to
the wind. The flower hangs its heavy head, waving, at times, to the
gale. “Why dost thou awake me, O gale!” it seems to say, “I am covered
with the drops of heaven! The time of my fading is near, the blast that
shall scatter my leaves. To-morrow shall the traveller come; he that
saw me in my beauty shall come. His eyes will search the field, but
they will not find me.” So shall they search in vain, for the voice of
Cona, after it has failed in the field. The hunter shall come forth in
the morning, and the voice of my harp shall not be heard. “Where is
the son of car-borne Fingal?” The tear will be on his cheek! Then come
thou, O Malvina; with all thy music come! Lay Ossian in the plain of
Lutha: let his tomb rise in the lovely field.
Malvina! where art thou, with thy songs, with the soft sound of thy
steps? Son[467] of Alpin, art thou near? where is the daughter of
Toscar? “I passed, O son of Fingal, by Tor-lutha’s mossy walls. The
smoke of the hall was ceased. Silence was among the trees of the hill.
The voice of the chase was over. I saw the daughters of the bow. I
asked about Malvina, but they answered not. They turned their faces
away: thin darkness covered their beauty. They were like stars, on a
rainy hill, by night, each looking faintly through her mist.”
Pleasant[468] be thy rest, O lovely beam! soon hast thou set on our
hills! The steps of thy departure were stately like the moon on the
blue, trembling wave. But thou hast left us in darkness, first of the
maids of Lutha! We sit, at the rock, and there is no voice; no light
but the meteor of fire! Soon hast thou set, O Malvina, daughter of
generous Toscar! But thou risest like the beam of the east, among the
spirits of thy friends, where they sit, in their stormy halls, the
chambers of the thunder! A cloud hovers over Cona. Its blue curling
sides are high. The winds are beneath it, with their wings. Within it
is the dwelling[469] of Fingal. There the hero sits in darkness. His
airy spear is in his hand. His shield, half-covered with clouds, is
like the darkened moon; when one half still remains in the wave, and
the other looks sickly on the field!
His friends sit around the king, on mist! They hear the songs of Ullin:
he strikes the half-viewless harp. He raises the feeble voice. The
lesser heroes, with a thousand meteors, light the airy hall. Malvina
rises in the midst; a blush is on her cheek. She beholds the unknown
faces of her fathers. She turns aside her humid eyes. “Art thou come
so soon,” said Fingal, “daughter of generous Toscar? Sadness dwells in
the halls of Lutha. My aged son[470] is sad! I hear the breeze of Cona,
that was wont to lift thy heavy locks. It comes to the hall, but thou
art not there. Its voice is mournful among the arms of thy fathers!
Go, with thy rustling wing, O breeze! sigh on Malvina’s tomb. It rises
yonder beneath the rock, at the blue stream of Lutha. The maids[471]
are departed to their place. Thou alone, O breeze, mournest there!”
But who comes from the dusky west, supported on a cloud? A smile is on
his grey, watery face. His locks of mist fly on wind. He bends forward
on his airy spear. It is thy father, Malvina! “Why shinest thou, so
soon, on our clouds,” he says, “O lovely light of Lutha! But thou wert
sad, my daughter. Thy friends had passed away. The sons of little
men[472] were in the hall. None remained of the heroes, but Ossian king
of spears!”
And dost thou remember Ossian, car-borne Toscar,[473] son of Conloch?
The battles of our youth were many. Our swords went together to the
field. They saw us coming like two falling rocks. The sons of the
stranger fled. “There come the warriors of Cona!” they said. “Their
steps are in the paths of the flying!” Draw near, son of Alpin, to the
song of the aged. The deeds of other times are in my soul. My memory
beams on the days that are past: on the days of mighty Toscar, when our
path was in the deep. Draw near, son of Alpin, to the last sound of the
voice of Cona!
The king of Morven commanded. I raised my sails to the wind. Toscar
chief of Lutha stood at my side, I rose on the dark-blue wave. Our
course was to sea-surrounded Berrathon,[474] the isle of many storms.
There dwelt, with his locks of age, the stately strength of Larthmor;
Larthmor, who spread the feast of shells to Fingal, when he went to
Starno’s halls, in the days of Agandecca. But when the chief was old,
the pride of his son arose; the pride of fair-haired Uthal, the love of
a thousand maids. He bound the aged Larthmor, and dwelt in his sounding
halls!
Long pined the king in his cave, beside his rolling sea. Day did not
come to his dwelling; nor the burning oak by night. But the wind of
ocean was there, and the parting beam of the moon. The red star looked
on the king, when it trembled on the western wave. Snitho came to
Selma’s hall: Snitho the friend of Larthmor’s youth. He told of the
king of Berrathon: the wrath of Fingal arose. Thrice he assumed the
spear, resolved to stretch his hand to Uthal. But the memory[475] of
his deeds rose before the king. He sent his son and Toscar. Our joy
was great on the rolling sea. We often half-unsheathed our swords. For
never before had we fought alone, in battles of the spear.
Night came down on the ocean. The winds departed on their wings. Cold
and pale is the moon. The red stars lift their heads on high. Our
coast is slow along the coast of Berrathon. The white waves tumble on
the rocks. “What voice is that,” said Toscar, “which comes between
the sounds of the waves? It is soft but mournful, like the voice of
departed bards. But I behold a maid.[476] She sits on the rock alone.
Her head bends on her arm of snow. Her dark hair is in the wind. Hear,
son of Fingal, her song, it is smooth as the gliding stream.” We came
to the silent bay, and heard the maid of night.
“How long will ye roll around me, blue-tumbling waters of ocean? My
dwelling was not always in caves, nor beneath the whistling tree. The
feast was spread in Torthóma’s hall. My father delighted in my voice.
The youths beheld me in the steps of my loveliness. They blessed the
dark-haired Nina-thoma. It was then thou didst come, O Uthal! like
the sun of heaven! The souls of the virgins are thine, son of generous
Larthmor! But why dost thou leave me alone, in the midst of roaring
waters? Was my soul dark with thy death? Did my white hand lift the
sword? Why then hast thou left me alone, king of Finthormo?”[477]
The tear started from my eye, when I heard the voice of the maid.
I stood before her in my arms. I spoke the words of peace! “Lovely
dweller of the cave! what sigh is in thy breast? Shall Ossian lift
his sword in thy presence, the destruction of thy foes? Daughter of
Torthóma, rise. I have heard the words of thy grief. The race of Morven
are around thee, who never injured the weak. Come to our dark-bosomed
ship! thou brighter than that setting moon! Our course is to the rocky
Berrathon, to the echoing walls of Finthormo.” She came in her beauty;
she came with all her lovely steps. Silent joy brightened in her face;
as when the shadows fly from the field of spring; the blue stream is
rolling in brightness, and the green bush bends over its course!
The morning rose with its beams. We came to Rothma’s bay. A boar rushed
from the wood: my spear pierced his side, and he fell. I rejoiced over
the blood.[478] I foresaw my growing fame. But now the sound of Uthal’s
train came, from the high Finthormo. They spread over the heath to
the chase of the boar. Himself comes slowly on, in the pride of his
strength. He lifts two pointed spears. On his side is the hero’s sword.
Three youths carry his polished bows. The bounding of five dogs is
before him. His heroes move on, at a distance, admiring the steps of
the king. Stately was the son of Larthmor! but his soul was dark! Dark
as the troubled face of the moon, when it foretells the storms!
We rose on the heath before the king. He stopped in the midst of his
course. His heroes gathered around. A grey-haired bard advanced.
“Whence are the sons of the strangers?” began the bard of song. “The
children of the unhappy come to Berrathon; to the sword of car-borne
Uthal. He spreads no feast in his hall. The blood of strangers is on
his streams. If from Selma’s walls ye come, from the mossy walls of
Fingal, choose three youths to go to your king to tell of the fall of
his people. Perhaps the hero may come and pour his blood on Uthal’s
sword. So shall the fame of Finthormo arise, like the growing tree of
the vale!”
“Never will it rise, O bard,” I said in the pride of my wrath. “He
would shrink from the presence of Fingal, whose eyes are the flames of
death. The son of Comhal comes, and kings vanish before him. They are
rolled together, like mist, by the breath of his rage. Shall they tell
to Fingal that his people fell? Yes! they may tell it, bard! but his
people shall fall with fame!”
I stood in the darkness of my strength. Toscar drew his sword at my
side. The foe came on like a stream. The mingled sound of death arose.
Man took man; shield met shield; steel mixed its beams with steel.
Darts hiss through the air. Spears ring on mails. Swords on broken
bucklers bound. As the noise of an aged grove beneath the roaring wind,
when a thousand ghosts break the trees by night, such was the din of
arms! But Uthal fell beneath my sword. The sons of Berrathon fled. It
was then I saw him in his beauty, and the tear hung in my eye! “Thou
art fallen,[479] young tree,” I said, “with all thy beauty round thee.
Thou art fallen on thy plains, and the field is bare. The winds come
from the desert! there is no sound in thy leaves! Lovely art thou in
death, son of car-borne Larthmor.”
Nina-thoma sat on the shore. She heard the sound of battle. She turned
her red eyes on Lethmal, the grey-haired bard of Selma. He alone had
remained on the coast, with the daughter of Torthóma. “Son of the times
of old!” she said, “I hear the noise of death. Thy friends have met
with Uthal, and the chief is low! O that I had remained on the rock,
inclosed with the tumbling waves! Then would my soul be sad; but his
death would not reach my ear. Art thou fallen on thy heath, O son of
high Finthormo! Thou didst leave me on a rock, but my soul was full of
thee. Son of high Finthormo! art thou fallen on thy heath?”
She rose, pale in her tears. She saw the bloody shield of Uthal! She
saw it in Ossian’s hand. Her steps were distracted on the heath. She
flew. She found him. She fell. Her soul came forth in a sigh. Her hair
is spread on his face. My bursting tears descend. A tomb arose on the
unhappy. My song of woe was heard. “Rest, hapless children of youth!
Rest at the noise of that mossy stream! The virgins will see your tomb,
at the chase, and turn away their weeping eyes. Your fame will be in
song. The voice of the harp will be heard in your praise. The daughters
of Selma shall hear it! your renown shall be in other lands. Rest,
children of youth, at the noise of the mossy stream!”
Two days we remained on the coast. The heroes of Berrathon convened.
We brought Larthmor to his halls. The feast of shells is spread. The
joy of the aged was great. He looked to the arms of his fathers, the
arms which he left in his hall, when the pride of Uthal rose. We were
renowned before Larthmor. He blessed the chiefs of Morven. He knew not
that his son was low, the stately strength of Uthal! They had told that
he had retired to the woods, with the tears of grief. They had told it,
but he was silent in the tomb of Rothma’s heath.
On the fourth day we raised our sails, to the roar of the northern
wind. Larthmor came to the coast. His bards exalted the song. The joy
of the king was great, he looked to Rothma’s gloomy heath. He saw the
tomb of his son. The memory of Uthal rose. “Who of my heroes,” he said,
“lies there? he seems to have been of the kings of men. Was he renowned
in my halls before the pride of Uthal rose? Ye are silent, sons of
Berrathon! is the king of heroes low? My heart melts for thee, O Uthal!
though thy hand was against thy father. O that I had remained in the
cave! that my son had dwelt in Finthormo! I might have heard the tread
of his feet! when he went to the chase of the boar. I might have heard
his voice on the blast of my cave. Then would my soul be glad; but now
darkness dwells in my halls.”
Such were my deeds; son of Alpin, when the arm of my youth was strong.
Such[480] the actions of Toscar, the car-borne son of Conloch. But
Toscar is on his flying cloud. I am alone at Lutha. My voice is like
the last sound of the wind, when it forsakes the woods. But Ossian
shall not be long alone. He sees the mist that shall receive his ghost.
He beholds the mist that shall form his robe, when he appears on his
hills. The sons of feeble men shall behold me, and admire the stature
of the chiefs of old. They shall creep to their caves. They shall look
to the sky with fear: for my steps shall be in the clouds. Darkness
shall roll on my side.
Lead, son of Alpin, lead the aged to his woods. The winds begin to
rise. The dark wave of the lake resounds. Bends there not a tree from
Mora with its branches bare? It bends, son of Alpin, in the rustling
blast. My harp hangs on a blasted branch. The sound of its strings
is mournful. Does the wind touch thee, O harp, or is it some passing
ghost? It is the hand of Malvina! Bring me the harp, son of Alpin.
Another song shall rise. My soul shall depart in the sound. My fathers
shall hear it in their airy hall. Their dim faces shall hang, with joy,
from their clouds; and their hands receive their son. The aged oak
bends over the stream. It sighs with all its moss. The withered fern
whistles near, and mixes, as it waves, with Ossian’s hair.
“Strike the harp, and raise the song: be near, with all your wings, ye
winds. Bear the mournful sound away to Fingal’s airy hall. Bear it to
Fingal’s hall, that he may hear the voice of his son. The voice of him
that praised the mighty!
“The blast of the north opens thy gates, O king! I behold thee sitting
on mist, dimly gleaming in all thine arms. Thy form now is not the
terror of the valiant. It is like a watery cloud, when we see the stars
behind it, with their weeping eyes. Thy shield is the aged moon: thy
sword a vapour half-kindled with fire. Dim and feeble is the chief, who
travelled in brightness before! But thy steps[481] are on the winds of
the desert. The storms are darkening in thy hand. Thou takest the sun
in thy wrath, and hidest him in thy clouds. The sons of little men are
afraid. A thousand showers descend. But, when thou comest forth in thy
mildness, the gale of the morning is near thy course. The sun laughs in
his blue fields. The grey stream winds in its vale. The bushes shake
their green heads in the wind. The roes bound towards the desert.”
“There is a murmur in the heath! the stormy winds abate! I hear the
voice of Fingal. Long has it been absent from mine ear! “Come, Ossian,
come away,” he says. Fingal has received his fame. We passed away,
like flames that had shone for a season. Our departure was in renown.
Though the plains of our battles are dark and silent, our fame is in
the four grey stones. The voice of Ossian has been heard. The harp
has been strung in Selma. “Come, Ossian, come away,” he says, “come,
fly with thy fathers on clouds.” I come, I come, thou king of men!
The life of Ossian fails. I begin to vanish on Cona. My steps are not
seen in Selma. Beside the stone of Mora I shall fall asleep. The winds
whistling in my grey hair, shall not awaken me. Depart on thy wings, O
wind! thou canst not disturb the rest of the bard. The night is long,
but his eyes are heavy. Depart, thou rustling blast.”
“But why art thou sad, son of Fingal? Why grows the cloud of thy soul?
The chiefs of other times are departed. They have gone, without their
fame. The sons of future years shall pass away. Another race shall
arise. The people are like the waves of ocean: like the leaves of woody
Morven, they pass away in the rustling blast, and other leaves lift
their green heads on high.”
Did thy beauty last, O Ryno?[482] Stood the strength of car-borne
Oscar? Fingal himself departed. The halls of his fathers forgot his
steps. Shalt thou then remain, thou aged bard! when the mighty have
failed? But my fame shall remain, and grow like the oak of Morven,
which lifts its broad head to the storm, and rejoices in the course of
the wind!
FOOTNOTES:
[466] Lutha, _swift stream_.
[467] His father was one of Fingal’s principal bards, and he had a
poetical genius.
[468] Ossian speaks. He calls Malvina a beam of light, and continues
the metaphor throughout the paragraph.
[469] The description of this ideal palace of Fingal is agreeable to
the notions of those times concerning the state of the deceased, who
were supposed to pursue after death the pleasures and employments of
their former life. The situation of the Celtic heroes in their separate
state, if not entirely happy, is more agreeable than the notions of the
ancient Greeks concerning their departed heroes.
[470] Ossian, who had a great friendship for Malvina, both on account
of her love for his son Oscar, and her attention to himself.
[471] That is, the young virgins who sung the funeral elegy over her
tomb.
[472] Tradition is entirely silent concerning what passed in the north
immediately after the death of Fingal and all his heroes; by which it
would seem that the actions of their successors were not to be compared
to those of the renowned Fingalians.
[473] Toscar was the son of that Conloch who was also father to the
lady whose unfortunate death is related in the last episode of the
second book of Fingal.
[474] Berrathón, _a promontory in the midst of waves_.
[475] The meaning is that Fingal remembered his own great actions, and
consequently would not sully them by engaging in a petty war against
Uthal, who was so far his inferior in valour and power.
[476] Nina-thoma, the daughter of Torthóma, who had been confined to a
desert island by her lover Uthal.
[477] Finthormo, the palace of Uthal.
[478] Ossian might have thought that his killing a boar on his first
landing in Berrathon was a good omen of his future success in that
island. The present Highlanders look with a degree of superstition
upon the success of their first action after they have engaged in any
desperate undertaking.
[479] To mourn over the fall of their enemies was a practice universal
among the Celtic heroes. This is more agreeable to humanity than the
shameful insulting of the dead so common in Homer, and after him
servilely copied by all his imitators (the humane Virgil not excepted)
who have been more successful in borrowing the imperfections of that
great poet than in their imitations of his beauties. _M._
[480] Ossian speaks.
[481] This description of the power of Fingal over the winds and
storms, and the image of his taking the sun and hiding him in the
clouds, do not correspond with the preceding paragraph, where he is
represented as a feeble ghost, and no more the +TERROR OF THE VALIANT+;
but it agrees with the notion of the times concerning the souls of the
deceased, who, it was supposed, had the command of the winds and storms
but took no concern in the affairs of men.
[482] Ryno the son of Fingal, who was killed in Ireland in the war
against Swaran, was remarkable for the beauty of his person, his
swiftness, and great exploits. Minvâne the daughter of Morni, and
sister to Gaul, was in love with Ryno. Her lamentation over her lover
follows:
She, blushing sad from Morven’s rocks, bends over the darkly-rolling
sea. She sees the youth in all their arms. Where, Ryno, where art thou?
Our dark looks told that he was low! That pale the hero flew on clouds!
That in the grass of Morven’s hills his feeble voice was heard in wind!
And is the son of Fingal fallen on Ullin’s mossy plains? Strong was the
arm that vanquished him! Ah me! I am alone!
Alone I shall not be, ye winds! that lift my dark-brown hair. My sighs
shall not long mix with your stream; for I must sleep with Ryno.
I see thee not, with beauty’s steps, returning from the chase. The
night is round Minvâne’s love. Dark silence dwells with Ryno.
Where are thy dogs, and where thy bow? Thy shield that was so strong?
Thy sword like heaven’s descending fire? The bloody spear of Ryno!
I see them mixed in thy deep ship; I see them stained with blood. No
arms are in thy narrow hall, O darkly-dwelling Ryno!
When will the morning come, and say, “Arise, thou king of spears arise,
the hunters are abroad. The hinds are near thee, Ryno!”
Away, thou fair-haired morning, away! the slumbering king hears thee
not! The hinds bound over his narrow tomb; for death dwells round young
Ryno.
But I will tread softly, my king! and steal to the bed of thy repose.
Minvâne will lie in silence, nor disturb the slumbering Ryno.
The maids shall seek me: but they shall not find me: they shall follow
my departure with songs. But I shall not hear you; O maids! I sleep
with fair-haired Ryno.
THE SONGS OF SELMA
THE SONGS OF SELMA
ARGUMENT
Address to the evening star. Apostrophe to Fingal and his times.
Minona sings before the king the song of the unfortunate Colma;
and the bards exhibit other specimens of their poetical talents,
according to an annual custom established by the monarchs of the
ancient Caledonians.
Star of descending night! fair is thy light in the west! thou liftest
thy unshorn head from thy cloud: thy steps are stately on thy hill.
What dost thou behold in the plain? The stormy winds are laid. The
murmur of the torrent comes from afar. Roaring waves climb the distant
rock. The flies of evening are on their feeble wings; the hum of their
course is on the field. What dost thou behold, fair light? But thou
dost smile and depart. The waves come with joy around thee: they bathe
thy lovely hair. Farewell, thou silent beam! Let the light of Ossian’s
soul arise!
And it does arise in its strength! I behold my departed friends.
Their gathering is on Lora, as in the days of other years. Fingal
comes like a watery column of mist; his heroes are around. And see
the bards of song, grey-haired Ullin! stately Ryno! Alpin,[483] with
the tuneful voice! the soft complaint of Minona! How are ye changed,
my friends, since the days of Selma’s feast? when we contended, like
gales of spring, as they fly along the hill, and bend by turns the
feebly-whistling grass.
Minona[484] came forth in her beauty; with down-cast look and tearful
eye. Her hair flew slowly on the blast, that rushed unfrequent from
the hill. The souls of the heroes were sad when she raised the tuneful
voice. Often had they seen the grave of Salgar,[485] the dark dwelling
of white-bosomed Colma.[486] Colma left alone on the hill, with all her
voice of song! Salgar promised to come: but the night descended around.
Hear the voice of Colma, when she sat alone on the hill!
COLMA.
It is night; I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms. The wind is
heard in the mountain. The torrent pours down the rock. No hut receives
me from the rain, forlorn on the hill of winds.
Rise, moon! from behind thy clouds. Stars of the night, arise! Lead
me, some light, to the place where my love rests from the chase alone!
his bow near him, unstrung: his dogs panting around him. But here I
must sit alone, by the rock of the mossy stream. The stream and the
wind roar aloud. I hear not the voice of my love! Why delays my Salgar,
why the chief of the hill, his promise? Here is the rock, and here the
tree! here is the roaring stream! Thou didst promise with night to be
here. Ah! whither is my Salgar gone? With thee I would fly, from my
father; with thee, from my brother of pride. Our race have long been
foes; we are not foes, O Salgar!
Cease a little while, O wind! stream, be thou silent a while! let my
voice be heard around. Let my wanderer hear me! Salgar! it is Colma
who calls. Here is the tree, and the rock. Salgar, my love! I am here.
Why delayest thou thy coming? Lo! the calm moon comes forth. The flood
is bright in the vale. The rocks are grey on the steep. I see him not
on the brow. His dogs come not before him, with tidings of his near
approach. Here I must sit alone!
Who lie on the heath beside me? Are they my love and my brother? Speak
to me, O my friends! To Colma they give no reply. Speak to me: I am
alone! My soul is tormented with fears! Ah! they are dead! Their swords
are red from the fight. O my brother! my brother! why hast thou slain
my Salgar? why, O Salgar! hast thou slain my brother? Dear were ye both
to me! what shall I say in your praise? Thou wert fair on the hill
among thousands! he was terrible in fight. Speak to me; hear my voice;
hear me, sons of my love! They are silent; silent for ever! Cold, cold
are their breasts of clay! Oh! from the rock on the hill; from the
top of the windy steep, speak, ye ghosts of the dead! speak, I will
not be afraid! Whither are ye gone to rest? In what cave of the hill
shall I find the departed? No feeble voice is on the gale; no answer
half-drowned in the storm!
I sit in my grief! I wait for morning in my tears! Rear the tomb, ye
friends of the dead. Close it not till Colma come. My life flies away
like a dream! why should I stay behind? Here shall I rest with my
friends, by the stream of the sounding rock. When night comes on the
hill; when the loud winds arise; my ghost shall stand in the blast, and
mourn the death of my friends. The hunter shall hear from his booth.
He shall fear, but love my voice! For sweet shall my voice be for my
friends: pleasant were her friends to Colma!
Such was thy song, Minona, softly-blushing daughter of Torman. Our
tears descended from Colma, and our souls were sad! Ullin came with
his harp; he gave the song of Alpin. The voice of Alpin was pleasant;
the soul of Ryno was a beam of fire! But they had rested in the narrow
house: their voice had ceased in Selma. Ullin had returned, one day,
from the chase, before the heroes fell. He heard their strife on the
hill; their song was soft but sad. They mourned the fall of Morar,
first of mortal men! His soul was like the soul of Fingal; his sword
like the sword of Oscar. But he fell, and his father mourned: his
sister’s eyes were full of tears. Minona’s eyes were full of tears, the
sister of car-borne Morar. She retired from the song of Ullin, like the
moon in the west, when she foresees the shower, and hides her fair head
in a cloud. I touched the harp, with Ullin; the song of mourning rose!
RYNO.
The wind and the rain are past: calm is the noon of day. The clouds are
divided in heaven. Over the green hills flies the inconstant sun. Red
through the stony vale comes down the stream of the hill. Sweet are thy
murmurs, O stream! but more sweet is the voice I hear. It is the voice
of Alpin, the son of song, mourning for the dead! Bent is his head of
age; red his tearful eye. Alpin, thou son of song, why alone on the
silent hill? why complainest thou, as a blast in the wood; as a wave on
the lonely shore?
ALPIN.
My tears, O Ryno! are for the dead; my voice for those that have passed
away. Tall thou art on the hill; fair among the sons of the vale. But
thou shalt fall like Morar[487]; the mourner shall sit on thy tomb. The
hills shall know thee no more; thy bow shall lie in thy hall unstrung!
Thou wert swift, O Morar! as a roe on the desert; terrible as a meteor
of fire. Thy wrath was as the storm. Thy sword in battle, as lightning
in the field. Thy voice was a stream after rain; like thunder on
distant hills. Many fell by thy arm; they were consumed in the flames
of thy wrath. But when thou didst return from war, how peaceful was
thy brow! Thy face was like the sun after rain; like the moon in the
silence of night; calm as the breast of the lake when the loud wind is
laid.
Narrow is thy dwelling now! dark the place of thine abode! With three
steps I compass thy grave, O thou who wast so great before! Four
stones, with their heads of moss, are the only memorial of thee. A tree
with scarce a leaf, long grass which whistles in the wind, mark to the
hunter’s eye the grave of the mighty Morar. Morar! thou art low indeed.
Thou hast no mother to mourn thee; no maid with her tears of love. Dead
is she that brought thee forth. Fallen is the daughter of Morglan.
Who on his staff is this? who is this, whose head is white with age?
whose eyes are red with tears? who quakes at every step? It is thy
father,[488] O Morar! the father of no son but thee. He heard of thy
fame in war; he heard of foes dispersed. He heard of Morar’s renown;
why did he not hear of his wound? Weep, thou father of Morar! weep; but
thy son heareth thee not. Deep is the sleep of the dead; low their
pillow of dust. No more shall he hear thy voice; no more awake at thy
call. When shall it be morn in the grave, to bid the slumberer awake?
Farewell, thou bravest of men! thou conqueror in the field! but the
field shall see thee no more; nor the dark wood be lightened with the
splendour of thy steel. Thou hast left no son. The song shall preserve
thy name. Future times shall hear of thee; they shall hear of the
fallen Morar!
The grief of all arose, but most the bursting sigh of Armin.[489] He
remembers the death of his son, who fell in the days of his youth.
Carmor[490] was near the hero, the chief of the echoing Galmal. Why
bursts the sigh of Armin? he said. Is there a cause to mourn? The song
comes, with its music, to melt and please the soul. It is like soft
mist, that, rising from a lake, pours on the silent vale; the green
flowers are filled with dew, but the sun returns in his strength, and
the mist is gone. Why art thou sad, O Armin! chief of sea-surrounded
Gorma?
Sad I am! nor small is my cause of woe! Carmor, thou hast lost no son;
thou hast lost no daughter of beauty. Colgar the valiant lives; and
Annira, fairest maid. The boughs of thy house ascend, O Carmor! but
Armin is the last of his race. Dark is thy bed, O Daura! deep thy sleep
in the tomb! When shalt thou awake with thy songs? with all thy voice
of music?
Arise, winds of autumn, arise; blow along the heath! streams of the
mountains roar! roar, tempests, in the groves of my oaks! walk through
broken clouds, O moon! show thy pale face, at intervals! bring to my
mind the night, when all my children fell; when Arindal the mighty
fell; when Daura the lovely failed! Daura, my daughter! thou wert
fair; fair as the moon on Fura[491]; white as the driven snow; sweet as
the breathing gale. Arindal, thy bow was strong. Thy spear was swift in
the field. Thy look was like mist on the wave; thy shield, a red cloud
in a storm. Armar, renowned in war, came, and sought Daura’s love. He
was not long refused: fair was the hope of their friends!
Erath, son of Odgal, repined: his brother had been slain by Armar. He
came disguised like a son of the sea: fair was his skiff on the wave;
white his locks of age; calm his serious brow. Fairest of women, he
said, lovely daughter of Armin! a rock not distant in the sea bears
a tree on its side; red shines the fruit afar. There Armar waits for
Daura. I come to carry his love! She went; she called on Armar. Nought
answered, but the son[492] of the rock, Armar, my love! my love!
why tormentest thou me with fear? hear, son of Arnart, hear: it is
Daura who calleth thee! Erath the traitor fled laughing to the land.
She lifted up her voice; she called for her brother and her father.
Arindal! Armin! none to relieve your Daura!
Her voice came over the sea. Arindal my son descended from the hill;
rough in the spoils of the chase. His arrows rattled by his side; his
bow was in his hand: five dark grey dogs attend his steps. He saw
fierce Erath on the shore: he seized and bound him to an oak. Thick
wind the thongs[493] of the hide around his limbs; he loads the wind
with his groans. Arindal ascends the deep in his boat, to bring Daura
to land. Armar came in his wrath, and let fly the grey-feathered shaft.
It sung; it sunk in thy heart, O Arindal, my son! for Erath the traitor
thou diedst. The oar is stopped at once; he panted on the rock and
expired. What is thy grief, O Daura, when round thy feet is poured thy
brother’s blood! The boat is broken in twain. Armar plunges into the
sea, to rescue his Daura, or die. Sudden a blast from the hill came
over the waves. He sank, and he rose no more.
Alone, on the sea-beat rock, my daughter was heard to complain.
Frequent and loud were her cries. What could her father do? All night
I stood on the shore. I saw her by the faint beam of the moon. All
night I heard her cries. Loud was the wind; the rain beat hard on the
hill. Before morning appeared her voice was weak. It died away, like
the evening-breeze among the grass of the rocks. Spent with grief she
expired; and left thee, Armin, alone. Gone is my strength in war!
fallen my pride among women! When the storms aloft arise; when the
north lifts the wave on high; I sit by the sounding shore, and look
on the fatal rock. Often by the setting moon, I see the ghosts of my
children. Half viewless, they walk in mournful conference together.
Will none of you speak in pity? They do not regard their father. I am
sad, O Carmor, nor small is my cause of woe!
Such were the words of the bards in the days of song; when the king
heard the music of harps, the tales of other times! The chiefs gathered
from all their hills, and heard the lovely sound. They praised the
voice[494] of Cona! the first among a thousand bards! But age is now on
my tongue; my soul has failed! I hear, at times, the ghosts of bards,
and learn their pleasant song. But memory fails on my mind. I hear the
call of years! They say, as they pass along, why does Ossian sing? Soon
shall he lie in the narrow house, and no bard shall raise his fame!
Roll on, ye dark-brown years; ye bring no joy on your course! Let the
tomb open to Ossian, for his strength has failed. The sons of song are
gone to rest. My voice remains, like a blast, that roars, lonely, on a
sea-surrounded rock, after the winds are laid. The dark moss whistles
there; the distant mariner sees the waving trees!
FOOTNOTES:
[483] Alpin is from the same root with Albion, or rather Albin, the
ancient name of Britain; Alp, _high island_, or _country_. The present
name of our island has its origin in the Celtic tongue: so that those
who derived it from any other betrayed their ignorance of the ancient
language of our country. _Brait_ or _Braid_, extensive; and _in_, land.
[484] Ossian introduces Minona, not in the ideal scene in his own mind
which he had described, but at the annual feast of Selma, where the
bards repeated their works before Fingal.
[485] Sealg-’er, _a hunter_.
[486] Culmath, _a woman with fine hair_.
[487] Mór-ér, _great man_.
[488] Torman the son of Carthul, lord of I-mora, one of the western
isles.
[489] Armin, _a hero_. He was chief or petty king of Gorma--_i.e._ _the
blue island_, supposed to be one of the Hebrides.
[490] Cear-mór, _a tall dark-complexioned man_.
[491] Fuar-a, _cold island_.
[492] By _the son of the rock_ the poet means the echoing back of
the human voice from a rock. The vulgar were of opinion that this
repetition of sound was made by a spirit within the rock; and they on
that account called it _mac talla_, _the son who dwells in the rock_.
[493] The poet here only means that Erath was bound with leathern
thongs.
[494] Ossian is sometimes poetically called _the voice of Cona_.
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Transcriber’s Notes
For possible printer’s errors in punctuation, hyphenation, spelling,
spacing, etc., only the changes listed below were made.
Generally, inconsistent hyphenation and use of diacritics was retained.
_Italics_, =Bold-face=, +Small Caps+, and +ALL SMALL CAPS+ were
converted as so.
Spaced out text, used by the publisher for emphasis in the body of the
Introduction, was formatted as italics.
Within the body of poetry, spaced out text was formatted as normal
text. For reference, the three words so changed are ‘hung’ on page 196
in ‘The blood of Fingal’s foes hung’, and ‘Atha’ and ‘roes’ on page 249
in ‘to Atha of the roes.’.
Footnotes were reindexed and moved to the end of the chapter.
Descriptions were added to illustrations.
Thought break formatting indicates ellipsed text.
The Corrigenda’s corrections were applied as listed. Links to the
location of the changes may be found in the Corrigenda. Here are the
changes made when applying the Corrigenda, listed to correspond with
the Corrigenda:
(1) ‘beautiful’ was changed to ‘critical’.
(2) (a) ‘Arbois’ was changed to ‘D’Arbois’.
(b) After ‘Aryan,’, ‘indeed to the great majority of all human
races.’ was changed to ‘akin indeed to the primitive folk-lore of the
human race.’.
(c) The initial clause of the sentence was changed from ‘They are
essentially Gaelic,’ to ‘Variants as they are, however they are
essentially Gaelic,’.
(d) After ‘euhemerising process’, ‘begun in the nineteenth century
has fully developed’ was changed to ‘has been scientifically
developed’.
(3) The four specifically mentioned instances of ‘Scotch’ were
changed to ‘Scottish’.
(4) (a) After ‘Macphersonian Ossianic fragments, in his’, the section
‘superb collection of heroic Gaelic ballads, _The Leabhar na Feinne_,
his views were more fully matured, and his opportunities for judgment
increased, in later years: so the reader would do best to confine
himself to Mr Campbell’s essay on the Ossianic controversy which, as
already stated, is comprised in the fourth volume of “Popular Tales
of the West Highlands.”’
was changed to
‘Introduction to his superb collection of heroic Gaelic ballads, The
_Leabhar na Feinne_, where his maturer views were finally presented,
the reader may be referred to the adequate and more easily procurable
essay on the Ossianic controversy which, as already stated, is
comprised in the fourth volume of “Popular Tales of the West
Highlands.”’.
(b) The name of the book after ‘Mr Nigel Macneill’s’ was changed from
‘Literature of the Highlands’ to ‘The Literature of the Highlanders’.
(5) (a) Immediately after ‘it may be added’, the text ‘that the
present writer’s view’ was changed to ‘it’.
(b) ‘It must suffice to say that the concensus’ was changed to ‘The
consensus’.
(c) Within (3), ‘sole or even main authorship’ was changed to ‘sole
authorship’. Within (4), ‘the first rank, and worthy of all possible
honour;’ was changed to ‘the first rank;’. Within (5), ‘of its kind’
was added to immediately after ‘no single work’.
On page xi, and in footnote 381, footnote 396, and footnote 489 that
begin on page 315, page 331, and page 414, ‘i.e.’ was italicized.
On page xiv, the typo ‘Hecales’ (likely for ‘Heracles’) was made in the
quoted material, the 2nd volume of the work cited, so it was especially
retained.
On page xxi, a missing ending quotation mark was added to the end of
the quote that ends with ‘1730’.
On page 3, ‘neigbouring’ was corrected to ‘neighbouring’.
On page 43, a doubled ‘the’ was removed from ‘Gather round the bright
steel’.
On page 64, a quotation mark was added to ‘said Cuthullin; “blessed be
the’ to match the quotation mark at the end of the paragraph.
In footnote 95 on page 66, ‘cave--hill’ was corrected to ‘cave-hill’.
On page 71, a quotation mark was added to ‘“Go, that they may not fly’
to match the quotation mark at the end of the paragraph.
On page 75, a quotation mark was added to ‘“Ogar met Dala the strong,’
to match the quotation mark at the end of the paragraph.
On page 79, ‘Osslan’ was corrected to ‘Ossian’ in the phrase ‘Oscar and
Ossian’.
In footnote 109 on page 81 that begins with ‘Diarmuid’, the name
‘Diarmuid O’Duibhue’ may be ‘Diarmuid O’Duibhne’.
On page 88, a period was appended to the sentence that ends with ‘sound
of Lota’.
On page 89, the second quotation mark was added in ‘daughter of the
generous Tuathal?””’ to match the quotation marks earlier in the
paragraph.
On page 90, the second quotation mark was added in ‘if the mighty
Lamderg flies.””’ to match the quotation marks earlier in the paragraph.
On page 93, a missing ‘t’ was added to make the word ‘the’ in the
phrase ‘Pale in the earth is she’.
On page 110, a misplaced quotation mark was moved like so: ‘replied
Cuthullin,” the’ to the corrected ‘replied Cuthullin, “the’.
On page 114, a doubled ‘the’ was removed from ‘that they may behold me
amidst the arms of my fathers!’.
On page 122, the second quotation mark was added in ‘Behold the father
of Gaul!””’ to match the quotation mark earlier in the paragraph.
On page 148, the second quotation mark was added in ‘and say, “These
are the arms of Fingal.””’, to match the quotation mark that began at
the beginning of the paragraph.
On page 149, a quotation mark was added to ‘“Lorma sat in Aldo’s hall.’
to match the quotation mark at the end of the paragraph.
On page 150, a quotation mark was added to ‘“Wilt thou not return, my
love?’ to match the quotation mark later in the paragraph.
In footnote 205 on page 174 that begins with ‘The word in the
original’, a missing ‘is’ was added between ‘restless wanderer’ and
‘Scuta’.
On page 179, a missing ‘native’ was added in the phrase ‘of his native
streams’ and a missing ‘he’ was added in the phrase ‘Carthon, he fell’.
This page is a good example of blankspace printer’s errors, referenced
with the word ‘missing’ in these notes.
On page 182, a quotation mark was removed from the end of ‘he has
poured out his force on the weak.’ instead of adding three quotation
marks around the quote.
On page 205, a quotation mark was added to ‘Fovar-gormo!” He went’ to
match the many quotation marks in the paragraph.
On page 209, ‘Cathmore’ was corrected to ‘Rathmor’ in the phrase
‘murdered Rathmor at a feast’.
In footnote 230 on page 213 that begins with ‘Dargo, the son of
Collath’, a missing question mark was added to the end of ‘what shall
sad Mingala do?’ and also to the end of ‘Who but Collath’s stately
son?’.
On page 231, the second quotation mark was added to ‘the pride of other
years!””’ to match the quotation mark earlier in the paragraph.
On page 235, a quotation mark was added to ‘His spear is in his hand.”’
to match the quotation mark earlier in the paragraph.
On page 250, ‘darklywinded’ was corrected to ‘darkly-winded’.
On page 255, a quotation mark was added to ‘battle the blue-shielded
Trathal.”’ to match the quotation mark at the beginning of the
paragraph.
On page 282, a quotation mark was added to ‘before thee, breaker of
the shields!”’ to match the quotation mark at the beginning of the
paragraph.
On page 283, a missing ‘l’ was added to the end to make the word
‘Graceful’.
On page 300, a missing beginning quotation mark was added to the
sentence ‘Why is the king so sad?’.
On page 306, ‘Lnbar’s’ was corrected to ‘Lubar’s’.
On page 322, a quotation mark was added to ‘and the rolling of the
foam-covered waves.”’ to match the quotation mark earlier in the
paragraph.
In footnote 450 on page 377, a missing period was added to ‘the son of
Borbar-duthul.’.
On page 379, a double ‘the’ was removed from ‘the friend of strangers’.
In footnote 464 on page 390 that begins with ‘Lano was a lake of
Scandinavia’, ‘Duchomar’ was standardized to ‘Duchômar’.
On page 400, a quotation mark was added to ‘Why then hast thou left
me alone, king of Finthormo?”’ to match the quotation mark at the
beginning of the paragraph.
On page 401, a missing ‘of’ was added to the phrase ‘such was the din
of arms!’.
On page 409, ‘others’ was corrected to ‘other’ in the phrase ‘as in the
days of other years.’.
On page 414, ‘has’ was corrected to ‘hast’ in the sentence ‘Thou hast
left no son.’.
In footnote 489 on page 414 that begins with ‘Armin,’, ‘pretty king’
was corrected to ‘petty king’.
On page 416, ‘Duara’ was corrected to ‘Daura’ in the phrase ‘to rescue
his Daura’.
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