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.
Macpherson.
Bring, daughter of Toscar, bring the harp!
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. 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
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
of his pride, bard of the times of old?” “He
spreads them, Oscar,” replied the bard, “but it
is behind his gathered heap. 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 chace 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. 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 shew their dim and
distant forms. Comala 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.
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 the 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 chace 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 enquire 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 desart, 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 heads 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 friend: 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 chace 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.