The poetical works of James Montgomery :: :: University of Virginia Library

“Morna! fairest of women!
Beautiful daughter of high-born Cormac!
Wherefore alone in the circle of stones,
Alone at the cave of the mountain?
The old oak sounds in the wind,
That ruffles the distant lake;
Black clouds engirdle the gloomy horizon;
But thou art like snow on the heath;
Thy ringlets resemble the light mist of Cromla,
When it winds round the sides of the hill,
In the beams of the evening sun.”

“Whence comest thou, sternest of men?”
Said the maid of the graceful locks;
“Evermore dark was thy brow;
Now red is thine eye, and ferocious;
Doth Swaram appear on the sea?
What tidings from Lochlin?”

“No tidings from Lochlin, O Morna!
I come from the mountains;
I come from the chase of the fleet-footed hind:
Three red deer have fallen by my arrows;
One fell for thee, fair daughter of Cormac!
As my soul do I love thee, white-handed maiden!
Queen of the hearts of men!”

“Duchômar!” the maiden replied,
“None of my love is for thee:
Dark is thine eyebrow, thy bosom is darker,
And hard as the rock is thine heart:
But thou, the dear offspring of Armin,
Cathbat! art Morna's love.
Bright as the sunbeams thy beautiful locks,
When the mist of the valley is climbing the mountain:—
Saw'st thou the chief, the young hero,
Cathbat the brave, in thy course on the hill?
The daughter of Cormac the mighty
Tarries to welcome her love from the field.”

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“Long shalt thou tarry, O Morna!”
Sullenly, fiercely, Duchômar replied:
“Long shalt thou tarry, O Morna!
To welcome the rude son of Armin.
Lo! on this sharp-edged sword,
Red to the hilt is the life-blood of Cathbat:
Slain is thine hero,
By me he was slain:
His cairn will I build upon Cromla.
—Daughter of blue-shielded Cormac!
Turn on Duchômar thine eye.”

“Fallen in death is the brave son of Armin?”
The maiden exclaim'd with the voice of love:
“Fallen in death on the pine-crested hill?
The loveliest youth of the host!
Of heroes the first in the chase!
The direst of foes to the sea-roving stranger!—
Dark is Duchômar in wrath;
Deadly his arm to me;
Foe unto Morna!—but lend me thy weapon,
Cathbat I loved, and I love his blood.”

He yielded the sword to her tears;
She plunged the red blade through his side;
He fell by the stream;
He stretch'd forth his hand, and his voice was heard:
“Daughter of blue-shielded Cormac!
Thou hast cut off my youth from renown;
Cold is the sword, the glory of heroes,
Cold in my bosom, O Morna!
—Ah! give me to Moina the maiden,
For I am her dream in the darkness of night;
My tomb she will build in the midst of the camp,
That the hunter may hail the bright mark of my fame.
—But draw forth the sword from my bosom,
For cold is the blade, O Morna!”

Slowly and weeping she came,
And drew forth the sword from his side;
He seized it, and struck the red steel to her heart;
She fell;—on the earth lay her tresses dishevell'd,
The blood gurgled fast from the wound,
And crimson'd her arm of snow.