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 Cantela,
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 Cormach, though, for some time, supported by Nathos,
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.
Macpherson.
Is the wind on the shield of Fingal?
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, 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 Dunscai'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 days 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, from Lego's sable surge!
He that led his thousands to battle against car-borne
Cormac. Cormac, who was distant far, in
Temora's 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,
that came from generous Torlath. He offered
him the shell of joy. He honoured the son of
songs. “Sweet voice of Lego!” he said, “what
are the words of Torlath? Comes he to our feast
or battle, the car-borne son of Cantela?”
“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! 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 watry 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, 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.
“Alcletha 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, Alcletha! but the roar of the mountain
wind!” “Who bounds over Lara's stream,
sister of the noble Calmar? Does not Alcletha
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, Alcletha!” replied
the lovely weeping Alona. “It is but an oak,
Alcletha, bent over Lara's stream. But who
comes along the plain? sorrow is in his speed.
He lifts high the spear of Calmar. Alcletha, it is
covered with blood!” “But it is covered with
the blood of foes, 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 of the mournful speed!
where is the son of Alcletha? 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? Wouldest
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 of 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 Lora; 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 waining 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. Lego's heroes mourned. They gather
around the chief, like the clouds of the desert.
A thousand swords rose at once; a thousand arrows
flew; but he 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 came. The battle spread over Lego.
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 Caithbat 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 Dunscäi. Thy spouse is left
alone in her youth. The son 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 look wildly
round in search of his friend. Connal, son of
Colgar, where hast thou been, when the mighty
fell? Did the seas of Cogorma 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. Luäth, at a distance, lies. The
song of bards rose over the dead.
“Blest 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
Dunscäi. 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!”