THE SONGS OF SELMA.
ARGUMENT.
Address to the evening star. An 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.
Macpherson.
Star of descending night!
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 watry column of mist; his heroes are around:
And see the bards of song, grey-haired Ullin!
stately Ryno! Alpin, 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 came forth in her beauty; with downcast
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, the dark dwelling of white-bosomed
Colma. 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 chace
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 for
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 chace,
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
ears. 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; the
mourner shall sit on thy tomb. The hills shall
know thee no more; thy bow shall lie in the
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, 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. He remembers the death of his
son, who fell in the days of his youth. Carmor
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;
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. Armor, 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 Armor. 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 of the rock, Armar, my
love! my love! why tormentest thou me with
fear? hear, son of Armar, 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
chace. 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 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 sunk, 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 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!