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 Torthoma,
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 mean time 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.
Macpherson.
Bend thy blue course, O stream
Bend thy blue course, O stream, round the
narrow plain of Lutha. 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 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 chace 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 the mist.”
Pleasant 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 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 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 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, watry
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 were
in the hall. None remained of the heroes, but
Ossian, king of spears!”
And dost thou remember Ossian, car-borne
Toscar, 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,
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 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, on the 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 course 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. 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 high Finthormo!”
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. 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 chace 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
stopt 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, chuse 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 three
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
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, 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 Larthmon.”
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 her 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 chace, 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 chace 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 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 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 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! 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!