University of Virginia Library

Search this document 
The poems of Ossian

&c. containing the Poetical Works of James Macpherson, Esq. in prose and rhyme: with notes and illustrations by Malcolm Laing. In two volumes

expand sectionI. 
collapse sectionII. 
VOL. II.
expand section 
  
  
collapse section 
 1. 
 2. 
 3. 
  
  
expand section 
  
  
expand section 
expand section 
expand section 

II. VOL. II.


1

TEMORA:

AN EPIC POEM.

Vultis et his mecum paritur considere regnis,
Urbem quam statuo, vestra est.
Virgil.

BOOK I.


5

ARGUMENT.

Cairbar, the son of Borbar-duthal, lord of Atha in Connaught, the most potent chief of the race of Firbolg, having murdered, at Temora the royal palace, Cormac the son of Artho, the young king of Ireland, usurped the throne. Cormac was lineally descended from Conar the son of Trenmor, the great grandfather of Fingal, king of those Caledonians who inhabited the western coast of Scotland. Fingal resented the behaviour of Cairbar, and resolved to pass over into Ireland, with an army, to re-establish the royal family on the Irish throne. Early intelligence of his designs coming to Cairbar, he assembled some of his tribes in Ulster, and at the same time ordered his brother Cathmor to follow him speedily with an army, from Temora. Such was the situation of affairs when the Caledonian invaders appeared on the coast of Ulster.

The poem opens in the morning. Cairbar is represented as retired from the rest of the army, when one of his scouts brought him news of the landing of Fingal. He assembles a council of his chiefs. Foldath the chief of Moma haughtily despises the enemy; and is reprimanded warmly by Malthos. Cairbar, after hearing their debate, orders a feast to be prepared, to which, by his bard Olla, he invites Oscar the son of Ossian; resolving to pick a quarrel with that hero, and so


6

have some pretext for killing him. Oscar came to the feast; the quarrel happened; the followers of both fought, and Cairbar and Oscar fell by mutual wounds. The noise of the battle reached Fingal's army. The king came on, to the relief of Oscar, and the Irish fell back to the army of Cathmor, who was advanced to the banks of the river Lubar, on the heath of Moilena. Fingal, after mourning over his grandson, ordered Ullin the chief of his bards to carry his body to Morven, to be there interred. Night coming on, Althan, the son of Conachar, relates to the king the particulars of the murder of Cormac. Fillan, the son of Fingal, is sent to observe the motions of Cathmor by night, which concludes the action of the first day. The scene of this book is a plain, near the hill of Mora, which rose on the borders of the heath of Moilena, in Ulster. Macpherson.


11

The blue waves of Erin roll in light.

The blue waves of Erin roll in light. The mountains are covered with day. Trees shake their dusky heads in the breeze. Grey torrents pour their noisy streams. Two green hills, with aged oaks, surround a narrow plain. The blue


12

course of a stream is there. On its banks stood Cairbar of Atha. His spear supports the king: the red eye of his fear is sad. Cormac rises in his soul, with all his ghastly wounds. The grey form of the youth appears in darkness. Blood pours from his airy sides. Cairbar thrice threw his spear on earth. Thrice he stroked his beard. His steps are short. He often stops. He tosses

13

his sinewy arms. He is like a cloud in the desert, varying its form to every blast. The valleys are sad around, and fear, by turns, the shower! The king, at length, resumed his soul. He took his pointed spear. He turned his eye to Moi-lena. The scouts of blue ocean came. They came with steps of fear, and often looked behind. Cairbar knew that the mighty were near! He called his gloomy chiefs.

The sounding steps of his warriors came. They drew, at once, their swords. There Morlath stood with darkened face. Hidalla's long hair sighs in wind. Red-haired Cormar bends on his spear, and rolls his side-long-looking eyes. Wild is the look of Malthos from beneath two shaggy brows. Foldath stands, like an oozy rock, that


14

covers its dark sides with foam. His spear is like Slimora's fir, that meets the wind of heaven. His shield is marked with the strokes of battle. His red eye despises danger. These, and a thousand other chiefs, surrounded the king of Erin, when the scout of ocean came, Mor-annal, from streamy Moi-lena. His eyes hang forward from his face. His lips are trembling, pale!

“Do the chiefs of Erin stand,” he said, “silent as the grove of evening? Stand they, like a silent wood, and Fingal on the coast? Fingal, who is terrible in battle, the king of streamy Morven?” “Hast thou seen the warrior?” said Cairbar, with a sigh. “Are his heroes many on the coast? Lifts he the spear of battle? Or comes the king in peace?” In peace he comes not, king of Erin. I have seen his forward spear. It is a meteor of death. The blood of


15

thousands is on its steel. He came first to the shore, strong in the grey-hair of age. Full rose his sinewy limbs, as he strode in his might. That sword is by his side, which gives no second wound. His shield is terrible, like the bloody moon, ascending through a storm. Then came Ossian, king of songs. Then Morni's son, the first of men. Connal leaps forward on his spear. Dermid spreads his dark-brown locks. Fillan bends his bow, the young hunter of streamy Moruth. But who is that before them, like the

16

terrible course of a stream! It is the son of Ossian, bright between his locks! His long hair falls on his back. His dark brows are half-inclosed in steel. His sword hangs loose on his

17

side. His spear glitters as he moves. I fled from his terrible eyes, king of high Temora!”

“Then fly, thou feeble man,” said Foldath's gloomy wrath. “Fly to the grey streams of thy land, son of the little soul! Have not I seen that Oscar? I beheld the chief in war. He is of the mighty in danger: but there are others who lift the spear. Erin has many sons as brave, king of Temora of groves! Let Foldath meet him in his strength. Let me stop this mighty stream. My spear is covered with blood. My shield is like the wall of Tura!”

“Shall Foldath alone meet the foe?” replied the dark-browed Malthos. “Are they not numerous on our coast, like the waters of many streams? Are not these the chiefs, who vanquished Swaran, when the sons of green Erin fled? Shall Foldath meet their bravest hero? Foldath of the heart of pride! take the strength of the people! and let Malthos come. My sword is red with slaughter; but who has heard my words!”

“Sons of green Erin,” said Hidalla, “let not Fingal hear your words. The foe might rejoice, and his arm be strong in the land. Ye are brave,


18

O warriors! Ye are tempests in war. Ye are, like storms, which meet the rocks without fear, and overturn the woods. But let us move in our strength, slow as a gathered cloud! Then shall the mighty tremble; the spear shall fall from the hand of the valiant. We see the cloud of death, they will say, while shadows fly over their face. Fingal will mourn in his age. He shall behold his flying fame. The steps of his chiefs will cease in Morven. The moss of years shall grow in Selma.”

Cairbar heard their words, in silence, like the cloud of a shower: it stands dark on Cromla, till the lightning bursts its side. The valley gleams with heaven's flame; the spirits of the storm rejoice. So stood the silent king of Temora; at length his words broke forth. “Spread the feast on Moi-lena. Let my hundred bards attend. Thou, red-haired Olla, take the harp of the king.


19

Go to Oscar, chief of swords. Bid Oscar to our joy. To-day we feast and hear the song; to-morrow break the spears! Tell him that I have raised the tomb of Cathol; that bards gave his friend to the winds. Tell him, that Cairbar has heard of his fame at the stream of resounding Carun. Cathmor, my brother, is not here. He is not here with his thousands, and our arms are weak. Cathmor is a foe to strife at the feast! His soul is bright as that sun! But Cairbar must fight with Oscar, chiefs of woody Temora! His words for Cathol were many; the wrath of Cairbar burns. He shall fall on Moi-lena. My fame shall rise in blood.”

Their faces brightened round with joy. They spread over Moi-lena. The feast of shells is prepared. The songs of bards arise. The chiefs of Selma heard their joy. We thought that mighty Cathmor came. Cathmor, the friend of strangers! the brother of red-haired Cairbar. Their souls were not the same. The light of heaven was in the bosom of Cathmor. His towers rose on the banks of Atha: seven paths led to his halls. Seven chiefs stood on the paths, and called


20

the stranger to the feast! But Cathmor dwelt in the wood, to shun the voice of praise!

Olla came with his songs. Oscar went to Cairbar's feast. Three hundred warriors strode,


21

along Moi-lena of the streams. The grey dogs bounded on the heath: Their howling reached afar. Fingal saw the departing hero. The soul of the king was sad. He dreaded Cairbar's gloomy thoughts, amidst the feast of shells. My son raised high the spear of Cormac. An hundred bards met him with songs. Cairbar concealed with smiles, the death that was dark in his soul. The feast is spread. The shells resound. Joy

22

brightens the face of the host. But it was like the parting beam of the sun, when he is to hide his red head in a storm.

Cairbar rises in his arms. Darkness gathers on his brow. The hundred harps cease at once. The clang of shields is heard. Far distant on the heath Olla raised a song of woe. My son knew the sign of death; and rising, seized his spear. “Oscar,” said the dark-red Cairbar, “I behold the spear of Erin. The spear of Temora glitters in thy hand, son of woody Morven! It was the pride of an hundred kings. The death of heroes of old. Yield it, son of Ossian, yield it to carborne Cairbar!”

“Shall I yield,” Oscar replied, “the gift of Erin's injured king; the gift of fair-haired Cormac, when Oscar scattered his foes? I came to Cormac's halls with joy, when Swaran fled from


23

Fingal. Gladness rose in the face of youth. He gave the spear of Temora. Nor did he give it to the feeble: neither to the weak in soul. The darkness of thy face is no storm to me; nor are thine eyes the flame of death. Do I fear thy clanging shield? Tremble I at Olla's song? No: Cairbar, frighten the feeble: Oscar is a rock!”

“Wilt thou not yield the spear?” replied the rising pride of Cairbar; “Are thy words so mighty, because Fingal is near? Fingal with aged locks, from Morven's hundred groves! He has fought with little men. But he must vanish before Cairbar, like a thin pillar of mist before the winds of Atha!” “Were he who fought with little men, near Atha's haughty chief: Atha's chief would yield green Erin to avoid his rage! Speak not of the mighty, O Cairbar! Turn thy sword on me. Our strength is equal: but Fingal is renowned! the first of mortal men!”

Their people saw the darkening chiefs. Their crowding steps are heard around. Their eyes roll in fire. A thousand swords are half-unsheathed. Red-haired Olla raised the song of


24

battle. The trembling joy of Oscar's soul arose: the wonted joy of his soul, when Fingal's horn was heard. Dark as the swelling wave of ocean before the rising winds, when it bends its head near the coast, came on the host of Cairbar!

Daughter of Toscar! why that tear? He is not fallen yet. Many were the deaths of his arm before my hero fell!

Behold they fall before my son, like groves in the desert; when an angry ghost rushes through


25

night, and takes their green heads in his hand! Morlath falls. Maronnan dies. Conachar trembles in his blood! Cairbar shrinks before Oscar's sword! He creeps in darkness behind a stone. He lifts the spear in secret; he pierces my Oscar's side! He falls forward on his shield: his knee sustains the chief. But still his spear is in his hand. See, gloomy Cairbar falls! The

26

steel pierced his forehead, and divided his red-hair behind. He lay, like a shattered rock, which

27

Cromla shakes from its shaggy side, when the green-vallied Erin shakes its mountains, from sea to sea!


28

But never more shall Oscar rise! He leans on his bossy shield. His spear is in his terrible hand. Erin's sons stand distant and dark. Their shouts arise, like crowded streams. Moi-lena echoes wide. Fingal heard the sound. He took the spear of Selma. His steps are before us on the heath. He spoke the words of woe. “I hear the noise of war. Young Oscar is alone. Rise, sons of Morven; join the hero's sword!”

Ossian rushed along the heath. Fillan bounded over Moi-lena. Fingal strode in his strength. The light of his shield is terrible. The sons of Erin saw it far distant. They trembled in their souls. They knew that the wrath of the king arose; and they foresaw their death. We first arrived. We fought. Erin's chiefs withstood our rage. But when the king came, in the sound of his course, what heart of steel could stand! Erin fled over Moi-lena. Death pursued their


29

flight. We saw Oscar on his shield. We saw the blood around. Silence darkened every face. Each turned his back and wept. The king strove to hide his tears. His grey beard whistled in the wind. He bends his head above the chief. His words are mixed with sighs.

“Art thou fallen, O Oscar, in the midst of thy course? the heart of the aged beats over thee! He sees thy coming wars! The wars which ought to come he sees! They are cut off from thy fame! When shall joy dwell at Selma? When shall grief depart from Morven? My sons fall by degrees: Fingal is the last of his race. My fame begins to pass away. Mine age will be without friends. I shall sit a grey cloud


30

in my hall. I shall not hear the return of a son, in his sounding arms. Weep, ye heroes of Morven! never more shall Oscar rise!”

And they did weep, O Fingal! Dear was the hero to their souls. He went out to battle, and the foes vanished. He returned, in peace, amidst their joy. No father mourned his son slain in youth: no brother his brother of love. They fell, without tears; for the chief of the people is low! Bran is howling at his feet: gloomy Luäth is sad, for he had often led them to the chace; to the bounding roe of the desert!

When Oscar saw his friends around, his heaving breast arose. “The groans,” he said, “of aged chiefs: The howling of my dogs: The sudden bursts of the song of grief, have melted Oscar's soul. My soul, that never melted before.


31

It was like the steel of my sword. Ossian, carry me to my hills! Raise the stones of my renown. Place the horn of a deer; place my sword by my side. The torrent hereafter may raise the earth: the hunter may find the steel, and say, “This has been Oscar's sword, the pride of other years!” Fallest thou, son of my fame! Shall I never see thee, Oscar! When others hear of their sons, shall I not hear of thee? The moss is on thy four grey stones. The mournful wind is there. The battle shall be fought without thee. Thou shalt not pursue the dark-brown hinds. When the warrior returns from battles,

32

and tells of other lands; “I have seen a tomb,” he will say, “by the roaring stream, the dark dwelling of a chief. He fell by car-borne Oscar, the first of mortal men.” I, perhaps, shall

33

hear his voice. A beam of joy will rise in my soul.”

Night would have descended in sorrow, and morning returned in the shadow of grief. Our chiefs would have stood, like cold dropping rocks on Moi-lena, and have forgot the war; did not the king disperse his grief, and raise his mighty voice. The chiefs, as new-waked from dreams, lift up their heads around.

“How long on Moi-lena shall we weep? How long pour in Erin our tears? The mighty will not return. Oscar shall not rise in his strength. The valiant must fall in their day, and be no more known on their hills. Where are our fathers, O warriors! the chiefs of the times of old?


34

They have set like stars that have shone. We only hear the sound of their praise. But they were renowned in their years; the terror of other times. Thus shall we pass away; in the day of our fall. Then let us be renowned when we may; and leave our fame behind us, like the last beams of the sun, when he hides his red head in the west. The traveller mourns his absence, thinking of the flame of his beams. Ullin, my aged bard! take thou the ship of the king. Carry Oscar to Selma of harps. Let the daughters of Morven weep. We must fight in Erin, for the race of fallen Cormac. The days of my years begin to fail. I feel the weakness of my arm. My fathers bend from their clouds, to receive their grey-haired son. But before I go hence, one beam of fame shall rise. My days shall end, as my years begun, in fame. My life shall be one stream of light to bards of other times!”

Ullin raised his white sails. The wind of the south came forth. He bounded on the waves toward Selma. I remained in my grief, but my words were not heard. The feast is spread on


35

Moi-lena. An hundred heroes reared the tomb of Cairbar. No song is raised over the chief. His soul had been dark and bloody. The bards remembered the fall of Cormac! what could they say in Cairbar's praise?

Night came rolling down. The light of an hundred oaks arose. Fingal sat beneath a tree. Old Althan stood in the midst. He told the tale of fallen Cormac. Althan, the son of Conachar, the friend of car-borne Cuthullin. He dwelt with Cormac in windy Temora, when Semo's son fell at Lego's stream. The tale of Althan was mournful. The tear was in his eye when he spoke.

“The setting sun was yellow on Dora. Grey evening began to descend. Temora's woods shook with the blast of the inconstant wind. A cloud gathered in the west. A red star looked from behind its edge. I stood in the wood alone. I saw a ghost on the darkening air! His stride extended from hill to hill. His shield was dim on his side. It was the son of Semo. I knew


36

the warrior's face. But he passed away in his blast; and all was dark around! My soul was sad. I went to the hall of shells. A thousand lights arose. The hundred bards had strung the harp. Cormac stood in the midst, like the morning star, when it rejoices on the eastern hill, and its young beams are bathed in showers. Bright and silent is its progress aloft, but the cloud, that shall hide it, is near! The sword of Artho was in the hand of the king. He looked with joy on its polished studs: thrice he attempted to draw it, and thrice he failed; his yellow locks are spread on his shoulders: his cheeks

37

of youth are red. I mourned over the beam of youth, for he was soon to set!”

“Althan!” he said, with a smile, “didst thou behold my father? Heavy is the sword of the king; surely his arm was strong. O that I were like him in battle, when the rage of his wrath arose! then would I have met, with Cuthullin, the car-borne son of Cantéla! But years may come on, O Althan! and my arm be strong. Hast thou heard of Semo's son, the ruler of high Temora? He might have returned with his fame. He promised to return to-night. My bards wait him with songs. My feast is spread in the hall of kings.”


38

I heard Cormac in silence. My tears began to flow. I hid them with my aged locks. The king perceived my grief. “Son of Conachar!” he said, “is the son of Semo low? Why bursts the sigh in secret! Why descends the tear? Comes the car-borne Torlath? Comes the sound of red-haired Cairbar? They come! for I behold thy grief. Mossy Tura's chief is low! Shall I not rush to battle? But I cannot lift the spear! O had mine arm the strength of Cuthullin, soon would Cairbar fly; the fame of my fathers would be renewed; and the deeds of other times!”

He took his bow. The tears flow down from both his sparkling eyes. Grief saddens round. The bards bend forward from their hundred harps. The lone blast touched their trembling strings. The sound is sad and low! A voice is heard at a distance, as of one in grief. It was Carril, of other times, who came from dark Slimora.


39

He told of the fall of Cuthullin. He told of his mighty deeds. The people were scattered round his tomb. Their arms lay on the ground. They had forgot the war; for he, their sire, was seen no more!

“But who,” said the soft-voiced Carril, “who come like bounding roes? Their stature is like young trees in the valley, growing in a shower! Soft and ruddy are their cheeks! Fearless souls look forth from their eyes! Who but the sons of Usnoth, chief of streamy Etha? The people rise on every side, like the strength of an half-extinguished fire, when the winds come sudden from the desert, on their rustling wings. Sudden


40

glows the dark brow of the hill; the passing mariner lags, on his winds. The sound of Caithbat's shield was heard. The warriors saw Cuthullin in Nathos. So rolled his sparkling eyes! his steps were such on heath! Battles are fought at Lego. The sword of Nathos prevails. Soon shalt thou behold him in thy halls, king of Temora of groves!”

“Soon may I behold the chief!” replied the blue-eyed king. “But my soul is sad for Cuthullin. His voice was pleasant in mine ear. Often have we moved, on Dora, to the chace of the dark-brown hinds. His bow was unerring on


41

the hills. He spoke of mighty men. He told of the deeds of my fathers. I felt my rising joy. But sit thou at the feast, O Carril, I have often heard thy voice. Sing in praise of Cuthullin. Sing of Nathos of Etha!

Day rose on Temora, with all the beams of the east. Crathin came to the hall, the son of old Gelláma. “I behold,” he said, “a cloud in the desert, king of Erin! a cloud it seemed at first, but now a crowd of men! One strides before them in his strength. His red hair flies in wind. His shield glitters to the beam of the east. His spear is in his hand.” “Call him to the feast of Temora,” replied the brightening king. “My hall is the house of strangers, son of generous Gelláma! It is perhaps the chief of Etha, coming in all his renown. Hail, mighty stranger! art thou of the friends of Cormac? But Carril, he is dark, and unlovely. He draws his sword. Is that the son of Usnoth, bard of the times of old?”


42

“It is not the son of Usnoth!” said Carril. “It is Cairbar thy foe. Why comest thou in thy arms to Temora? chief of the gloomy brow. Let not thy sword rise against Cormac! Whither dost thou turn thy speed?” He passed on in darkness. He seized the hand of the king. Cormac foresaw his death; the rage of his eyes arose. “Retire, thou chief of Atha! Nathos comes with war. Thou art bold in Cormac's hall, for his arm is weak.” The sword entered the side of the king. He fell in the halls of his fathers. His fair hair is in the dust. His blood is smoking round.

Art thou fallen in thy halls!” said Carril. “O son of noble Artho. The shield of Cuthullin was not near. Nor the spear of thy father. Mournful are the mountains of Erin, for the chief of the people is low! Blest be thy soul, O Cormac! Thou art darkened in thy youth.”

His words came to the ear of Cairbar. He closed us in the midst of darkness. He feared to stretch his sword to the bards, though his soul was dark. Long we pined alone! At length the noble Cathmor came. He heard our voice


43

from the cave. He turned the eye of his wrath on Cairbar.

“Brother of Cathmor,” he said, “how long wilt thou pain my soul? Thy heart is a rock. Thy thoughts are dark and bloody! But thou art the brother of Cathmor; and Cathmor shall shine in thy war. But my soul is not like thine: thou feeble hand in fight! The light of my bosom is stained with thy deeds. Bards will not sing of my renown: They may say, “Cathmor was brave; but he fought for gloomy Cairbar.” They will pass over my tomb in silence. My fame shall not be heard. Cairbar! loose the bards. They are the sons of future times. Their voice shall be heard in other years; after the kings of Temora have failed.” We came forth at the words of the chief. We saw him in his strength. He was like thy youth, O Fingal, when thou first didst lift the spear. His face was like the plain of the sun, when it is bright. No


44

darkness travelled over his brow. But he came with his thousands to aid the red-haired Cairbar. Now he comes to revenge his death, O king of woody Morven.”

“Let Cathmor come, replied the king. “I love a foe so great. His soul is bright. His arm is strong. His battles are full of fame. But the little soul is a vapour that hovers round the marshy lake. It never rises on the green hill


45

lest the winds should meet it there. Its dwelling is in the cave, it sends forth the dart of death! Our young heroes, O warriors, are like the renown of our fathers. They fight in youth. They fall. Their names are in song. Fingal is amid his darkening years. He must not fall, as an aged oak, across a secret stream. Near it are the steps of the hunter, as it lies beneath the wind. “How has that tree fallen?” he says, and, whistling, strides along. Raise the song of joy, ye bards of Morven. Let our souls forget the past. The red stars look on us from clouds,

46

and silently descend. Soon shall the grey beam of the morning rise, and shew us the foes of Cormac. Fillan! my son, take thou the spear of the king. Go to Mora's dark-brown side. Let thine eyes travel over the heath. Observe the foes of Fingal: Observe the course of generous Cathmor. I hear a distant sound, like falling rocks in the desert. But strike thou thy shield, at times, that they may not come through night, and the fame of Morven cease. I begin to be alone, my son. I dread the fall of my renown!”

The voice of bards arose. The king leaned on the shield of Trenmor. Sleep descended on his eyes. His future battles arose in his dreams. The host are sleeping around. Dark-haired Fillan observes the foe. His steps are on a distant hill. We hear, at times, his clanging shield.


51

BOOK II.


53

ARGUMENT.

This book opens, we may suppose, about midnight, with a soliloquy of Ossian, who had retired, from the rest of the army, to mourn for his son Oscar. Upon hearing the noise of Cathmor's army approaching, he went to find out his brother Fillan, who kept the watch, on the hill of Mora, in the front of Fingal's army. In the conversation of the brothers, the episode of Conar the son of Trenmor, who was the first king of Ireland, is introduced, which lays open the origin of the contests between the Caël and Firbolg, the two nations who first possessed themselves of that island. Ossian kindles a fire on Mora; upon which Cathmor desisted from the design he had formed of surprising the army of the Caledonians. He calls a council of his chiefs; reprimands Foldath for advising a night-attack, as the Irish army were so much superior in number to the enemy. The bard Fonar introduces the story of Crothar, the ancestor of the king; which throws further light on the history of Ireland, and the original pretensions of the family of Atha, to the throne of that kingdom. The Irish chiefs lie down to rest, and Cathmor himself undertakes the watch. In his circuit round the army, he is met by Ossian. The interview of the two heroes described. Cathmor obtains a promise from Ossian, to order a funeral elegy to be sung over the grave of Cairbar; it being the opinion of the times that the souls of the dead could not be happy till their elegies were sung by a bard. Morning comes. Cathmor and Ossian part; and the latter, casually meeting with Carril, the son of Kinfena, sends that bard, with a funeral song, to the tomb of Cairbar. Macpherson.


55

Father of heroes! O Trenmor! High dweller of eddying winds! where the dark red thunder marks the troubled clouds! Open thou thy stormy halls. Let the bards of old be near. Let them draw near, with songs and their half-viewless harps. No dweller of misty valley comes! No hunter unknown at his streams! It is the car-borne Oscar, from the fields of war. Sudden is thy change, my son, from what thou wert on dark Moilena! The blast folds thee in its


56

skirt, and rustles through the sky! Dost thou not behold thy father, at the stream of night! The chiefs of Morven sleep far distant. They have lost no son: But ye have lost a hero, chiefs of resounding Morven! Who could equal his strength, when battle rolled against his side, like the darkness of crowded waters? Why this cloud on Ossian's soul? It ought to burn in danger. Erin is near with her host. The king of Selma is alone. Alone thou shalt not be, my father, while I can lift the spear!

I rose, in all my arms. I rose and listened to the wind. The shield of Fillan is not heard. I tremble for the son of Fingal. “Why should the foe come by night? Why should the darkhaired warrior fail?” Distant, silent murmurs rise: like the noise of the lake of Lego, when its waters shrink, in the days of frost, and all


57

its bursting ice resounds. The people of Lara look to heaven, and foresee the storm! My steps are forward on the heath. The spear of Oscar is in my hand! Red stars looked from high. I gleamed, along the night.

I saw Fillan silent before me, bending forward from Mora's rock. He heard the shout of the foe. The joy of his soul arose. He heard my sounding tread, and turned his lifted spear. “Comest thou, son of night, in peace? Or dost thou meet my wrath? The foes of Fingal are mine. Speak, or fear my steel. I stand not, in vain, the shield of Morven's race.” “Never mayst thou stand in vain, son of blue-eyed Clatho! Fingal begins to be alone. Darkness gathers on the last of his days. Yet he has two sons who ought to shine in war. Who ought


58

to be two beams of light near the steps of his departure.”

“Son of Fingal,” replied the youth, “it is not long since I raised the spear. Few are the marks of my sword in war. But Fillan's soul is fire! The chiefs of Bolga crowd around the


59

shield of generous Cathmor. Their gathering is on that heath. Shall my steps approach their host? I yielded to Oscar alone, in the strife of the race, on Cona!”

“Fillan, thou shalt not approach their host; nor fall before thy fame is known. My name is heard in song: when needful I advance. From the skirts of night I shall view them over all their gleaming tribes. Why, Fillan, didst thou speak of Oscar? Why awake my sigh! I must forget the warrior, till the storm is rolled away. Sadness ought not to dwell in danger, nor the tear in the eye of war. Our fathers forgot their fallen sons, till the noise of arms was past. Then sorrow returned to the tomb, and the song of bards arose.” The memory of those, who fell, quickly followed the departure of war: When the tumult of battle is past, the soul, in silence, melts away, for the dead.


60

Conar was the brother of Trathal, first of mortal men. His battles were on every coast. A thousand streams rolled down the blood of his foes. His fame filled green Erin, like a pleasant gale. The nations gathered in Ullin, and they blessed the king; the king of the race of their fathers, from the land of Selma.

The chiefs of the south were gathered, in the darkness of their pride. In the horrid cave of Moma, they mixed their secret words. Thither often, they said, the spirits of their fathers came; shewing their pale forms from the chinky rocks:


61

reminding them of the honour of Bolga. “Why should Conar reign,” they said, “the son of resounding Morven?”

They came forth, like the streams of the desert, with the roar of their hundred tribes. Conar was a rock before them: broken they rolled on every side. But often they returned, and the sons of Selma fell. The king stood, among the tombs of his warriors. He darkly bent his mournful face. His soul was rolled into itself; and he had marked the place, where he was to fall; when Trathal came, in his strength, his brother from cloudy Morven. Nor did he come alone. Colgar was at his side; Colgar the son of the king and of white-bosomed Solin-corma.

As Trenmor, clothed with meteors, descends from the halls of thunder, pouring the dark storm before him over the troubled sea: so Colgar descended to battle, and wasted the echoing


62

field. His father rejoiced over the hero: but an arrow came! His tomb was raised, without a tear. The king was to revenge his son. He lightened forward in battle, till Bolga yielded at her streams!

When peace returned to the land: When his blue waves bore the king to Morven: then he remembered his son, and poured the silent tear. Thrice did the bards, at the cave of Furmono, call the soul of Colgar. They called him to the hills of his land. He heard them in his mist. Trathal placed his sword in the cave, that the spirit of his son might rejoice.

“Colgar, son of Trathal,” said Fillan, “thou wert renowned in youth! But the king hath not marked my sword, bright-srreaming on the field. I go forth with the crowd. I return, without my fame. But the foe approaches, Ossian! I hear their murmur on the heath. The sound of their steps is like thunder, in the bosom of the ground, when the rocking hills shake their groves, and not a blast pours from the darkened sky!”


63

Ossian turned sudden on the spear. He raised the flame of an oak on high. I spread it large, on Mora's wind. Cathmor stopt in his course. Gleaming he stood, like a rock, on whose sides are the wandering of blasts; which seize its echoing streams and clothe them over with ice. So stood the friend of strangers! The winds lift his heavy locks. Thou art the tallest of the race of Erin, king of streamy Atha!

“First of bards,” said Cathmor, “Fonar,


64

call the chiefs of Erin. Call red-haired Cormar: dark-browed Malthos: the side-long-looking gloom of Maronan. Let the pride of Foldath appear. The red-rolling eye of Turlutho. Nor let Hidalla be forgot; his voice, in danger, is the sound of a shower, when it falls in the blasted

65

vale, near Atha's falling stream. Pleasant is its sound on the plain, whilst broken thunder travels over the sky.”

They came, in their clanging arms. They bent forward to his voice, as if a spirit of their fathers spoke from a cloud of night. Dreadful shone they to the light; like the fall of the stream of Brumo, when the meteor lights it, before the nightly stranger. Shuddering, he stops in his journey, and looks up for the beam of the morn!

“Why delights Foldath,” said the king, “to pour the blood of foes, by night? Fails his arm in battle, in the beams of day? Few are the foes before us, why should we clothe us in shades? The valiant delight to shine in the battles of their land! Thy counsel was in vain, chief of Moma! The eyes of Morven do not sleep. They


66

are watchful, as eagles, on their mossy rocks. Let each collect, beneath his cloud, the strength of his roaring tribe. To-morrow I move, in light, to meet the foes of Bolga! Mighty was he, that is low, the race of Borbar-Duthul!”

“Not unmarked!” said Foldath, “were my steps before thy race. In light, I met the foes of Cairbar. The warrior praised my deeds. But his stone was raised without a tear! No bard sung over Erin's king. Shall his foes rejoice along their mossy hills? No: they must not rejoice! He was the friend of Foldath! Our words were mixed, in secret, in Moma's silent cave; whilst thou, a boy in the field, pursuedst the thistle's beard. With Moma's sons I shall rush


67

abroad, and find the foe, on his dusky hills. Fingal shall lie, without his song, the grey-haired king of Selma.”

“Dost thou think, thou feeble man,” replied Cathmor, half-enraged: “Dost thou think Fingal can fall, without his fame, in Erin? Could the bards be silent, at the tomb of Selma's king? The song would burst in secret! the spirit of the king would rejoice! It is when thou shalt fall, that the bard shall forget the song. Thou art dark, chief of Moma, though thine arm is a tempest in war. Do I forget the king of Erin, in his narrow house? My soul is not lost to Cairbar, the brother of my love! I marked the bright beams of joy, which travelled over his cloudy mind, when I returned, with fame, to Atha of the streams.”

Tall they removed, beneath the words of the king. Each to his own dark tribe; where, humming, they rolled on the heath, faint-glittering


68

to the stars: like waves, in a rocky bay, before the nightly wind. Beneath an oak, lay the chief of Atha. His shield, a dusky round, hung high. Near him, against a rock, leaned the fair stranger of Inis-huna: that beam of light, with wandering locks, from Lumon of the roes. At distance rose the voice of Fonar, with the deeds of the days of old. The song fails, at times, in Lubar's growing roar!

“Crothar,” begun the bard, “first dwelt at Atha's mossy streams! A thousand oaks, from the mountains, formed his echoing hall. The gathering of the people was there, around the feast of the blue-eyed king. But who, among his chiefs, was like the stately Crothar? Warriors kindled in his presence. The young sigh


69

of the virgins rose. In Alnecma was the warrior honoured: the first of the race of Bolga.

“He pursued the chace in Ullin: on the moss-covered top of Drumardo. From the wood looked the daughter of Cathmin, the blue-rolling eye of Con-lama. Her sigh rose in secret. She bent her head amidst her wandering locks. The moon looked in, at night, and saw the white-tossing of her arms; for she thought of the mighty Crothar, in the season of dreams.

“Three days feasted Crothar with Cathmin. On the fourth they awaked the hinds. Conlama moved to the chace, with all her lovely steps. She met Crothar in the narrow path. The bow fell, at once, from her hand. She turned her face away, and half-hid it with her locks. The love of Crothar rose. He brought the white-bosomed maid to Atha. Bards raised the song in her presence. Joy dwelt round the daughter of Cathmin.

“The pride of Turloch rose, a youth who loved the white-handed Con-láma. He came, with battle, to Alnecma; to Atha of the roes.


70

Cormul went forth to the strife, the brother of car-borne Crothal. He went forth, but he fell. The sigh of the people rose. Silent and tall, across the stream, came the darkening strength of Crothar: he rolled the foe from Alnecma. He returned midst the joy of Con-láma.

“Battle on battle comes. Blood is poured on blood. The tombs of the valiant rise. Erin's clouds are hung round with ghosts. The chiefs of the south gathered round the echoing shield of Crothar. He came, with death, to the paths of the foe. The virgins wept by the streams of Ullin. They looked to the mist of the hill: No hunter descended from its folds. Silence darkened in the land. Blasts sighed lonely on grassy tombs.

“Descending like the eagle of heaven, with all his rustling wings, when he forsakes the blast with joy, the son of Trenmor came; Conar, arm of death, from Morven of the groves. He poured


71

his might along green Erin. Death dimly strode behind his sword. The sons of Bolga fled, from his course, as from a stream, that bursting from the stormy desert, rolls the fields together, with all their echoing woods. Crothar met him in battle: but Alnecma's warriors fled. The king of Atha slowly retired, in the grief of his soul. He afterwards shone in the south; but dim as the sun of autumn; when he visits, in his robes of mist, Lara of dark streams. The withered

72

grass is covered with dew: the field, though bright, is sad!”

“Why wakes the bard before me,” said Cathmor, “the memory of those who fled? Has some ghost, from his dusky cloud, bent forward to thine ear; to frighten Cathmor from the field, with the tales of old? Dwellers of the skirts of night, your voice is but a blast to me; which takes the grey thistle's head, and strews its beard on streams. Within my bosom is a voice. Others hear it not. His soul forbids the king of Erin to shrink back from war.”

Abashed the bard sinks back in night: retired he bends above a stream. His thoughts are on the days of Atha, when Cathmor heard his song with joy. His tears came rolling down. The winds are in his beard. Erin sleeps around. No sleep comes down on Cathmor's eyes. Dark, in his soul, he saw the spirit of low-laid Cairbar. He saw him, without his song, rolled in a blast of night. He rose. His steps were round the


73

host. He struck, at times, his echoing shield. The sound reached Ossian's ear, on Mora's mossy brow.

“Fillan,” I said, “the foes advance. I hear the shield of war. Stand thou in the narrow path. Ossian shall mark their course. If over my fall the host should pour, then be thy buckler heard. Awake the king on his heath, lest his fame should fly away.” I strode in all my rattling arms; wide-bounding over a stream that darkly-winded, in the field, before the king of Atha. Green Atha's king, with lifted spear, came forward on my course. Now would we have mixed in horrid fray, like two contending ghosts, that bending forth, from two clouds, send forth the roaring winds; did not Ossian behold, on high, the helmet of Erin's kings. The eagle's wing spread above it, rustling in the breeze. A red star looked through the plumes. I stopt the lifted spear.

“The helmet of kings is before me! Who art


74

thou, son of night? Shall Ossian's spear be renowned, when thou art lowly-laid?” At once he dropt the gleaming lance. Growing before me seemed the form. He stretched his hand in night. He spoke the words of kings.

“Friend of the spirits of heroes, do I meet thee thus in shades? I have wished for thy stately steps in Atha, in the days of joy. Why should my spear now arise? The sun must behold us, Ossian; when we bend, gleaming, in the strife. Future warriors shall mark the place: and, shuddering, think of other years. They shall mark it, like the haunt of ghosts, pleasant and dreadful to the soul.”


75

“Shall it then be forgot,” I said, “where we meet in peace? Is the remembrance of battles always pleasant to the soul? Do not we behold, with joy, the place where our fathers feasted? But our eyes are full of tears, on the fields of their war. This stone shall rise, with all its moss, and speak to other years. “Here Cathmor and Ossian met! the warriors met in peace!” When thou, O stone, shalt fail: When Lubar's stream shall roll away! then shall the traveller come, and bend here, perhaps, in rest. When the darkened moon is rolled over his head, our shadowy forms may come, and, mixing with his dreams, remind him of this place. But why turnest thou so dark away, son of Borbar-duthul?”


76

“Not forgot, son of Fingal, shall we ascend these winds. Our deeds are streams of light, before the eyes of bards. But darkness is rolled on Atha: the king is low, without his song: still there was a beam towards Cathmor from his stormy soul; like the moon, in a cloud, amidst the dark-red course of thunder.”

“Son of Erin,” I replied, “my wrath dwells not in his earth. My hatred flies, on eagle-wing, from the foe that is low. He shall hear the song of bards. Cairbar shall rejoice on his winds.”

Cathmor's swelling soul arose. He took the dagger from his side, and placed it gleaming in my hand. He placed it in my hand, with sighs, and, silent, strode away. Mine eyes followed his departure. He dimly gleamed, like the form


77

of a ghost, which meets a traveller, by night, on the dark-skirted heath. His words are dark like songs of old: with morning strides the unfinished shade away!

Who comes from Lubar's vale? From the skirts of the morning mist? The drops of heaven


78

are on his head. His steps are in the paths of the sad. It is Carril of other times. He comes from Tura's silent cave. I behold it dark in the rock, through the thin folds of mist. There, perhaps, Cuthullin sits, on the blast which bends its trees. Pleasant is the song of the morning from the bard of Erin!

“The waves crowd away,” said Carril. “They crowd away for fear. They hear the sound of thy coming forth, O sun! Terrible is thy beauty, son of heaven, when death is descending on thy locks; when thou rollest thy vapours before thee, over the blasted host. But pleasant is thy beam to the hunter, sitting by the rock in a storm, when thou shewest thyself from the parted cloud, and brightenest his dewy locks: he looks down on the streamy vale, and beholds the descent of roes! How long shalt thou rise on


79

war, and roll, a bloody shield, through heaven? I see the death of heroes, dark wandering over thy face!”

“Why wander the words of Carril?” I said. “Does the son of heaven mourn! He is unstained in his course, ever rejoicing in his fire. Roll on, thou careless light. Thou too, perhaps, must fall. Thy darkening hour may seize thee, struggling, as thou rollest through thy sky. But pleasant is the voice of the bard; pleasant to Ossian's soul! It is like the shower of the morning, when it comes through the rustling vale, on which the sun looks through mist, just rising from his rocks. But this is no time, O


80

bard, to sit down at the strife of song. Fingal is in arms on the vale. Thou seest the flaming shield of the king. His face darkens between his locks. He beholds the wide rolling of Erin. Does not Carril behold that tomb beside the roaring stream! Three stones lift their grey heads beneath a bending oak. A king is lowly laid! Give thou his soul to the wind. He is the brother of Cathmor! Open his airy hall! Let thy song be a stream of joy to Cairbar's darkened ghost.”


81

BOOK III.


83

ARGUMENT.

Morning coming on, Fingal, after a speech to his people, devolves the command on Gaul, the son of Morni; it being the custom of the times, that the king should not engage till the necessity of affairs required his superior valour and conduct. The king and Ossian retire to the rock of Cormul, which overlooked the field of battle. The bards sing the war-song. The general conflict is described. Gaul, the son of Morni, distinguishes himself; kills Tur-lathon, chief of Moruth, and other chiefs of lesser name. On the other hand, Foldath, who commanded the Irish army, (for Cathmor, after the example of Fingal, kept himself from battle) fights gallantly; kills Connal, chief of Dun-lora, and advances to engage Gaul himself. Gaul, in the mean time, being wounded in the hand, by a random arrow, is covered by Fillan, the son of Fingal, who performs prodigies of valour. Night comes on. The horn of Fingal reealls his army. The bards meet them, with a congratulatory song, in which the praises of Gaul and Fillan are particularly celebrated. The chiefs sit down at a feast; Fingal misses Connal. The episode of Connal and Duth-caron is introduced; which throws further light on the ancient history of Ireland. Carril is dispatched to raise the tomb of Connal. The action of this book takes up the second day, from the opening of the poem. Macpherson.


85

Who is that at blue-streaming Lubar? Who, by the bending hill of roes? Tall, he leans on an oak torn from high, by nightly winds. Who but Comhal's son, brightening in the last of his fields? His grey hair is on the breeze. He half unsheaths the sword of Luno. His eyes are turned to Moi-lena, to the dark moving of foes. Dost thou hear the voice of the king? It is like the bursting of a stream in the desert, when it comes, between its echoing rocks, to the blasted field of the sun!


86

“Wide-skirted comes down the foe! Sons of woody Selma, arise. Be ye like the rocks of our land, on whose brown sides are the rolling of streams. A beam of joy comes on my soul. I see the foe mighty before me. It is when he is feeble, that the sighs of Fingal are heard: lest death should come, without renown, and darkness dwell on his tomb. Who shall lead the war against the host of Alnecma? It is only when danger grows that my sword shall shine. Such was the custom, heretofore, of Trenmor, the ruler of winds! and thus descended to battle the blue-shielded Trathal!”

The chiefs bend toward the king. Each darkly seems to claim the war. They tell, by halves, their mighty deeds. They turn their eyes on Erin. But far before the rest the son of Morni stands. Silent he stands; for who had not heard of the battles of Gaul? They rose within his soul. His hand, in secret, seized the sword.


87

The sword which he brought from Strumon, when the strength of Morni failed.


88

On his spear leans Fillan of Selma, in the wandering of his locks. Thrice he raised his eyes


89

to Fingal: his voice thrice fails him as he speaks. My brother could not boast of battles: at once he strides away. Bent over a distant stream he stands: the tear hangs in his eye. He strikes, at times, the thistle's head, with his inverted spear. Nor is he unseen of Fingal. Sidelong he beholds

90

his son. He beholds him with bursting joy; and turns, amid his crowded soul. In silence turns the king towards Mora of woods. He hides the big tear with his locks. At length his voice is heard.

“First of the sons of Morni! Thou rock that defiest the storm! lead thou my battle, for the race of low-laid Cormac. No boy's staff is thy spear: no harmless beam of light thy sword. Son of Morni of steeds, behold the foe! Destroy! Fillan, observe the chief! He is not calm in strife; nor burns he, heedless, in battle. My son, observe the chief! He is strong as Lubar's streams; but never foams and roars. High on cloudy Mora, Fingal shall behold the war. Stand, Ossian, near thy father, by the falling stream. Raise the voice, O bards! Selma, move beneath the sound. It is my latter field. Clothe it over with light.”

As the sudden rising of winds, or distant rolling of troubled seas, when some dark ghost, in wrath, heaves the billows over an isle: an isle,


91

the seat of mist, on the deep, for many dark-brown years! So terrible is the sound of the host, wide-moving over the field. Gaul is tall before them. The streams glitter within his strides. The bards raise the song by his side. He strikes his shield between. On the skirts of the blast, the tuneful voices rise.

“On Crona,” said the bards, “there bursts a stream by night. It swells in its own dark course, till morning's early beam. Then comes it white from the hill, with the rocks and their hundred groves. Far be my steps from Crona. Death is tumbling there. Be ye a stream from Mora, sons of cloudy Morven!”


92

“Who rises, from his car, on Clutha? The hills are troubled before the king! The dark woods echo round, and lighten at his steel. See him, amidst the foe, like Colgach's sportful ghost; when he scatters the clouds, and rides the eddying winds! It is Morni of bounding steeds! Be like thy father, O Gaul!”


93

“Selma is opened wide. Bards take the trembling harps. Ten youths bear the oak of the feast. A distant sun-beam marks the hill. The dusky waves of the blast fly over the fields of grass. Why art thou silent, O Selma? The king returns with all his fame. Did not the battle roar; yet peaceful is his brow? It roared, and Fingal overcame. Be like thy father, O Fillan!”

They move beneath the song. High wave their arms, as rushy fields beneath autumnal winds. On Mora stands the king in arms. Mist flies round his buckler abroad; as, aloft, it hung on


94

a bough, on Cormul's mossy rock. In silence I stood by Fingal, and turned my eyes on Cromla's wood: lest I should behold the host, and rush amid my swelling soul. My foot is forward on the heath. I glittered, tall, in steel; like the falling stream of Tromlo, which nightly winds bind over with ice. The boy sees it, on high, gleaming to the early beam: toward it he turns his ear, and wonders why it is so silent!

Nor bent over a stream is Cathmor, like a youth in a peaceful field. Wide he drew forward the war, a dark and troubled wave. But when he beheld Fingal on Mora, his generous pride arose; “Shall the chief of Atha fight, and no king in the field? Foldath, lead my people forth. Thou art a beam of fire.”

Forth issues Foldath of Moma, like a cloud,


95

the robe of ghosts. He drew his sword, a flame, from his side. He bade the battle move. The tribes, like ridgy waves, dark pour their strength around. Haughty is his stride before them. His red eye rolls in wrath. He calls Cormul chief of Dunratho; and his words were heard.

“Cormul, thou beholdest that path. It winds green behind the foe. Place thy people there, lest Selma should escape from my sword. Bards of green-vallied Erin, let no voice of yours arise. The sons of Morven must fall without song. They are the foes of Cairbar. Hereafter shall the traveller meet their dark thick mist on Lena, where it wanders, with their ghosts, beside the reedy lake. Never shall they rise, without song, to the dwelling of winds.”

Cormul darkened, as he went. Behind him rushed his tribe. They sunk beyond the rock. Gaul spoke to Fillan of Selma; as his eye pursued the course of the dark-eyed chief of Dunratho. “Thou beholdest the steps of Cormul! Let thine arm be strong! When he is low, son of Fingal, remember Gaul in war. Here I fall forward into battle, amid the ridge of shields.”


96

The sign of death ascends; the dreadful sound of Morni's shield. Gaul pours his voice between. Fingal rises on Mora. He saw them, from wing to wing, bending at once in strife. Gleaming, on his own dark hill, stood Cathmor of streamy Atha. The kings were like two spirits of heaven, standing each on his gloomy cloud; when they pour abroad the winds, and lift the roaring seas. The blue-tumbling of waves is before them, marked with the paths of whales. They themselves are calm and bright. The gale lifts slowly their locks of mist!

What beam of light hangs high on air! What


97

beam, but Morni's dreadful sword! Death is strewed on thy paths, O Gaul! Thou foldest them together in thy rage. Like a young oak falls Tur-lathon, with his branches round him. His high-bosomed spouse stretches her white arms, in dreams, to the returning chief, as she sleeps by gurgling Moruth, in her disordered locks. It is his ghost, Oichoma. The chief is lowly laid. Hearken not to the winds for Turlathon's echoing shield. It is pierced by his streams. Its sound is past away.

Not peaceful is the hand of Foldath. He winds his course in blood. Connal met him in fight. They mixed their clanging steel. Why should mine eyes behold them! Connal, thy locks are grey! Thou wert the friend of strangers, at the moss-covered rock of Dun-lora. When the skies were rolled together; then thy feast was spread. The stranger heard the winds without; and rejoiced


98

at thy burning oak. Why, son of Duthcaron, art thou laid in blood! The blasted tree bends above thee. Thy shield lies broken near. Thy blood mixes with the stream, thou breaker of the shields!

Ossian took the spear in his wrath. But Gaul rushed forward on Foldath. The feeble pass by his side; his rage is turned on Moma's chief. Now they had raised their deathful spears: unseen an arrow came. It pierced the hand of Gaul. His steel fell sounding to earth. Young Fillan came, with Cormul's shield! He stretched


99

it large before the chief. Foldath sent his shouts abroad, and kindled all the field: as a blast that lifts the wide-winged flame, over Lumon's echoing groves.

“Son of blue-eyed Clatho,” said Gaul, “O Fillan, thou art a beam from heaven, that, coming on the troubled deep, binds up the tempest's wing. Cormul is fallen before thee. Early art thou in the fame of thy fathers. Rush not too far, my hero. I cannot lift the spear to


100

aid. I stand harmless in battle; but my voice shall be poured abroad. The sons of Selma shall hear, and remember my former deeds.”

His terrible voice rose on the wind. The host bends forward in fight. Often had they heard him, at Strumon, when he called them to the chace of the hinds. He stands tall, amid the war, as an oak in the skirts of a storm, which now is clothed on high, in mist; then shews its broad waving head. The musing hunter lifts his eye from his own rushy field!

My soul pursues thee, O Fillan, through the path of thy fame. Thou rolledst the foe before thee. Now Foldath, perhaps, may fly: but night comes down with its clouds. Cathmor's horn is


101

heard on high. The sons of Selma hear the voice of Fingal from Mora's gathered mist. The bards pour their song, like dew, on the returning war.

“Who comes from Strumon,” they said, “amid her wandering locks? She is mournful in her steps, and lifts her blue eyes toward Erin. Why art thou sad, Evir-choma? Who is like thy chief in renown? He descended dreadful to battle; he returns, like a light from a cloud. He raised the sword in wrath: they shrunk before blue-shielded Gaul!”

“Joy, like the rustling gale, comes on the soul of the king. He remembers the battles of old; the days wherein his fathers fought. The days of old return on Fingal's mind, as he beholds the renown of his son. As the sun rejoices, from his cloud, over the tree his beams have raised, as it shakes its lonely head on the heath; so joyful is the king over Fillan!”


102

“As the rolling of thunder on hills, when Lara's fields are still and dark; such are the steps of Selma, pleasant and dreadful to the ear. They return with their sound, like eagles to their dark-browed rock, after the prey is torn on the field, the dun sons of the bounding hind. Your fathers rejoice from their clouds, sons of streamy Selma!”

Such was the nightly voice of bards, on Mora of the hinds. A flame rose, from an hundred oaks, which winds had torn from Cormul's steep. The feast is spread in the midst: around sat the gleaming chiefs. Fingal is there in his strength. The eagle-wing of his helmet sounds. The


103

rustling blasts of the west, unequal rush through night. Long looks the king in silence round: at length his words are heard.

“My soul feels a want in our joy. I behold a breach among my friends. The head of one tree is low. The squally wind pours in on Selma. Where is the chief of Dun-lora? Ought Connal to be forgot at the feast? When did he forget the stranger, in the midst of his echoing hall? Ye are silent in my presence! Connal is then no more. Joy meet thee, O warrior, like a stream of light. Swift be thy course to thy fathers, along the roaring winds. Ossian, thy soul is fire: kindle the memory of the king. Awake the battles of Connal, when first he shone in war. The locks of Connal were grey. His days of youth were mixed with mine. In one day Duthcaron first strung our bows against the roes of Dun-lora.”


104

“Many,” I said, “are our paths to battle, in green vallied Erin. Often did our sails arise, over the blue tumbling waves; when we came, in other days, to aid the race of Conar. The strife roared once in Alnecma, at the foam-covered streams of Duth-úla. With Cormac descended to battle Duthcaron from cloudy Selma. Nor descended Duthcaron alone, his son was by his side, the long-haired youth of Connal lifting the first of his spears. Thou didst command them, O Fingal, to aid the king of Erin.

“Like the bursting strength of ocean, the sons of Bolga rushed to war. Colc-ulla was before them, the chief of blue-streaming Atha. The battle was mixed on the plain. Cormac


105

shone in his own strife, bright as the forms of his fathers. But, far before the rest, Duthcaron hewed down the foe. Nor slept the arm of Connal by his father's side. Colc-ulla prevailed on the plain: like scattered mist fled the people of Cormac!


106

“Then rose the sword of Duthcaron, and the steel of broad-shielded Connal. They shaded their flying friends, like two rocks with their heads of pine. Night came down on Duth-ula: silent strode the chiefs over the field. A mountain-stream roared across the path, nor could Duthcaron bound over its course. Why stands my father? said Connal. I hear the rushing foe.”

“Fly, Connal,” he said. “Thy father's strength begins to fail. I come wounded from battle. Here let me rest in night.” “But thou shalt not remain alone,” said Connal's bursting sigh. “My shield is an eagle's wing to cover the king of Dun-lora.” He bends dark above his father. The mighty Duthcaron dies.”

Day rose, and night returned. No lonely bard appeared, deep-musing on the heath: and could Connal leave the tomb of his father, till he should receive his fame? He bent the bow against the rose of Duth-ula. He spread the lonely feast.


107

Seven nights he laid his head on the tomb, and saw his father in his dreams. He saw him rolled, dark, in a blast, like the vapour of reedy Lego. At length the steps of Colgan came, the

108

bard of high Temora. Duthcaron received his fame, and brightened as he rose on the wind.”

“Pleasant to the ear,” said Fingal, “is the praise of the kings of men; when their bows are strong in battle; when they soften at the sight of the sad. Thus let my name be renowned, when bards shall lighten my rising soul. Carril, son of Kinfena! take the bards and raise a tomb. Tonight let Connal dwell within his narrow house. Let not the soul of the valiant wander on the winds. Faint glimmers the moon on Moi-lena, through the broad-headed groves of the hill! Raise stones, beneath its beam, to all the fallen in war. Though no chiefs were they, yet their hands were strong in fight. They were my rock in danger. The mountain from which I spread


109

my eagle-wings. Thence am I renowned. Carril, forget not the low!”

Loud, at once, from the hundred bards, rose the song of the tomb. Carril strode before them, they are the murmur of streams behind his steps. Silence dwells in the vales of Moi-lena, where each, with its own dark rill, is winding between the hills. I heard the voice of the bards, lessening, as they moved along. I leaned forward from my shield; and felt the kindling of my soul. Half-formed, the words of my song burst forth upon the wind. So hears a tree, on the vale, the voice of spring around. It pours its green leaves to the sun. It shakes its lonely head. The hum of the mountain-bee is near it; the hunter sees it, with joy, from the blasted heath.

Young Fillan at a distance stood. His helmet


110

lay glittering on the ground. His dark hair is loose to the blast. A beam of light is Clatho's son! He heard the words of the king with joy. He leaned forward on his spear.

“My son,” said car-borne Fingal, “I saw thy deeds, and my soul was glad. The fame of our fathers, I said, burst from its gathering cloud. Thou art brave, son of Clatho; but headlong in the strife. So did not Fingal advance, though he never feared a foe. Let thy people be a ridge behind. They are thy strength in the field. Then shalt thou be long renowned, and behold the tombs of the old. The memory of the past returns, my deeds in other years; when first I descended from ocean on the green-vallied isle.”

We bend towards the voice of the king. The moon looks abroad from her cloud. The grey-skirted mist is near; the dwelling of the ghosts!


111

BOOK IV.


113

ARGUMENT.

The second night continues. Fingal relates, at the feast, his own first expedition into Ireland, and his marriage with Roscrána, the daughter of Cormac, king of that island. The Irish chiefs convene in the presence of Cathmor. The situation of the king described. The story of Sul-malla, the daughter of Conmor, king of Inis-huna, who, in the disguise of a young warrior, had followed Cathmor to the war. The sullen behaviour of Foldath, who had commanded in the battle of the preceding day, renews the difference between him and Malthos; but Cathmor interposing, ends it. The chiefs feast, and hear the song of Fonar the bard. Cathmor returns to rest, at a distance from the army. The ghost of his brother Cairbar appears to him in a dream, and obscurely foretels the issue of the war. The soliloquy of the king. He discovers Sul-malla. Morning comes. Her soliloquy closes the book. Macpherson.


115

Beneath an oak,” said the king, “I sat on Selma's streamy rock, when Connal rose, from the sea, with the broken speár of Duth-caron. Far-distant stood the youth. He turned away his eyes. He remembered the steps of his father, on his own green hills. I darkened in my place. Dusky thoughts flew over my soul. The kings of Erin rose before me. I half-unsheathed the sword. Slowly approached the chiefs. They lifted up their silent eyes. Like a ridge of clouds, they wait for the bursting forth of my voice. My voice was, to them, a wind from heaven to roll the mist away.”


116

“I bade my white sails to rise, before the roar of Cona's wind. Three hundred youths looked, from their waves, on Fingal's bossy shield. High on the mast it hung, and marked the dark-blue sea. But when night came down, I struck, at times, the warning boss: I struck, and looked on high, for fiery-haired Ul-erin. Nor absent was the star of heaven. It travelled red between the clouds. I pursued the lovely beam, on the faint-gleaming deep. With morning Erin rose in mist. We came into the bay of Moi-lena, where its blue waters tumbled, in the bosom of echoing woods. Here Cormac, in his secret hall, avoids the strength of Colc-ulla. Nor he alone avoids the foe. The blue eye of Ros-crána is


117

there: Ros-crána, white-handed maid, the daughter of the king!”

“Grey, on his pointless spear, came forth the aged steps of Cormac. He smiled, from his waving locks; but grief was in his soul. He saw us few before him, and his sigh arose. “I see the arms of Trenmor,” he said; “and these are the steps of the king! Fingal! thou art a beam of light to Cormac's darkened soul. Early is thy fame, my son; but strong are the foes of Erin. They are like the roar of streams in the land, son of car-borne Comhal!” “Yet they may be rolled away,” I said, in my rising soul.


118

“We are not of the race of the feeble, king of blue-shielded hosts! Why should fear come among us, like a ghost of night? The soul of the valiant grows, when foes increase in the field. Roll no darkness, king of Erin, on the young in war!”

“The bursting tears of the king came down. He seized my hand in silence. “Race of the daring Trenmor!” at length he said, “I roll no cloud before thee. Thou burnest in the fire of thy fathers. I behold thy fame. It marks thy course in battle, like a stream of light. But wait the coming of Cairbar; my son must join thy


119

sword. He calls the sons of Erin, from all their distant streams.”

“We came to the hall of the king, where it rose in the midst of rocks, on whose dark sides were the marks of streams of old. Broad oaks bend around with their moss. The thick birch is waving near. Half-hid, in her shady grove, Ros-crána raises the song. Her white hands move on the harp. I beheld her blue rolling eyes. She was like a spirit of heaven half-folded in the skirt of a cloud!


120

“Three days we feasted at Moi-lena. She rises bright in my troubled soul. Cormac beheld me dark. He gave the white-bosomed maid. She comes with bending eye, amid the wandering of her heavy locks. She came! Straight the battle roared. Colc-ulla appeared: I took my spear. My sword rose, with my people, against the ridgy foe. Alnecma fled. Colc-ulla fell. Fingal returned with fame.

“Renowned is he, O Fillan, who fights in the


121

strength of his host. The bard pursues his steps, through the land of the foe. But he who fights alone, few are his deeds to other times! He shines, to-day, a mighty light. To-morrow, he is low. One song contains his fame. His name is on one dark field. He is forgot; but where his tomb sends forth the tufted grass.”

Such are the words of Fingal, on Mora of the roes. Three bards, from the rock of Cormul, pour down the pleasing song. Sleep descends, in the sound, on the broad-skirted host. Carril returned, with the bards, from the tomb of Dunlora's chief. The voice of Morning shall not come, to the dusky bed of Duth-caron. No more shalt thou hear the tread of roes, around thy narrow-house!

As roll the troubled clouds round a meteor of night, when they brighten their sides with its


122

light, along the heaving sea; so gathers Erin, around the gleaming form of Cathmor. He, tall in the midst, careless lifts, at times, his spear: as swells or falls the sound of Fonar's distant harp. Near him leaned, against a rock, Sul-malla of blue eyes, the white-bosomed daughter of Conmor, king of Inis-huna. To his aid came blue-shielded Cathmor, and rolled his foes away. Sul-malla beheld him stately in the hall of feasts. Nor careless rolled the eyes of Cathmor on the long-haired maid!

The third day arose, when Fithil came from Erin of the streams. He told of the lifting up of the shield in Selma: He told of the danger


123

of Cairbar. Cathmor raised the sail at Cluba: but the winds were in other lands. Three days he remained on the coast, and turned his eyes on Conmor's halls. He remembered the daughter of strangers, and his sigh arose. Now when the winds awaked the wave: from the hill came a youth in arms; to lift the sword with Cathmor, in his echoing fields. It was the white-armed Sul-malla. Secret she dwelt beneath her helmet. Her steps were in the path of the king; on him her blue eyes rolled with joy, when he lay by his roaring streams! But Cathmor thought, that, on Lumon, she still pursued the roes. He thought,

124

that fair on a rock, she stretched her white hand to the wind, to feel its course from Erin, the green dwelling of her love. He had promised to return, with his white-bosomed sails. The maid is near thee, O Cathmor! leaning on her rock.

The tall forms of the chiefs stand around; all but dark-browed Foldath. He leaned against a distant tree, rolled into his haughty soul. His bushy hair whistles in wind. At times, bursts the hum of a song. He struck the tree, at length, in wrath; and rushed before the king! Calm and stately, to the beam of the oak, arose the form of young Hidalla. His hair falls round his blushing cheek, in wreaths of waving light. Soft was his voice in Clon-ra, in the valley of his fathers. Soft was his voice when he touched the harp, in the hall, near his roaring streams!

“King of Erin,” said Hidalla, “now is the time to feast. Bid the voice of bards arise. Bid them roll the night away. The soul returns, from song, more terrible to war. Darkness settles on Erin. From hill to hill bend the skirted clouds. Far and grey, on the heath, the dreadful strides of ghosts are seen: the ghosts of those


125

who fell bend forward to their song. Bid, O Cathmor, the harps to rise, to brighten the dead, on their wandering blasts.”

“Be all the dead forgot,” said Foldath's bursting wrath. “Did not I fail in the field! Shall I then hear the song? Yet was not my course harmless in war. Blood was a stream around my steps. But the feeble were behind me. The foe has escaped from my sword. In Clonra's vale touch thou the harp. Let Dura answer to the voice of Hidalla. Let some maid look, from the wood, on thy long yellow locks. Fly from Lubar's echoing plain. This is the field of heroes!”

“King of Erin,” Malthos said, “it is thine to lead in war. Thou art a fire to our eyes, on the dark-brown field. Like a blast thou hast past over hosts. Thou hast laid them low in blood. But who has heard thy words returning from the field? The wrathful delight in death: Their remembrance rests on the wounds of their spear. Strife is folded in their thoughts: their words are ever heard. Thy course, chief of Moma, was like a troubled stream. The dead were rolled on thy path: but others also lift the


126

spear. We were not feeble behind thee; but the foe was strong.”

Cathmor beheld the rising rage, and bending forward of either chief: for, half-unsheathed, they held their swords, and rolled their silent eyes. Now would they have mixed in horrid fray, had not the wrath of Cathmor burned’. He drew his sword: it gleamed through night, to the high-flaming oak! “Sons of pride,” said the king, “allay your swelling souls. Retire in night. Why should my rage arise? Should I contend with both in arms? It is no time for strife! Retire, ye clouds, at my feast. Awake my soul no more.”

They sunk from the king on either side; like


127

two columns of morning mist, when the sun rises, between them, on his glittering rocks. Dark is their rolling on either side; each towards its reedy pool!

Silent sat the chiefs at the feast. They look, at times, on Atha's king, where he strode, on his rock, amid his settling soul. The host lie along the field. Sleep descends on Moi-lena. The voice of Fonar ascends alone, beneath his distant tree. It ascends in the praise of Cathmor, son of Larthon of Lumon. But Cathmor did not hear his praise. He lay at the roar of a stream. The rustling breeze of night flew over his whistling locks.

His brother came to his dreams, half-seen from his low-hung cloud. Joy rose darkly in his face. He had heard the song of Carril.


128

A blast sustained his dark-skirted cloud; which he seized in the bosom of night, as he rose, with his fame, towards his airy hall. Half-mixed with the noise of the stream, he poured his feeble words.

“Joy meet the soul of Cathmor. His voice was heard on Moi-lena. The bard gave his song to Cairbar. He travels on the wind. My form is in my father's hall, like the gliding of a terrible light, which darts across the desert in a stormy night. No bard shall be wanting at thy tomb, when thou art lowly laid. The sons of


129

song love the valiant. Cathmor, thy name is a pleasant gale. The mournful sounds arise! On Lubar's field there is a voice! Louder still, ye shadowy ghosts! The dead were full of fame! Shrilly swells the feeble sound. The rougher blast alone is heard! Ah, soon is Cathmor low!” Rolled into himself he flew, wide on the bosom of winds. The old oak felt his departure, and shook its whistling head. Cathmor starts from rest. He takes his deathful spear. He lifts

130

his eyes around. He sees but dark-skirted night.

“It was the voice of the king,” he said. “But now his form is gone. Unmarked is your path in the air, ye children of the night. Often, like a reflected beam, are ye seen in the desert wild: but ye retire in your blasts, before our steps approach. Go then, ye feeble race! Knowledge with you there is none! Your joys


131

are weak, and like the dreams of our rest, or the light-winged thought, that flies across the soul. Shall Cathmor soon be low? Darkly laid in his narrow house? Where no morning comes, with her half-opened eyes? Away, thou shade! to fight is mine! All further thought away! I rush forth, on eagle's wings, to seize my beam of fame. In the lonely vale of streams, abides the narrow soul. Years roll

132

on, seasons return, but he is still unknown. In a blast comes cloudy death, and lays his grey head low. His ghost is folded in the vapour of the fenny field. Its course is never on hills, nor mossy vales of wind. So shall not Cathmor depart. No boy in the field was he, who only marks the bed of roes, upon the echoing hills. My issuing forth was with kings. My joy in dreadful plains: where broken hosts are rolled away, like seas before the wind.”

So spoke the king of Alnecma, brightening in his rising soul. Valour, like a pleasant flame, is gleaming within his breast. Stately is his


133

stride on the heath! The beam of east is poured around. He saw his grey host on the field, wide-spreading their ridges in light. He rejoiced, like a spirit of heaven, whose steps come forth on the seas, when he beholds them peaceful round, and all the winds are laid. But soon he awakes the waves, and rolls them large to some echoing shore.

On the rushy bank of a stream, slept the daughter of Inis-huna. The helmet had fallen


134

from her head. Her dreams were in the lands of her fathers. There morning is on the field. Grey streams leap down from the rocks. The breezes, in shadowy waves, fly over the rushy fields. There is the sound that prepares for the chace. There the moving of warriors from the hall. But tall above the rest is seen the hero of streamy Atha. He bends his eye of love on Sul-malla, from his stately steps. She turns, with pride, her face away, and careless bends the bow.

Such were the dreams of the maid, when Cathmor of Atha came. He saw her fair face before him, in the midst of her wandering locks.


135

He knew the maid of Lumon. What should Cathmor do? His sighs arise. His tears come down. But straight he turns away. “This is no time, king of Atha, to awake thy secret soul. The battle is rolled before thee, like a troubled stream.”

He struck the warning boss, wherein dwelt the voice of war. Erin rose around him, like the sound of eagle-wings. Sul-malla started from sleep, in her disordered locks. She seized the helmet from earth. She trembled in her place. “Why should they know in Erin of the daughter of Inis-huna?” She remembered the race of kings. The pride of her soul arose! Her steps are behind a rock, by the blue-winding stream of a vale: where dwelt the dark-brown hind ere yet the war arose. Thither came the voice of Cathmor, at times, to Sul-malla's ear. Her soul is darkly sad. She pours her words on wind.

“The dreams of Inis-huna departed. They


136

are dispersed from my soul. I hear not the chace in my land. I am concealed in the skirt of war. I look forth from my cloud. No beam appears to light my path. I behold my warrior low; for the broad-shielded king is near, he that overcomes in danger, Fingal from Selma of spears! Spirit of departed Conmor! are thy steps on the bosom of winds? Comest thou, at times, to other lands, father of sad Sul-malla? Thou dost come! I have heard thy voice at night; while yet I rose on the wave to Erin of the streams. The ghost of fathers, they say, call away the

137

souls of their race, while they behold them lonely in the midst of woe. Call me, my father, away! When Cathmor is low on earth. Then shall Sul-malla be lonely in the midst of woe!”


139

BOOK V.


141

ARGUMENT.

The poet, after a short address to the harp of Cona, describes the arrangement of both armies on either side of the river Lubar. Fingal gives the command to Fillan; but, at the same time, orders Gaul, the son of Morni, who had been wounded in the hand in the preceding battle, to assist him with his counsel. The army of the Fir-bolg is commanded by Foldath. The general onset is described. The great actions of Fillan. He kills Rothmar and Culmin. But when Fillan conquers, in one wing, Foldath presses hard on the other. He wounds Dermid, the son of Duthno, and puts the whole wing to flight. Dermid deliberates with himself, and, at last, resolves to put a stop to the progress of Foldath, by engaging him in single combat. When the two chiefs were approaching towards one another, Fillan came suddenly to the relief of Dermid; engaged Foldath, and killed him. The behaviour of Malthos towards the fallen Foldath. Fillan puts the whole army of the Fir-bolg to flight. The book closes with an address to Clatho, the mother of that hero. Macpherson.


143

Thou dweller between the shields, that hang on high in Ossian's hall! Descend from thy


144

place, O harp, and let me hear thy voice! Son of Alpin, strike the string. Thou must awake

145

the soul of the bard. The murmur of Lora's stream has rolled the tale away. I stand in the cloud of years. Few are its openings toward the past; and when the vision comes, it is but dim and dark. I hear thee, harp of Selma! my soul returns, like a breeze, which the sun brings back to the vale, where dwelt the lazy mist!


146

Lubar is bright before me in the windings of its vale. On either side, on their hills, rise the tall forms of the kings. Their people are poured around them, bending forward to their words: as if their fathers spoke, descending from the winds. But they themselves are like two rocks in the midst; each with its dark head of pines, when they are seen in the desert, above low-sailing mist. High on their face are streams, which spread their foam on blasts of wind!

Beneath the voice of Cathmor pours Erin, like


147

the sound of flame. Wide they come down to Lubar. Before them is the stride of Foldath. But Cathmor retires to his hill, beneath his bending oak. The tumbling of a stream is near the king. He lifts at times his gleaming spear. It is a flame to his people, in the midst of war. Near him stands the daughter of Con-mor, leaning on a rock. She did not rejoice at the strife. Her soul delighted not in blood. A valley spreads green behind the hill, with its three blue streams. The sun is there in silence. The dun mountain-roes come down. On these are turned the eyes of Sul-malla in her thoughtful mood.

Fingal beholds Cathmor, on high, the son of Borbar-duthul! he beholds the deep-rolling of Erin, on the darkened plain. He strikes that warning boss, which bids the people to obey; when he sends his chiefs before them to the field of renown. Wide rise their spears to the sun. Their echoing shields reply around. Fear, like


148

a vapour, winds not among the host: for he, the king, is near, the strength of streamy Selma. Gladness brightens the hero. We hear his words with joy.

“Like the coming forth of winds, is the sound of Selma's sons! They are mountain waters determined in their course. Hence is Fingal renowned. Hence is his name in other lands. He was not a lonely beam in danger; for your steps were always near! But never was Fingal a dreadful form, in your presence, darkened into wrath. My voice was no thunder to your ears. Mine eyes sent forth no death. When the haughty appeared, I beheld them not. They were forgot at my feasts. Like mist they melted away. A young beam is before you! Few are his paths to war! They are few, but he is valiant. Defend my dark-haired son. Bring Fillan back with joy. Hereafter he may stand alone. His


149

form is like his fathers. His soul is a flame of their fire. Son of car-borne Morni, move behind the youth. Let thy voice reach his ear, from the skirts of war. Not unobserved rolls battle, before thee, breaker of the shields!”

The king strode, at once, away to Cormul's lofty rock. Intermitting, darts the light, from his shield, as slow the king of heroes moves. Sidelong rolls his eye o'er the heath, as forming advance the lines. Graceful, fly his half-grey locks, round his kingly features, now lightened with dreadful joy. Wholly mighty is the chief! Behind him dark and slow I moved. Straight came forward the strength of Gaul. His shield hung loose on its thong. He spoke, in haste, to Ossian. “Bind, son of Fingal, this shield! Bind it high to the side of Gaul. The foe may behold it, and think I lift the spear. If I should fall, let my tomb be hid in the field; for fall I must without fame. Mine arm cannot lift the steel. Let not Evir-choma hear it, to blush between her locks. Fillan, the mighty, behold us! Let us not forget the strife. Why should they come, from their hills, to aid our flyin field?”


150

He strode onward, with the sound of his shield. My voice pursued him, as he went. “Can the son of Morni fall without his fame in Erin? But the deeds of the mighty are forgot by themselves. They rush careless over the fields of renown. Their words are never heard!” I rejoiced over the steps of the chief. I strode to the rock of the king, where he sat in his wandering locks, amid the mountain-wind!

In two dark ridges bend the hosts, toward each other, at Lubar. Here Foldath rises a pillar of darkness: there brightens the youth of Fillan. Each with his spear in the stream, sent forth the voice of war. Gaul struck the shield of Selma. At once they plunge in battle! Steel pours its gleam on steel: like the fall of streams shone the field, when they mix their foam together, from two dark-browed rocks! Behold he


151

comes, the son of fame! He lays the people low! Death sits on blasts around him! Warriors strew thy paths, O Fillan!

Rothmar, the shield of warriors, stood between two chinky rocks. Two oaks, which winds had bent from high, spread their branches on either side. He rolls his darkening eyes on Fillan, and, silent, shades his friends. Fingal saw the approaching fight. The hero's soul arose. But as the stone of Loda falls, shook


152

at once, from rocking Druman-ard, when spirits heave the earth in their wrath; so fell blue-shielded Rothmar.

Near are the steps of Culmin. The youth came, bursting into tears. Wrathful he cut the wind, ere yet he mixed his strokes with Fillan. He had first bent the bow with Rothmar, at the


153

rock of his own blue streams. There they had marked the place of the roe, as the sun-beam flew over the fern. Why, son of Cul-allin! Why, Culmin, dost thou rush on that beam of light! It is a fire that consumes. Son of Cul-allin, retire. Your fathers were not equal, in the glittering strife of the field. The mother of Culmin remains in the hall. She looks forth on blue-rolling Strutha. A whirlwind rises, on the stream, dark-eddying round the ghost of her son. His dogs are howling in their place. His shield is bloody in the hall. “Art thou fallen, my fair-haired son, in Erin's dismal war?”

As a roe, pierced in secret, lies panting, by her wonted streams; the hunter surveys her feet of wind: He remembers her stately bounding before. So lay the son of Cul-allin, beneath


154

the eye of Fillan. His hair is rolled in a little stream. His blood wanders on his shield. Still his hand holds the sword, that failed him in the midst of danger. “Thou art fallen,” said Fillan, “ere yet thy fame was heard. Thy father sent thee to war. He expects to hear of thy deeds. He is grey, perhaps, at his streams. His eyes are toward Moi-lena. But thou shalt not return, with the spoil of the fallen foe!”

Fillan pours the flight of Erin before him, over the resounding heath. But, man on man, fell Morven before the dark-red rage of Foldath: for, far on the field, he poured the roar of half his tribes. Dermid stands before him in wrath. The sons of Selma gathered around. But his shield is cleft by Foldath. His people fly over the heath.

Then said the foe, in his pride, “They have fled. My fame begins! Go, Malthos, go bid Cathmor guard the dark-rolling of ocean; that


155

Fingal may not escape from my sword. He must lie on earth. Beside some fen shall his tomb be seen. It shall rise without a song. His ghost shall hover, in mist, over the reedy pool.”

Malthos heard, with darkening doubt. He rolled his silent eyes. He knew the pride of Foldath. He looked up to Fingal on his hills: then darkly turning, in doubtful mood, he plunged his sword in war.

In Clono's narrow vale, where bend two


156

trees above the stream, dark, in his grief, stood Duthno's silent son. The blood pours from the side of Dermid. His shield is broken near. His

157

spear leans against a stone. Why, Dermid, why so sad? “I hear the roar of battle. My people are alone. My steps are slow on the heath; and no shield is mine. Shall he then prevail? It is then after Dermid is low! I will call thee forth, O Foldath, and meet thee yet in fight.”

He took his spear, with dreadful joy. The son of Morni came. “Stay, son of Duthno, stay thy speed. Thy steps are marked with blood. No bossy shield is thine. Why shouldst thou fall unarmed?” “Son of Morni! give thou thy shield. It has often rolled back the war. I shall stop the chief, in his course. Son of Morni! behold that stone! It lifts its grey head through grass. There dwells a chief of the race of Dermid. Place me there in night.”

He slowly rose against the hill. He saw the troubled field: The gleaming ridges of battle, disjoined and broken round. As distant fires, on heath by night, now seen as lost in smoke; now rearing their red streams on the hill, as


158

blow or cease the winds: so met the intermitting war the eye of broad-shielded Dermid. Through the host are the strides of Foldath, like some dark ship on wintry waves, when she issues from between two isles, to sport on resounding ocean!

Dermid, with rage, beholds his course. He strives to rush along. But he fails amid his steps; and the big tear comes down. He sounds his father's horn. He thrice strikes his bossy shield. He calls thrice the name of Foldath, from his roaring tribes. Foldath, with joy, beholds the chief. He lifts aloft his bloody spear.


159

As a rock is marked with streams, that fell troubled down its side in a storm; so, streaked with wandering blood, is the dark chief of Moma! The host, on either side, withdraw from the contending of kings. They raise at once, their gleaming points. Rushing comes Fillan of Selma. Three paces back Foldath withdraws, dazzled with that beam of light, which came, as issuing from a cloud, to save the wounded

160

chief. Growing in his pride he stands. He calls forth all his steel.

As meet two broad-winged eagles, in their sounding strife, in winds, so rush the two chiefs on Moi-lena, into gloomy fight. By turns are the steps of the kings forward on their rocks above; for now the dusky war seems to descend on their swords. Cathmor feels the joy of warriors, on his mossy hill: their joy in secret, when dangers rise to match their souls. His eye


161

is not turned on Lubar, but on Selma's dreadful king. He beholds him, on Mora, rising in his arms.

Foldath falls on his shield. The spear of


162

Fillan pierced the king. Nor looks the youth on the fallen, but onward rolls the war. The hundred voices of death arise. “Stay, son of Fingal, stay thy speed. Beholdest thou not that gleaming form, a dreadful sign of death? Awaken not the king of Erin. Return, son of blue-eyed Clatho.”

Malthos beholds Foldath low. He darkly stands above the chief. Hatred is rolled from his soul. He seems a rock in the desert, on whose dark side are the trickling of waters; when


163

the slow-sailing mist has left it, and all its trees are blasted with winds. He spoke to the dying hero, about the narrow house. “Whether shall thy grey stone rise in Ullin, or in Moma's woody land? where the sun looks, in secret, on the blue streams of Dalrutho? There are the steps of thy daughter, blue-eyed Dardu-lena!”

“Rememberest thou her,” said Foldath, “because no son is mine: no youth to roll the battle before him, in revenge of me? Malthos, I am revenged. I was not peaceful in the field. Raise the tombs of those I have slain, around my narrow house. Often shall I forsake the blast, to rejoice above their graves; when I behold them spread around, with their long-whistling grass.”

His soul rushed to the vale of Moma, to Dardu-lena's dreams, where she slept, by Dalrutho's stream, returning from the chace of the hinds. Her bow is near the maid, unstrung. The breezes fold her long hair on her breasts. Clothed in the beauty of youth, the love of heroes lay. Dark-bending from the skirts of the wood, her wounded father seemed to come. He appeared, at times, then hid himself in mist. Bursting in tears she rose. She knew that the chief


164

was low. To her came a beam from his soul, when folded in its storms. Thou wert the last of his race, O blue-eyed Dardu-lena!

Wide-spreading over echoing Lubar, the flight of Bolga is rolled along. Fillan hangs forward on their steps. He strews, with dead, the heath. Fingal rejoices over his son. Blue-shielded Cathmor rose.

Son of Alpin, bring the harp. Give Fillan's praise to the wind. Raise high his praise in mine ear, while yet he shines in war.

“Leave, blue-eyed Clatho, leave thy hall! Behold that early beam of thine! The host is withered in its course. No further look, it is dark. Light-trembling from the harp, strike,


165

virgins, strike the sound. No hunter he descends, from the dewy haunt of the bounding roe. He bends not his bow on the wind; nor sends his grey arrow abroad.

“Deep-folded in red war! See battle roll against his side. Striding amid the ridgy strife, he pours the deaths of thousands forth. Fillan is like a spirit of heaven, that descends from the skirt of winds. The troubled ocean feels his steps, as he strides from wave to wave. His path kindles behind him. Islands shake their heads on the heaving seas! Leave, blue-eyed Clatho, leave thy hall!


167

BOOK VI.


169

ARGUMENT.

This book opens with a speech of Fingal, who sees Cathmor descending to the assistance of his flying army. The king dispatches Ossian to the relief of Fillan. He himself retires behind the rock of Cormul, to avoid the sight of the engagement between his son and Cathmor. Ossian advances. The descent of Cathmor described. He rallies the army, renews the battle, and, before Ossian could arrive, engages Fillan himself. Upon the approach of Ossian, the combat between the two heroes ceases. Ossian and Cathmor prepare to fight, but night coming on prevents them. Ossian returns to the place where Cathmor and Fillan fought. He finds Fillan mortally wounded, and leaning against a rock. Their discourse. Fillan dies: his body is laid, by Ossian, in a neighbouring cave. The Caledonian army return to Fingal. He questions them about his son, and, understanding that he was killed, retires, in silence, to the rock of Carmul. Upon the retreat of the army of Fingal, the Fir-bolg advance. Cathmor finds Bran, one of the dogs of Fingal, lying on the shield of Fillan, before the entrance of the cave, where the body of that hero lay. His reflections thereupon. He returns, in a melancholy mood, to his army. Malthos endeavours to comfort him, by the example of his father Borbar-duthal. Cathmor retires to rest. The song of Sul-malla concludes the book, which ends about the middle of the third night from the opening of the poem. Macpherson.


171

Cathmor rises on his hill! Shall Fingal take the sword of Luno? But what shall become of thy fame, son of white-bosomed Clatho? Turn


172

not thine eyes from Fingal, fair daughter of Inis-store. I shall not quench thy early beam. It shines along my soul. Rise, wood-skirted Mora, rise between the war and me! Why should Fingal

173

behold the strife, lest his dark-daired warrior should fall! Amid the song, O Carril, pour the sound of the trembling harp! Here are the voices of rocks! and there the bright tumbling of waters. Father of Oscar, lift the spear! Defend the young in arms. Conceal thy steps from Fillan. He must not know that I doubt his steel. No cloud of mine shall rise, my son, upon thy soul of fire!”

He sunk behind his rock, amid the sound of Carril's song. Brightening, in my growing soul, I took the spear of Temora. I saw, along Moilena, the wild tumbling of battle; the strife of death, in gleaming rows, disjoined and broken round. Fillan is a beam of fire. From wing to wing is his wasteful course. The ridges of war melt before him. They are rolled, in smoke, from the fields!

Now is the coming forth of Cathmor, in the armour of kings! Dark waves the eagle's wing, above his helmet of fire. Unconcerned are his


174

steps, as if they were to the chace of Erin. He raises, at times, his terrible voice. Erin, abashed, gathers round. Their souls return back like a stream. They wonder at the steps of their fear. He rose, like the beam of the morning, on a haunted heath: the traveller looks back, with bending eye, on the field of dreadful forms! Sudden, from the rock of Moi-lena, are Sul-malla's trembling steps. An oak takes the spear from her hand. Half-bent she looses the lance. But then are her eyes on the king, from amid her wandering locks! No friendly strife is before thee! No light contending of bows, as when

175

the youth of Inis-huna come forth beneath the eye of Conmor!

As the rock of Runo, which takes the passing clouds as they fly, seems growing, in gathered darkness, over the streamy heath; so seems the chief of Atha taller, as gather his people around. As different blasts fly over the sea, each behind its dark-blue wave; so Cathmor's words, on every side, pour his warriors forth. Nor silent on his hill is Fillan. He mixes his words with his echoing shield. An eagle he seemed, with sounding wings, calling the wind to his rock,


176

when he sees the coming forth of the roes, on Lutha's rushy field!

Now they bend forward in battle. Death's hundred voices arise. The kings, on either side, were like fires on the souls of the hosts. Ossian bounded along. High rocks and trees rush tall between the war and me. But I hear the noise of steel, between my clanging arms. Rising, gleaming, on the hill, I behold the backward steps of hosts: their backward steps, on either side, and wildly-looking eyes. The chiefs were met in dreadful fight! The two blue-shielded kings! Tall and dark, through gleams of steel, are seen the striving heroes! I rush. My fears for Fillan fly, burning across my soul.


177

I come. Nor Cathmor flies; nor yet comes on; he sidelong stalks along. An icy rock, cold, tall he seems. I call forth all my steel. Silent awhile we stride, on either side of a rushing stream: then, sudden turning, all at once, we raise our pointed spears! We raise our spears; but night comes down. It is dark and silent round; but where the distant steps of hosts are sounding over the heath!

I come to the place where Fillan fought. Nor voice, nor sound is there. A broken helmet lies on earth, a buckler cleft in twain. Where, Fillan, where art thou, young chief of echoing Morven? He hears me, leaning on a rock, which bends its grey head over the stream. He hears; but sullen, dark he stands. At length I saw the hero!

“Why standest thou, robed in darkness, son of woody Selma? Bright is thy path, my brother, in this dark-brown field! Long has been thy strife in battle! Now the horn of Fingal is heard. Ascend to the cloud of thy father, to his hill of feasts. In the evening mist he sits, and hears the sound of Carril's harp. Carry joy to the aged, young breaker of the shields!”


178

“Can the vanquished carry joy? Ossian, no shield is mine! It lies broken on the field. The eagle-wing of my helmet is torn. It is when foes fly before them, that fathers delight in their sons. But their sighs burst forth, in secret, when their young warriors yield. No: Fillan shall not behold the king! Why should the hero mourn?”

“Son of blue-eyed Clatho! O Fillan, awake not my soul! Wert thou not a burning fire before him? Shall he not rejoice? Such fame belongs not to Ossian; yet is the king still a sun to me. He looks on my steps with joy. Shadows never rise on his face. Ascend, O Fillan, to Mora! His feast is spread in the folds of mist.”

“Ossian! give me that broken shield: these feathers that are rolled in the wind. Place them near to Fillan, that less of his fame may fall. Ossian, I begin to fail. Lay me in that hollow rock. Raise no stone above, lest one should ask about my fame. I am fallen in the first of my fields; fallen without renown. Let thy voice alone send joy to my flying soul. Why should


179

the bard know where dwells the lost beam of Clatho!”

“Is thy spirit on the eddying winds, O Fillan, young breaker of shields! Joy pursue my


180

hero through his folded clouds. The forms of thy fathers, O Fillan, bend to receive their son. I behold the spreading of their fire on Mora: the blue-rolling of their misty wreaths. Joy meet thee my brother! But we are dark and sad! I behold the foe round the aged. I behold the wasting away of his fame. Thou art left alone in the field, O grey-haired king of Selma!”

I laid him in the hollow rock, at the roar of the nightly stream. One red star looked in on the hero. Winds lift, at times, his locks. I listen. No sound is heard. The warrior slept! As lightning on a cloud, a thought came rushing along my soul. My eyes roll in fire: my stride was in


181

the clang of steel. “I will find thee, king of Erin! in the gathering of thy thousands find thee. Why should that cloud escape, that quenched our early beam? Kindle your meteors on your hills, my fathers. Light my daring steps. I will consume in wrath. But should not I return! The king is without a son, grey-haired

182

among his foes! His arm is not as in the days of old. His fame grows dim in Erin. Let me not behold him laid low in his latter field. But can I return to the king? Will he not ask about his son? “Thou oughtest to defend young Fillan.” Ossian will meet the foe! Green Erin, thy sounding tread is pleasant to my ear. I rush on thy ridgy host, to shun the eyes of Fingal. I hear the voice of the king, on Mora's misty top! He calls his two sons! I come, my father, in my grief. I come like an eagle, which the flame of night met in the desert, and spoiled of half his wings!”

Distant, round the king, on Mora, the broken ridges of Morven are rolled. They turned their


183

eyes: each darkly bends, on his own ashen spear. Silent stood the king in the midst. Thought on thought rolled over his soul. As waves on a secret mountain-lake, each with its back of foam. He looked; no son appeared, with his long-beaming spear. The sighs arose, crowding, from his soul; but he concealed his grief. At length I stood beneath an oak. No voice of mine was heard. What could I say to Fingal in his hour of woe? His words rose, at length, in the midst: the people shrunk backward as he spoke.

“Where is the son of Selma, he who led in war? I behold not his steps, among my people, returning from the field. Fell the young bounding roe, who was so stately on my hills? He fell; for ye are silent. The shield of war is cleft in twain. Let his armour be near to Fingal; and the sword of dark-brown Luno. I am waked on my hills; with morning I descend to war.”

High on Cormul's rock, an oak is flaming


184

to the wind. The grey skirts of mist are rolled around; thither strode the king in his wrath. Distant from the host he always lay, when battle burnt within his soul. On two spears hung his shield on high; the gleaming sign of death; that shield, which he was wont to strike, by night, before he rushed to war. It was then his warriors knew, when the king was to lead in strife; for never was this buckler heard till the wrath of Fingal arose. Unequal were his steps on high, as he shone in the beam of the oak; he was dreadful as the form of the spirit of night, when

185

he clothes, on hills, his wild gestures with mist, and issuing forth, on the troubled ocean, mounts the car of winds.

Nor settled, from the storm, is Erin's sea of war! they glitter, beneath the moon, and, low-humming, still roll on the field. Alone are the steps of Cathmor, before them on the heath; he hangs forward, with all his arms, on Morven's flying host. Now had he come to the mossy cave, where Fillan lay in night. One tree was bent above the stream, which glittered over the rock. There shone to the moon the broken shield of Clatho's son; and near it, on grass, lay hairy-footed Bran. He had missed the chief


186

on Mora, and searched him along the wind. He thought that the blue-eyed hunter slept; he lay upon his shield. No blast came over the heath, unknown to bounding Bran.

Cathmor saw the white-breasted dog; he saw the broken shield. Darkness is blown back on his soul; he remembers the falling away of the people. They come, a stream; are rolled away; another race succeeds. “But some mark the fields, as they pass, with their own mighty names. The heath, through dark-brown years, is theirs; some blue stream winds to their fame. Of these


187

be the chief of Atha, when he lays him down on earth. Often may the voice of future times meet Cathmor in the air; when he strides from wind to wind, or folds himself in the wing of a storm.”

Green Erin gathered round the king, to hear the voice of his power. Their joyful faces bend, unequal, forward, in the light of the oak. They who were terrible were removed: Lubar winds again in their host. Cathmor was that beam from heaven which shone when his people were dark. He was honoured in the midst. Their souls rose with ardour around. The king alone no gladness shewed; no stranger he to war!

“Why is the king so sad,” said Malthos eagle-eyed? “Remains there a foe at Lubar? Lives there among them who can lift the spear? Not so peaceful was thy father, Borbar-duthul, king of spears. His rage was a fire that always burned: his joy over fallen foes was great. Three days feasted the grey-haired hero, when he heard that Calmar fell: Calmar, who aided the race of Ullin, from Lara of the streams. Often did he feel, with his hands, the steel which, they said, had pierced his foe. He felt it with his hands; for


188

Borbar-duthul's eyes had failed. Yet was the king a sun to his friends; a gale to lift their branches round. Joy was around him in his halls: he loved the sons of Bolga. His name remains in Atha, like the awful memory of ghosts, whose presence was terrible; but they blew the storm away. Now let the voices of Erin raise the soul of the king; he that shone when war was dark, and laid the mighty low. Fonar, from that grey-browed rock, pour the tale of other times; pour it on the wide-skirted Erin, as it settles round.”

“To me,” said Cathmor, “no song shall rise; nor Fonar sit on the rock of Lubar. The mighty there are laid low. Disturb not their rushing ghosts. Far, Malthos, far remove the sound of Erin's song. I rejoice not over the foe, when he ceases to lift the spear. With morning we pour our strength abroad. Fingal is wakened on his echoing hill.”

Like waves, blown back by sudden winds,


189

Erin retired at the voice of the king. Deep-rolled into the field of night, they spread their humming tribes. Beneath his own tree, at intervals, each bard sat down with his harp. They raised the song, and touched the string: each to the chief he loved. Before a burning oak Sul-malla touched, at times, the harp. She touched the harp, and heard, between, the breezes in her hair. In darkness near, lay the king of Atha, beneath an aged tree. The beam of the oak was turned from him; he saw the maid, but was not seen. His soul poured forth, in secret, when he beheld her fearful eye. “But battle is before thee, son of Borbar-duthul.”

Amidst the harp, at intervals, she listened whether the warrior slept. Her soul was up; she longed, in secret, to pour her own sad song. The field is silent. On their wings, the blasts of


190

night retire. The bards had ceased; and meteors came, red-winding with their ghosts. The sky grew dark; the forms of the dead were blended with the clouds. But heedless bends the daughter of Conmor, over the decaying flame. Thou wert alone in her soul, car-borne chief of Atha. She raised the voice of the song, and touched the harp between.

“Clun-galo came; she missed the maid. Where art thou, beam of light? Hunters, from the mossy rock, saw ye the blue-eyed fair? Are her steps on grassy Lumon, near the bed of roes? Ah me! I behold her bow in the hall. Where art thou, beam of light?”

“Cease, love of Conmor, cease; I hear thee not on the ridgy heath. My eye is turned to the king, whose path is terrible in war. He for whom my soul is up, in the season of my rest. Deep-bosomed in war he stands, he beholds


191

me not from his cloud. Why, sun of Sul-malla, dost thou not look forth? I dwell in darkness here; wide over me flies the shadowy mist. Filled with dew are my locks: look thou from thy cloud, O sun of Sul-malla's soul.” ------ [OMITTED]


193

BOOK VII.


195

ARGUMENT.

This book begins about the middle of the third night from the opening of the poem. The poet describes a kind of mist, which rose, by night, from the lake of Lego, and was the usual residence of the souls of the dead, during the interval between their decease and the funeral song. The appearance of the ghost of Fillan above the cave where his body lay. His voice comes to Fingal, on the rock of Cormul. The king strikes the shield of Trenmor, which was an infallible sign of his appearing in arms himself. The extraordinary effect of the sound of the shield. Sul-malla, starting from sleep, awakes Cathmor. Their affecting discourse. She insists with him to sue for peace; he resolves to continue the war. He directs her to retire to the neighbouring valley of Lona, which was the residence of an old Druid, until the battle of the next day should be over. He awakes his army with the sound of his shield. The shield described. Fonar, the bard, at the desire of Cathmor, relates the first settlement of the Fir-bolg in Ireland, under their leader Larthon. Morning comes. Sul-malla retires to the valley of Lona. A lyric song concludes the book. Macpherson.


197

From the wood-skirted waters of Lego, ascend, at times, grey-bosomed mists; when the gates of the west are closed, on the sun's eagle-eye. Wide, over Lara's stream, is poured the vapour dark and deep: the moon, like a dim shield, is swimming through its folds. With this, clothe the spirits of old their sudden gestures on the wind, when they stride, from blast to blast, along the dusky night. Often, blended with the gale, to some warrior's grave, they roll the


198

mist, a grey dwelling to his ghost, untill the songs arise.

A sound came from the desert; it was Conar, king of Inis-fail. He poured his mist on the


199

grave of Fillan, at blue-winding Lubar. Dark and mournful sat the ghost, in his grey ridge of smoke. The blast, at times, rolled him together: but the form returned again. It returned with bending eyes, and dark winding of locks of mist.

It was dark. The sleeping host were still, in the skirts of night. The flame decayed, on the hill of Fingal; the king lay lonely on his shield. His eyes were half-closed in sleep, the voice of Fillan came. “Sleeps the husband of


200

Clatho? Dwells the father of the fallen in rest? Am I forgot in the folds of darkness; lonely in the season of night!”

“Why dost thou mix,” said the king, “with the dream of thy father? Can I forget thee, my son, or thy path of fire in the field! Not such come the deeds of the valiant on the soul of Fingal. They are not there a beam of lightning, which is seen, and is then no more. I remember thee, O Fillan, and my wrath begins to rise.”

The king took his deathful spear, and struck


201

the deep-sounding shield: his shield that hung high in night, the dismal sign of war! Ghosts

202

fled on every side, and rolled their gathered forms on the wind. Thrice from the winding vale arose the voice of deaths. The harps of the bards, untouched, sound mournful over the hill.

He struck again the shield; battles rose in the dreams of his host. The wide-tumbling strife is gleaming over their souls. Blue-shielded kings descend to war. Backward-looking armies fly; and mighty deeds are half-hid, in the bright gleams of steel.

But when the third sound arose, deer started from the clefts of their rocks. The screams of fowl are heard, in the desert, as each flew, frighted on his blast. The sons of Selma half rose, and half assumed their spears. But silence rolled back on the host; they knew the shield of


203

the king. Sleep returned to their eyes; the field was dark and still.

No sleep was thine in darkness, blue-eyed daughter of Conmor! Sul-malla heard the dreadful


204

shield, and rose, amid the night. Her steps are towards the king of Atha. “Can danger shake his daring soul!” In doubt she stands,

205

with bending eyes. Heaven burns with all its stars.

Again the shield resounds! She rushed. She stopt. Her voice half rose. It failed. She saw him, amidst his arms, that gleamed to heaven's fire. She saw him dim in his locks, that rose to nightly wind. Away, for fear, she turned her steps. “Why should the king of Erin awake? Thou art not a dream to his rest, daughter of Inis-huna.”

More dreadful rings the shield. Sul-malla starts. Her helmet falls. Loud echoes Lubar's rock, as over it rolls the steel. Bursting from the dreams of night, Cathmor half rose, beneath his tree. He saw the form of the maid, above him, on the rock. A red star, with twinkling beam, looked through her floating hair.

“Who comes through night to Cathmor, in the season of his dreams? Bringest thou aught of war? Who art thou, son of night? Standest thou before me, a form of the times of old? A


206

voice from the fold of a cloud, to warn me of the danger of Erin?”

“Nor lonely scout am I, nor voice from folded cloud,” she said; “but I warn thee of the danger of Erin. Dost thou hear that sound? It is not the feeble, king of Atha, that rolls his signs on night.”

“Let the warrior roll his signs,” he replied; “to Cathmor they are the sounds of harps. My joy is great, voice of night, and burns over all my thought. This is the music of kings, on lonely hills, by night; when they light their daring souls, the sons of mighty deeds! The feeble dwell alone, in the valley of the breeze; where mists lift their morning skirts, from the blue-winding streams.”

“Not feeble, king of men, were they, the fathers of my race. They dwelt in the folds of battle, in their distant lands. Yet delights not my soul, in the signs of death! He, who never yields, comes forth: O send the bard of peace!”

Like a dropping rock, in the desert, stood Cathmor in his tears. Her voice came, a


207

breeze, on his soul, and awaked the memory of her land; where she dwelt by her peaceful streams, before he came to the war of Conmor.

“Daughter of strangers,” he said; (she trembling turned away) “long have I marked thee in thy steel, young pine of Inis-huna. But my soul, I said, is folded in a storm. Why should that beam arise, till my steps return in peace? Have I been pale in thy presence, as thou bidst me to fear the king? The time of danger, O maid, is the season of my soul; for then it swells, a mighty stream, and rolls me on the foe.

“Beneath the moss-covered rock of Lona, near his own loud stream; grey in his locks of age, dwells Clonmal, king of harps. Above him is his echoing tree, and the dun bounding of roes. The noise of our strife reaches his ear, as he bends in the thoughts of years. There let thy rest be, Sul-malla, until our battle cease. Until I return, in my arms, from the skirts of the evening mist, that rises, on Lona, round the dwelling of my love.”

A light fell on the soul of the maid; it rose


208

kindled before the king. She turned her face to Cathmor, from amidst her waving locks. “Sooner shall the eagle of heaven be torn, from the stream of his roaring wind, when he sees the dun prey, before him, the young sons of the bounding roe, than thou, O Cathmor, be turned from the strife of renown. Soon may I see thee, warrior, from the skirts of the evening mist, when it is rolled around me, on Lona of the streams. While yet thou art distant far, strike, Cathmor, strike the shield, that joy may return to my darkened soul, as I lean on the mossy

209

rock. But if thou shouldst fall, I am in the land of strangers; O send thy voice, from thy cloud, to the maid of Inis-huna.”

“Young branch of green-headed Lumon, why dost thou shake in the storm? Often has Cathmor returned, from darkly-rolling wars. The darts of death are but hail to me; they have often rattled along my shield. I have risen brightened from battle, like a meteor from a stormy cloud. Return not, fair beam, from thy vale, when the roar of battle grows. Then might the foe escape, as from my fathers of old.

“They told to Son-mor, of Clunar, who was slain by Cormac in fight. Three days darkened Son-mor over his brother's fall. His spouse beheld the silent king, and foresaw his steps to war. She prepared the bow, in secret, to attend her blue-shielded hero. To her dwelt darkness, at Atha, when he was not there. From their hundred streams, by night, poured down the sons of Alnecma. They had heard the shield of the king, and their rage arose. In clanging arms they moved along, towards Ullin of the


210

groves. Son-mor struck his shield, at times, the leader of the war.

“Far behind followed Sul-allin, over the streamy hills. She was a light on the mountain, when they crossed the vale below. Her steps were stately on the vale, when they rose on the mossy hill. She feared to approach the king, who left her in echoing Atha. But when the roar of battle rose; when host was rolled on host; when Son-mor burnt, like the fire of heaven in clouds, with her spreading hair came Sul-allin; for she trembled for her king. He stopt the rushing strife to save the love of heroes. The foe fled by night; Clunar slept without his blood; the blood which ought to be poured upon the warrior's tomb.

“Nor rose the rage of Son-mor; but his days were silent and dark. Sul-allin wandered, by her grey streams, with her tearful eyes. Often did she look, on the hero, when he was folded in his thoughts. But she shrunk from his eyes, and turned her lone steps away. Battles rose, like a tempest, and drove the mist from his soul. He beheld, with joy, her steps in the hall, and the white rising of her hands on the harp.”


211

In his arms strode the chief of Atha, to where his shield hung, high, in night: high on a mossy bough, over Lubar's streamy roar. Seven bosses rose on the shield; the seven voices of the king, which his warriors received, from the wind, and marked over all their tribes.

On each boss is placed a star of night; Canmathon with beams unshorn; Col-derna rising from a cloud: Uloicho robed in mist; and the


212

soft beam of Cathling glittering on a rock. Smiling, on its own blue wave, Reldurath half sinks its western light. The red eye of Berthin looks, through a grove, on the hunter, as he returns,

213

by night, with the spoils of the bounding roe. Wide, in the mist, arose the cloudless beams of Ton-théna, that star which looked, by night, on the course of the sea-tossed Larthon: Larthon, the first of Bolga's race, who travelled on the winds. White-bosomed spread the sails of the king, towards streamy Inis-fail; dun night was rolled before him, with its skirts of mist. Unconstant blew the winds, and rolled him from wave to wave. Then rose the fiery-haired Ton-théna, and smiled from her parted cloud. Larthon blessed the well-known beam, as it faint-gleamed on the deep.


214

Beneath the spear of Cathmor, rose that voice which awakes the bards. They came, dark-winding, from every side; each with the sound of his harp. Before them rejoiced the king, as


215

the traveller, in the day of the sun; when he hears, far-rolling around, the murmur of mossy streams; streams that burst, in the desert, from the rock of roes.

“Why,” said Fonar, “hear we the voice of the king, in the season of his rest? Were the dim forms of thy fathers bending in thy dreams? Perhaps they stand on that cloud, and wait for Fonar's song; often they come to the fields where their sons are to lift the spear. Or shall our voice arise for him who lifts the spear no more; he that consumed the field, from Moma of the groves?”

“Not forgot is that cloud in war, bard of other times. High shall his tomb rise, on Moilena, the dwelling of renown. But now, roll back my soul to the times of my fathers; to the years when first they rose, on Inis-huna's waves. Nor alone pleasant to Cathmor is the remembrance of wood-covered Lumon. Lumon of the streams, the dwelling of white-bosomed maids.


216

“Lumon of the streams, thou risest on Fonar's soul! Thy sun is on thy side, on the rocks of thy bending trees. The dun roe is seen from thy furze; the deer lifts his branchy head; for he sees, at times, the hound on the half-covered heath. Slow, on the vale, are the steps of maids; the white-armed daughters of the bow: they lift their blue eyes to the hill, from amidst their wandering locks. Not there is the stride of Larthon, chief of Inis-huna. He mounts the wave on his own dark oak, in Cluba's ridgy bay. That oak which he cut from Lumon, to bound along the sea. The maids turn their eyes away, lest


217

the king should be lowly-laid; for never had they seen a ship, dark rider of the wave!

“Now he dares to call the winds, and to mix with the mist of ocean. Blue Inis-fail rose, in smoke; but dark-skirted night came down. The sons of Bolga feared. The fiery-haired Ton-théna rose. Culbin's bay received the ship, in the bosom of its echoing woods. There, issued a stream, from Duthuma's horrid cave; where spirits gleamed, at times, with their half-finished forms.

“Dreams descended on Larthon: he saw seven


218

spirits of his fathers. He heard their half-formed words, and dimly beheld the times to come. He beheld the kings of Atha, the sons of future days. They led their hosts, along the field, like ridges of mist, which winds pour, in autumn, over Atha of the groves.

“Larthon raised the hall of Samla, to the music of the harp. He went forth to the roes of Erin, to their wonted streams. Nor did he forget green-headed Lumon; he often bounded over his seas, to where white-handed Flathal looked from the hill of roes. Lumon of the foamy streams, thou risest on Fonar's soul!”

Morning pours from the east. The misty heads of the mountains rise. Vallies shew, on


219

every side, the grey-winding of their streams. His host heard the shield of Cathmor: at once they rose around; like a crowded sea, when first it feels the wings of the wind. The waves know not whither to roll; they lift their troubled heads.

Sad and slow retired Sul-malla to Lona of the streams. She went, and often turned; her blue eyes rolled in tears. But when she came to the rock, that darkly-covered Lona's vale, she looked, from her bursting soul, on the king; and sunk, at once, behind.

Son of Alpin, strike the string. Is there


220

aught of joy in the harp? Pour it then on the soul of Ossian: it is folded in mist. I hear thee, O bard, in my night. But cease the lightly-trembling sound. The joy of grief belongs to Ossian, amidst his dark-brown years.


221

Green thorn of the hill of ghosts, that shakest thy head to nightly winds! I hear no sound in thee; is there no spirit's windy skirt now rustling in thy leaves? Often are the steps of the dead, in the dark-eddying blasts; when the moon, a dun shield, from the east, is rolled along the sky.

Ullin, Carril, and Ryno, voices of the days of old! Let me hear you, while yet it is dark, to please and awake my soul. I hear you not, ye sons of song; in what hall of the clouds is your rest? Do you touch the shadowy harp, robed with morning mist, where the rustling sun comes forth from his green-headed waves?


223

BOOK VIII.


225

ARGUMENT.

The fourth morning, from the opening of the poem, comes on. Fingal, still continuing in the place to which he had retired on the preceding night, is seen, at intervals, through the mist which covered the rock of Cormul. The descent of the king is described. He orders Gaul, Dermid, and Carril the bard, to go to the valley of Cluna, and conduct from thence, to the Caledonian army, Ferad-artho, the son of Cairbre, the only person remaining of the family of Conor, the first king of Ireland. The king takes the command of the army, and prepares for battle. Marching towards the enemy, he comes to the cave of Lubar, where the body of Fillan lay. Upon seeing his dog Bran, who lay at the entrance of the cave, his grief returns. Cathmor arranges the Irish army in order of battle. The appearance of that hero. The general conflict is described. The actions of Fingal and Cathmor. A storm. The total rout of the Firbolg. The two kings engage, in a column of mist, on the banks of Lubar. Their attitude and conference after the combat. The death of Cathmor. Fingal resigns the spear of Trenmor to Ossian. The ceremonies observed on that occasion. The spirit of Cathmor, in the mean time, appears to Sul-malla, in the valley of Lona. Her sorrow. Evening comes on. A feast is prepared. The coming of Ferad artho is announced by the songs of a hundred bards. The poem closes with a speech of Fingal. Macpherson.


229

As when the wintry winds have seized the waves of the mountain-lake, have seized them, in stormy night, and clothed them over with ice;


230

white, to the hunter's early eye, the billows still seem to roll. He turns his ear to the sound of

231

each unequal ridge. But each is silent, gleaming, strewn with boughs and tufts of grass, which shake and whistle to the wind, over their grey seats of frost. So silent shone to the morning the ridges of Morven's host, as each warrior looked up from his helmet towards the hill of the king; the cloud-covered hill of Fingal, where he strode, in the folds of mist. At times is the hero seen, greatly dim in all his arms. From thought to thought rolled the war, along his mighty soul.

Now is the coming forth of the king. First appeared the sword of Luno; the spear half issuing


232

from a cloud, the shield still dim in mist. But when the stride of the king came abroad, with all his grey, dewy locks in the wind; then rose the shouts of his host over every moving tribe. They gathered, gleaming, round, with all their echoing shields. So rise the green seas round a spirit, that comes down from the squally wind. The traveller hears the sound afar, and lifts his head over the rock. He looks on the troubled bay, and thinks he dimly sees the form. The waves sport, unwieldy, round, with all their backs of foam.


233

Far-distant stood the son of Morni, Duthno's race, and Cona's bard. We stood far-distant; each beneath his tree. We shunned the eyes of the king; we had not conquered in the field. A little stream rolled at my feet: I touched its light wave, with my spear. I touched it with my spear; nor there was the soul of Ossian. It darkly rose, from thought to thought, and sent abroad the sigh.

“Son of Morni,” said the king, “Dermid, hunter of roes! why are ye dark, like two rocks, each with its trickling waters? No wrath gathers on Fingal's soul, against the chiefs of men. Ye are my strength in battle; the kindling of my joy in peace. My early voice has been a pleasant


234

gale to your ears, when Fillan prepared the bow. The son of Fingal is not here, nor yet the chace of the bounding roes. But why should the breakers of shields stand, darkened, far away?”

Tall they strode towards the king: they saw him turned to Mora's wind. His tears came down, for his blue-eyed son, who slept in the cave of streams. But he brightened before them, and spoke to the broad-shielded kings.

“Crommal, with woody rocks, and misty top, the field of winds, pours forth, to the sight, blue Lubar's streamy roar. Behind it rolls clear-winding Lavath, in the still vale of deer. A cave is dark in a rock; above it strong-winged eagles dwell; broad-headed oaks, before it sound in Cluna's wind. Within, in his locks of youth,


335

is Ferad-artho, blue-eyed king, the son of broad-shielded Cairbar, from Ullin of the roes. He listens to the voice of Condan, as, grey, he bends in feeble light. He listens; for his foes

236

dwell in the echoing halls of Temora. He comes, at times, abroad, in the skirts of mist, to pierce the bounding roes. When the sun looks on the field, nor by the rock, nor stream, is he! He

237

shuns the race of Bolga, who dwell in his father's hall. Tell him, that Fingal lifts the spear, and that his foes, perhaps, may fail.

“Lift up, O Gaul, the shield before him. Stretch, Dermid, Temora's spear. Be thy voice in his ear, O Carril, with the deeds of his fathers. Lead him to green Moi-lena, to the dusky field of ghosts; for there, I fall forward, in battle, in the folds of war. Before dun night descends, come to high Dunmora's top. Look, from the grey skirts of mist, on Lena of the streams. If there my standard shall float on wind, over Lubar's gleaming stream, then has not Fingal failed in the last of his fields.”

Such were his words; nor aught replied the silent striding kings. They looked, side-long, on Erin's host, and darkened, as they went. Never before had they left the king, in the midst of the stormy field. Behind them, touching at times his harp, the grey-haired Carril moved. He foresaw the fall of the people, and mournful was the sound! It was like a breeze that comes,


238

by fits, over Lego's reedy lake; when sleep half-descends on the hunter, within his mossy cave.

“Why bends the bard of Cona,” said Fingal, “over his secret stream? Is this a time for sorrow, father of low-laid Oscar? Be the warriors


239

remembered in peace; when echoing shields are heard no more. Bend, then, in grief, over the flood, where blows the mountain breeze. Let them pass on thy soul, the blue-eyed dwellers of the tomb. But Erin rolls to war; wide-tumbling, rough, and dark. Lift, Ossian, lift the shield. I am alone, my son!”

As comes the sudden voice of winds to the becalmed ship of Inis-huna, and drives it large, along the deep, dark rider of the wave; so


240

the voice of Fingal sent Ossian, tall, along the heath. He lifted high his shining shield, in the dusky wing of war: like the broad, blank moon, in the skirt of a cloud, before the storms arise.

Loud, from moss-covered Mora, poured down at once the broad-winged war. Fingal led his people forth, king of Morven of streams. On high spreads the eagle's wing. His grey hair is poured on his shoulders broad. In thunder are his mighty strides. He often stood, and saw


241

behind, the wide-gleaming rolling of armour. A rock he seemed, grey over with ice, whose woods are high in wind. Bright streams leap from its head, and spread their foam on blasts.

Now he came to Lubar's cave, where Fillan darkly slept. Bran still lay on the broken shield: the eagle-wing is strewed by the winds. Bright, from withered furze, looked forth the hero's spear. Then grief stirred the soul of the king, like whirlwinds blackening on a lake. He turned his sudden step, and leaned on his bending spear.

White-breasted Bran came bounding with joy to the known path of Fingal. He came, and looked towards the cave, where the blue-eyed hunter lay, for he was wont to stride, with morning, to the dewy bed of the roe. It was then the tears of the king came down, and all his soul was dark. But as the rising wind rolls away the storm of rain, and leaves the white streams to the sun, and high hills with their


242

heads of grass: so the returning war brightened the mind of Fingal. He bounded, on his

243

spear, over Lubar, and struck his echoing shield. His ridgy host bend forward, at once, with all their pointed steel.

Nor Erin heard, with fear, the sound: wide they came rolling along. Dark Malthos, in the wing of war, looks forward from shaggy brows. Next rose that beam of light Hidalla; then the side-long-looking gloom of Maronnan. Blue-shielded Clonar lifts the spear; Cormar shakes his bushy locks on the wind. Slowly, from behind


244

a rock, rose the bright form of Atha. First appeared his two pointed spears, then the half of his burnished shield: like the rising of a nightly meteor, over the vale of ghosts. But when he shone all abroad: the hosts plunged, at once, into strife. The gleaming waves of steel are poured on either side.

As meet two troubled seas, with the rolling of all their waves, when they feel the wings of contending winds, in the rock-sided firth of Lumon;


245

along the echoing hills is the dim course of ghosts: from the blast fall the torn groves on the deep, amidst the foamy path of whales. So mixed the hosts! Now Fingal; now Cathmor came abroad. The dark tumbling of death is before them: the gleam of broken steel is rolled on their steps, as, loud, the high-bounding kings hewed down the ridge of shields.

Maronnan fell, by Fingal, laid large across a stream. The waters gathered by his side, and leapt grey over his bossy shield. Clonar is pierced by Cathmor: nor yet lay the chief on earth. An oak seized his hair in his fall. His helmet rolled on the ground. By its thong, hung his broad shield; over it wandered his streaming


246

blood. Tla-min shall weep, in the hall, and strike her heaving breast.


247

Nor did Ossian forget the spear, in the wing of his war. He strewed the field with dead. Young Hidalla came. “Soft voice of streamy Clonra! Why dost thou lift the steel? O that we met, in the strife of song, in thy own rushy vale!” Malthos beheld him low, and darkened as he rushed along. On either side of a stream, we bend in the echoing strife. Heaven comes rolling down: around burst the voices of squally winds. Hills are clothed, at times, in fire. Thunder rolls in wreaths of mist. In darkness


248

shrunk the foe: Morven's warriors stood aghast. Still I bent over the stream, amidst my whistling locks.

Then rose the voice of Fingal, and the sound of the flying foe. I saw the king, at times, in lightning, darkly-striding in his might. I struck my echoing shield, and hung forward on the steps of Alnecma: the foe is rolled before me, like a wreath of smoke.

The sun looked forth from his cloud. The hundred streams of Moi-lena shone. Slow rose the blue columns of mist, against the glittering hill. “Where are the mighty kings? Nor by that stream, nor wood, are they! I hear the clang of arms! Their strife is in the bosom of that mist. Such is the contending of spirits


249

in a nightly cloud, when they strive for the wintry wings of wind, and the rolling of the foam-covered waves.

I rushed along. The grey mist rose. Tall, gleaming, they stood at Lubar. Cathmor leaned against a rock. His half-fallen shield received the stream, that leapt from the moss above. Towards him is the stride of Fingal: he saw the hero's blood. His sword fell slowly to his side. He spoke, midst his darkening joy.

“Yields the race of Borbar-duthul? Or still does he lift the spear? Not unheard is thy


250

name, at Atha, in the green dwelling of strangers. It has come, like the breeze of his desert, to the ear of Fingal. Come to my hill of feasts: the mighty fail, at times. No fire am I to low-laid foes: I rejoice not over the fall of the brave. To close the wound is mine: I have known the herbs of the hills. I seized their fair heads, on high, as they waved by their secret streams. Thou art dark and silent, king of Atha of strangers.

“By Atha of the stream,” he said, “there rises a mossy rock. On its head is the wandering of boughs, within the course of winds. Dark, in its face, is a cave with its own loud rill. There have I heard the tread of strangers, when they


251

passed to my hall of shells. Joy rose, like a flame, on my soul: I blest the echoing rock. Here be my dwelling, in darkness; in my grassy vale. From this I shall mount the breeze, that pursues my thistle's beard; or look down, on blue-winding Atha, from its wandering mist.”

“Why speaks the king of the tomb? Ossian! the warrior has failed! Joy meet thy soul, like a stream, Cathmor, friend of strangers! My son, I hear the call of years; they take my spear as they pass along. Why does not Fingal, they seem to say, rest within his hall? Dost thou always


252

delight in blood? In the tear of the sad? No: ye dark-rolling years, Fingal delights not in blood. Tears are wintry streams that waste away my soul. But, when I lie down to rest, then comes the mighty voice of war. It awakes me, in my hall, and calls forth all my steel. It shall call forth no more; Ossian, take thou thy father's spear. Lift it, in battle, when the proud arise.

“My fathers, Ossian, trace my steps; my deeds are pleasant to their eyes. Wherever I come forth to battle, on my field, are their columns of mist. But mine arm rescued the feeble; the haughty found my rage was fire. Never over the fallen did mine eye rejoice. For this, my fathers shall meet me, at the gates of


253

their airy halls, tall, with robes of light, with mildly-kindled eyes. But, to the proud in

254

arms, they are darkened moons in heaven, which send the fire of night, red-wandering over their face.

“Father of heroes, Trenmor, dweller of eddying winds! I give thy spear to Ossian, let thine eye rejoice. Thee have I seen, at times, bright from between thy clouds; so appear to my son, when he is to lift the spear: then shall he remember thy mighty deeds, though thou art now but a blast.”

He gave the spear to my hand, and raised at once a stone on high, to speak to future times, with its grey head of moss. Beneath he placed a sword in earth, and one bright boss from his shield. Dark in thought, a-while, he bends: his words, at length, came forth.

“When thou, O stone, shalt moulder down, and lose thee, in the moss of years, then shall the traveller come, and, whistling, pass away. Thou knowest not, feeble man, that fame once shone on Moi-lena. Here Fingal resigned his


255

spear, after the last of his fields. Pass away, thou empty shade; in thy voice there is no renown. Thou dwellest by some peaceful stream; yet a few years, and thou art gone. No one remembers thee, thou dweller of thick mist! But Fingal shall be clothed with fame, a beam of light to other times; for he went forth, in echoing steel, to save the weak in arms.”

Brightening in his fame, the king strode to Lubar's sounding oak, where it bent, from its rock, over the bright-tumbling stream. Beneath it is a narrow plain, and the sound of the fount of the rock. Here the standard of Morven poured its wreaths on the wind, to mark the way of Ferad-artho, from his secret vale. Bright, from his parted west, the sun of heaven looked abroad. The hero saw his people, and heard their shouts of joy. In broken ridges round, they glittered to the beam. The king rejoiced, as a hunter in his own green vale, when,


256

after the storm is rolled away, he sees the gleaming sides of the rocks. The green thorn shakes its head in their face; from their top look forward the roes.

Grey, at his mossy cave, is bent the aged form of Clonmal. The eyes of the bard had failed. He leaned forward, on his staff. Bright, in her locks, before him, Sul-malla listened to the tale; the tale of the kings of Atha, in the days of old. The noise of battle had ceased in his ear: he stopt, and raised the secret sigh. The spirits of the dead, they said, often lightened along his soul. He saw the king of Atha low, beneath his bending tree.

“Why art thou dark,” said the maid? “The strife of arms is past. Soon shall he come to thy cave, over thy winding streams. The sun looks from the rocks of the west. The mists of the lake arise. Grey, they spread on that hill, the rushy dwelling of roes. From the mist shall my king appear! Behold he comes in his arms.


257

Come to the cave of Clonmal, O my best beloved!”

It was the spirit of Cathmor, stalking, large, a gleaming form. He sunk by the hollow stream that roared between the hills. “It was but the hunter,” she said, “who searches for the bed of the roe. His steps are not forth to war; his spouse expects him with night. He shall, whistling, return with the spoils of the dark-brown hinds.” Her eyes were turned to the hill; again the stately form came down. She rose, in the midst of joy. He retired again in mist. Gradual vanish his limbs of smoke, and mix with the mountain-wind. Then she knew that he


258

fell! “King of Erin, art thou low!” Let Ossian forget her grief; it wastes the soul of age.


259

Evening came down on Moi-lena. Grey rolled the streams of the land. Loud came forth the voice of Fingal: the beam of oaks arose. The people gathered round with gladness; with gladness blended with shades. They sidelong looked to the king, and beheld his unfinished joy. Pleasant, from the way of the desert, the voice of music came. It seemed, at first, the noise of a stream far-distant on its rocks. Slow it rolled along the hill, like the ruffled wing of a


260

breeze, when it takes the tufted beard of the rocks, in the still season of night. It was the voice of Condan, mixed with Carril's trembling harp. They came, with blue-eyed Ferad-artho, to Mora of the streams.

Sudden bursts the song from our bards, on Lena: the host struck their shields midst the sound. Gladness rose brightening on the king, like the beam of a cloudy day, when it rises, on the green hill, before the roar of winds. He struck the bossy shield of kings; at once they cease around. The people lean forward, from their spears, towards the voice of their land.


261

“Sons of Morven, spread the feast; send the night away in song. Ye have shone around me, and the dark storm is past. My people are the windy rocks, from which I spread my eagle-wings,


262

when I rush forth to renown, and seize it on its field. Ossian, thou hast the spear of Fingal: it is not the staff of a boy, with which he strews the thistle round, young wanderer of the field. No: it is the lance of the mighty, with which they stretched forth their hands to death. Look to thy fathers, my son; they are awful beams. With morning lead Ferad-artho forth to the echoing halls of Temora. Remind him of the kings of Erin; the stately forms of old.

263

Let not the fallen be forgot, they were mighty in the field. Let Carril pour his song, that the kings may rejoice in their mist. To-morrow I spread my sails to Selma's shaded walls; where streamy Duthula winds through the seats of roes.”


265

CATHLIN OF CLUTHA:

A POEM.


267

ARGUMENT.

An address to Malvina, the daughter of Toscar. The poet relates the arrival of Cathlin in Selma, to solicit aid against Duth-carmor of Cluba, who had killed Cathmol, for the sake of his daughter Lanul. Fingal declining to make a choice among his heroes, who were all claiming the command of the expedition; they retired each to his hill of ghosts; to be determined by dreams. The spirit of Trenmor appears to Ossian and Oscar: they sail from the bay of Carmona, and, on the fourth day, appear off the valley of Rathcol, in Inis-huna, where Duth-carmor had fixed his residence. Ossian dispatches a bard to Duth-carmor to demand battle. Night comes on. The distress of Cathlin of Clutha. Ossian devolves the command on Oscar, who, according to the custom of the kings of Morven, before battle, retired to a neighbouring hill. Upon the coming on of day, the battle joins. Oscar and Duth-carmor meet. The latter falls. Oscar carries the mail and helmet of Duth-carmor to Cathlin, who had retired from the field. Cathlin is discovered to be the daughter of Cathmol, in disguise, who had been carried off, by force, by, and had made her escape from, Duth-carmor. Macpherson.

The traditions which accompany this poem inform us, that it went, of old, under the name of Laoi-Oi-lutha; i. e. the hymn of the maid of Lutha. They pretend also to fix the time of its composition, to the third year after the death of Fingal; that is, during the expedition of Fergus the son of Fingal, to the banks of Uisca-duthon. In support of this opinion, the Highland senachies have prefixed to this poem, an address of Ossian, to Congal the young son of Fergus, which I have rejected, as having no manner of connection with the rest of the piece. It has poetical merit; and, probably, it was the opening of one of Ossian's other poems, though the bards injudiciously transferred it to the piece now before us.

“Congal, son of Fergus of Durath, thou light between thy locks, ascend to the rock of Selma, to the oak of the breaker of shields. Look over the bosom of night, it is streaked with the red paths of the dead: look on the night of ghosts, and kindle, O Congal, thy soul. Be not, like the moon on a stream, lonely in the midst of clouds: darkness closes around it; and the beam departs. Depart not, son of Fergus, ere thou markest the field with thy sword. Ascend to the rock of Selma; to the oak of the breaker of shields.” Macpherson.


269

Come, thou beam that art lonely

Come, thou beam that art lonely, from watching in the night! The squally winds are around thee, from all their echoing hills. Red, over my hundred streams, are the light-covered paths of the dead. They rejoice, on the eddying winds, in the still season of night. Dwells there no joy in song, white hand of the harps of Lutha? Awake the voice of the string; and roll my soul to me. It is a stream that has failed. Malvina, pour the song.


270

I hear thee, from thy darkness, in Selma, thou that watchest, lonely, by night! Why didst thou with-hold the song, from Ossian's failing soul? As the falling brook to the ear of the hunter, descending from his storm-covered hill; in a sun-beam rolls the echoing stream; he hears, and shakes his dewy locks: such is the voice of Lutha, to the friend of the spirits of heroes. My swelling bosom beats high. I look back on the days that are past. Come, thou beam that art lonely, from watching in the night!

In the echoing bay of Carmona, we saw, one


271

day, the bounding ship. On high, hung a broken shield; it was marked with wandering blood. Forward came a youth, in arms, and stretched his pointless spear. Long, over his tearful eyes, hung loose his disordered locks. Fingal gave the shell of kings. The words of the stranger arose. “In his hall lies Cathmol of Clutha, by the winding of his own dark streams. Duth-carmor saw white-bosomed Lanul, and pierced her father's side. In the rushy desert were my steps. He fled in the season of night. Give thine aid to Cathlin to revenge his father. I sought thee not as a beam, in a land of clouds. Thou, like the sun, art known, king of echoing Selma!”

Selma's king looked around. In his presence we rose in arms. But who should lift the shield? for all had claimed the war. The night came down; we strode, in silence; each to his hill of ghosts: that spirits might descend, in our dreams, to mark us for the field. We struck the shield of the dead; we raised the hum of songs. We thrice called the ghosts of our fathers. We laid


272

us down in dreams. Trenmor came, before mine eyes, the tall form of other years! His blue hosts were behind him in half-extinguished rows. Scarce seen is their strife in mist, or their stretching forward to deaths. I listened; but no sound was there. The forms were empty wind!

I started from the dream of ghosts. On a sudden blast flew my whistling hair. Low-sounding, in the oak, is the departure of the dead. I took my shield from its bough. Onward came the rattling of steel. It was Oscar of Lego. He had seen his fathers. “As rushes forth the blast, on the bosom of whitening waves; so careless shall my course be, through ocean, to the dwelling of foes. I have seen the dead, my father! My beating soul is high! My fame is bright before me, like the streak of light on a cloud, when the broad sun comes forth, red traveller of the sky!”


273

“Grandson of Branno,” I said; “not Oscar alone shall meet the foe. I rush forward, through ocean, to the woody dwelling of heroes. Let us contend, my son, like eagles, from one rock; when they lift their broad wings, against the stream of winds.” We raised our sails in Carmona. From three ships, they marked my shield on the wave, as I looked on nightly Tonthena, red traveller between the clouds. Four days came the breeze abroad. Lumon came forward in mist. In winds were its hundred groves. Sunbeams marked, at times, its brown side. White, leapt the foamy streams, from all its echoing rocks.

A green field, in the bosom of hills, winds silent with its own blue stream. Here, midst the waving of oaks, were the dwellings of kings of old. But silence, for many dark-brown years, had settled in grassy Rath-col; for the race of heroes had failed, along the pleasant vale. Duth-carmor


274

was here, with his people, dark rider of the wave. Ton-thena had hid her head in the sky. He bound his white-bosomed sails. His course is on the hills of Rath-col, to the seats of roes. We came. I sent the bard, with songs, to call the foe to fight. Duth-carmor heard him, with joy. The king's soul was a beam of fire; a beam of fire, marked with smoke, rushing, varied, through the bosom of night. The deeds of Duth-carmor were dark, though his arm was strong.

Night came, with the gathering of clouds. By the beam of the oak we sat down. At a distance stood Cathlin of Clutha. I saw the changeful soul of the stranger. As shadows fly over the field of grass; so various is Cathlin's cheek. It was fair, within locks, that rose on Rath-col's wind. I did not rush, amidst his soul, with my words. I bade the song to rise.

“Oscar of Lego,” I said, “be thine the secret hill to-night. Strike the shield, like Morven's kings. With day, thou shalt lead in war. From my rock I shall see thee, Oscar, a dreadful form ascending in fight, like the appearance of ghosts, amidst the storms they raise. Why should mine


275

eyes return to the dim times of old, ere yet the song had bursted forth, like the sudden rising of winds? But the years, that are past, are marked with mighty deeds. As the nightly rider of waves looks up to Tonthena of beams; so let us turn our eyes to Trenmor, the father of kings.

“Wide, in Caracha's echoing field, Carmal had poured his tribes. They were a dark ridge of waves. The grey-haired bards were like moving foam on their face. They kindled the strife around, with their red-rolling eyes. Nor alone were the dwellers of rocks; a son of Loda was there; a voice, in his own dark land, to call the ghosts from high. On his hill, he had dwelt, in Lochlin, in the midst of a leafless grove. Five stones lifted, near, their heads. Loud roared his


276

rushing stream. He often raised his voice to the winds, when meteors marked their nightly wings; when the dark-robed moon was rolled behind her hill. Nor unheard of ghosts was he! They came with the sound of eagle wings. They turned battle, in fields, before the kings of men.

“But, Trenmor, they turned not from battle. He drew forward the troubled war; in its dark skirt was Trathal, like a rising light. It was dark; and Loda's son poured forth his signs, on night. The feeble were not before thee, son of other lands! Then rose the strife of kings about the hill of night; but it was soft as two summer gales, shaking their light wings, on a lake. Trenmor yielded to his son; for the fame of the king had been heard. Trathal came forth before his fame, and the foes failed, in echoing Caracha. The years that are past, my son, are marked with mighty deeds.”

In clouds rose the eastern light. The foe came forth in arms. The strife is mixed on


277

Rath-col, like the roar of streams. Behold the contending of kings! They meet before the oak. In gleams of steel the dark forms are lost; such is the meeting of meteors, in a vale by night: red light is scattered round, and men foresee the storm! Duth-carmor is low in blood! The son of Ossian overcame! Not harmless in battle was he, Malvina, hand of harps!

Nor, in the field, were the steps of Cathlin. The stranger stood by a secret stream, where the foam of Rath-col skirted the mossy stones. Above, bends the branchy birch, and strews its leaves, on wind. The inverted spear of Cathlin touched, at times, the stream. Oscar brought Duth-carmor's mail: his helmet with its eagle-wing. He placed them before the stranger, and his words were heard. “The foes of thy father have failed. They are laid in the field of ghosts. Renown returns to Morven, like a rising wind.


278

Why art thou dark, chief of Clutha! Is there cause for grief?

“Son of Ossian of harps, my soul is darkly sad. I behold the arms of Cathmol, which he raised in war. Take the mail of Cathlin, place it high in Selma's hall, that thou mayst remember the hapless in thy distant land.” From white breasts descended the mail. It was the race of kings; the soft-handed daughter of Cathmol, at the streams of Clutha! Duth-carmor saw her bright in the hall; he had come, by night, to Clutha. Cathmol met him, in battle, but the hero fell. Three days dwelt the foe with the maid. On the fourth she fled in arms. She remembered the race of kings, and felt her bursting soul!

Why, maid of Toscar of Lutha, should I tell how Cathlin failed? Her tomb is at rushy Lumon, in a distant land. Near it were the steps of Sul-malla, in the days of grief. She raised the song, for the daughter of strangers, and touched the mournful harp.

Come, from the watching of night, Malvina, lonely beam!


279

SULMALLA OF LUMON:

A POEM.


281

ARGUMENT.

This poem, which, properly speaking, is a continuation of the last, opens with an address to Sul-malla, the daughter of the king of Inis-huna, whom Ossian met at the chace, as he returned from the battle of Rath-col. Sul-malla invites Ossian and Oscar to a feast, at the residence of her father, who was then absent in the wars. Upon hearing their name and family, she relates an expedition of Fingal into Inis-huna. She casually mentioning Cathmor, chief of Atha (who then assisted her father against his enemies), Ossian introduces the episode of Culgorm and Surandronlo, two Scandinavian kings, in whose wars Ossian himself and Cathmor were engaged on opposite sides. The story is imperfect, a part of the original being lost. Ossian, warned in a dream by the ghost of Trenmor, sets sail from Inis-huna. Macpherson.


283

Who moves so stately, on Lumon

Who moves so stately, on Lumon, at the roar of the foamy waters? Her hair falls upon her heaving breast. White is her arm behind, as slow she bends the bow. Why dost thou wander in deserts, like a light through a cloudy field? The young roes are panting, by their secret rocks. Return, thou daughter of kings!


284

the cloudy night is near! It was the young branch of green Inis-huna, Sul-malla of blue eyes. She sent the bard from her rock, to bid us to her feast. Amidst the song we sat down, in Cluba's echoing hall. White moved the hands of Sul-malla, on the trembling strings. Half-heard amidst the sound, was the name of Atha's king: he that was absent in battle for her own green land. Nor absent from her soul was he; he came midst her thoughts by night. Tonthena looked in, from the sky, and saw her tossing arms.

The sound of shells had ceased. Amidst long locks, Sul-malla rose. She spoke with bended eyes, and asked of our course through seas; “for of the kings of men are ye, tall riders of the wave.” “Not unknown,” I said, “at his


285

streams is he, the father of our race. Fingal has been heard of at Cluba. blue-eyed daughter of kings. Nor only, at Cona's stream, is Ossian and Oscar known. Foes trembled at our voice, and shrunk in other lands.”

“Not unmarked,” said the maid, “by Sul-malla, is the shield of Morven's king. It hangs high, in my father's hall, in memory of the past; when Fingal came to Cluba, in the days of other years. Loud roared the boar of Culdarnu, in the midst of his rocks and woods. Inis-huna sent her youths, but they failed; and virgins wept over tombs. Careless went Fingal to Culdarnu. On his spear rolled the strength of the woods. He was bright, they said, in his locks, the first of mortal men. Nor at the feast were heard his words. His deeds passed from his soul of fire, like the rolling of vapours from the face of the wandering sun. Not careless looked the blue eyes of Cluba on his stately steps. In white bosoms rose the king of Selma, in the midst of their thoughts by night. But the winds bore the stranger to the echoing vales of his roes.


286

Nor lost to other lands was he, like a meteor that sinks in a cloud. He came forth, at times, in his brightness, to the distant dwelling of foes. His fame came, like the sound of winds, to Cluba's woody vale.”

“Darkness dwells in Cluba of harps: the race of kings is distant far; in battle is my father Conmor: and Lormar my brother, king of streams. Nor darkening alone are they; a beam, from other lands, is nigh; the friend of strangers in Atha, the troubler of the field. High, from their misty hills, look forth the blue eyes of Erin; for he is far away, young dweller of their souls! Nor harmless, white hands of Erin! is Cathmor in the skirts of war; he rolls ten thousand before him, in his distant field.”

“Not unseen by Ossian,” I said, “rushed Cathmor from his streams, when he poured his strength on I-thorno, isle of many waves! In strife met two kings in I-thorno, Culgorm and Suran-dronlo: each from his echoing isle, stern hunters of the boar!

“They met a boar, at a foamy stream: each pierced him with his spear. They strove for the fame of the deed; and gloomy battle rose. From


287

isle to isle they sent a spear, broken and stained with blood, to call the friends of their fathers, in their sounding arms. Cathmor came, from Erin, to Culgorm, red-eyed king: I aided Suran-dronlo, in his land of boars.

“We rushed on either side of a stream, which roared through a blasted heath. High broken rocks were round, with all their bending trees. Near were two circles of Loda, with the stone of power; where spirits descended, by night, in dark-red streams of fire. There, mixed with the murmur of waters, rose the voice of aged men; they called the forms of night to aid them in their war.”

Heedless I stood, with my people, where fell the foamy stream from rocks. The moon moved red from the mountain. My song, at times, arose. Dark, on the other side, young Cathmor heard my voice; for he lay, beneath the oak, in all his gleaming arms. Morning came; we rushed to fight: from wing to wing is the rolling of strife. They fell, like the thistle's head, beneath autumnal winds.


288

In armour came a stately form: I mixed my strokes with the chief. By turns our shields are pierced: loud rung our steely mails. His helmet fell to the ground. In brightness shone the foe. His eyes, two pleasant flames, rolled between his wandering locks. I knew Cathmor of Atha, and threw my spear on earth. Dark, we turned, and silent passed to mix with other foes.

“Not so passed the striving kings. They mixed in echoing fray; like the meeting of ghosts in the dark wing of winds. Through either breast rushed the spears; nor yet lay the foes on earth! A rock received their fall; half-reclined they lay in death. Each held the lock of his foe; each grimly seemed to roll his eyes. The stream of the rock leapt on their shields, and mixed below with blood.

“The battle ceased in I-thorno. The strangers met in peace: Cathmor from Atha of streams, and Ossian, king of harps. We placed the dead


289

in earth. Our steps were by Runar's bay. With the bounding boat, afar, advanced a ridgy wave. Dark was the rider of seas, but a beam of light was there, like the ray of the sun, in Stromlo's rolling smoke. It was the daughter of Suran-dronlo, wild in brightened looks. Her eyes were wandering flames, amidst disordered locks. Forward is her white arm, with the spear; her high-heaving breast is seen, white as foamy waves that rise, by turns, amidst rocks. They are beautiful, but terrible, and mariners call the winds!”

“Come, ye dwellers of Loda!” she said, “come, Carchar, pale in the midst of clouds! Sluthmor, that stridest in airy halls! Corchtur, terrible in winds! Receive, from his daughter's spear, the foes of Suran-dronlo. No shadow, at his roaring streams; no mildly-looking form was he! When he took up his spear, the hawks shook their sounding wings; for blood was poured around the steps of dark-eyed Suran-dronlo.


290

He lighted me, no harmless beam, to glitter on his streams. Like meteors I was bright; but I blasted the foes of Suran-dronlo.” [OMITTED]

Nor unconcerned heard Sul-malla, the praise of Cathmor of shields. He was within her soul, like a fire in secret heath, which awakes at the voice of the blast, and sends its beam abroad. Amidst the song removed the daughter of kings, like the voice of a summer breeze; when it lifts the heads of flowers, and curls the lakes and streams. The rustling sound gently spreads o'er the vale, softly-pleasing as it saddens the soul.


291

By night came a dream to Ossian; formless stood the shadow of Trenmor. He seemed to strike the dim shield, on Selma's streamy rock. I rose, in my rattling steel; I knew that war was near. Before the winds our sails were spread; when Lumon shewed its streams to the morn.

Come from the watching of night, Malvina, lonely beam!


293

CATH-LODA:

A POEM.

DUAN FIRST.


295

ARGUMENT.

Fingal, when very young, making a voyage to the Orkney islands, was driven, by stress of weather, into a bay of Scandinavia, near the residence of Starno, king of Lochlin. Starno invites Fingal to a feast. Fingal, doubting the faith of the king, and, mindful of a former breach of hospitality, refuses to go. Starno gathers together his tribes: Fingal resolves to defend himself. Night coming on, Duth-maruno proposes to Fingal to observe the motions of the enemy. The king himself undertakes the watch. Advancing towards the enemy, he accidentally comes to the cave of Turthor, where Starno had confined Conban-carglas, the captive daughter of a neighbouring chief. Her story is imperfect, a part of the original being lost. Fingal comes to a place of worship, where Starno and his son, Swaran, consulted the spirit of Loda, concerning the issue of the war. The rencounter of Fingal and Swaran. Duän first concludes with a description of the airy hall of Cruth-loda, supposed to be the Odin of Scandinavia. Macpherson.


297

A tale of the times of old!

A tale of the times of old!

Why, thou wanderer unseen! thou bender of the thistle of Lora; why, thou breeze of the valley, hast thou left mine ear? I hear no distant roar of streams! No sound of the harp, from the rock! Come, thou huntress of Lutha, Malvina, call back his soul to the bard. I look forward


298

to Lochlin of lakes, to the dark billowy bay of U-thorno, where Fingal descends from ocean, from the roar of winds. Few are the heroes of Morven, in a land unknown!

Starno sent a dweller of Loda, to bid Fingal to the feast; but the king remembered the past, and all his rage arose. “Nor Gormal's mossy towers, nor Starno shall Fingal behold. Deaths wander, like shadows, over his fiery soul! Do I forget that beam of light, the white-handed daughter of kings? Go, son of Loda; his words are wind to Fingal: wind, that, to and fro, drives the thistle, in autumn's dusky vale. Duth-maruno, arm of death! Crommaglas, of iron shields! Struthmor, dweller of battle's wing! Cormar, whose ships bound on seas, careless as the course of a meteor, on dark-rolling clouds! Arise, around me, children of heroes, in a land


299

unknown! Let each look on his shield, like Trenmor, the ruler of wars. “Come down,” thus Trenmor said, “thou dweller between the harps. Thou shalt roll this stream away, or waste with me in earth.”

Around the king they rise in wrath. No words come forth: they seize their spears. Each soul is rolled into itself. At length the sudden clang is waked, on all their echoing shields. Each takes his hill, by night; at intervals, they darkly stand. Unequal bursts the hum of songs, between the roaring wind!

Broad over them rose the moon!

In his arms came tall Duth-maruno; he from Croma of rocks, stern hunter of the boar! In his dark boat he rose on waves, when Crumthormo awaked its woods. In the chace he shone, among foes: No fear was thine, Duth-maruno!

“Son of daring Comhal, shall my steps be forward through night! From this shield shall I view them, over their gleaming tribes? Starno,


300

king of lakes, is before me, and Swaran, the foe of strangers. Their words are not in vain, by Loda's stone of power.—Should Duth-maruno not return, his spouse is lonely, at home, where meet two roaring streams, on Crathmo-craulo's plain. Around are hills, with echoing woods; the ocean is rolling near. My son looks on screaming sea-fowl, a young wanderer on the field. Give the head of a boar to Can-dona, tell him of his father's joy, when the bristly strength of I-thorno rolled on his lifted spear. Tell him of my deeds in war! Tell where his father fell!”

“Not forgetful of my fathers,” said Fingal, “I have bounded over the seas. Theirs were the times of danger, in the days of old. Nor settles darkness on me, before foes, though youthful in my locks. Chief of Crathmo-craulo, the field of night is mine.”

Fingal rushed, in all his arms, wide-bounding over Turthor's stream, that sent its sullen roar, by night, through Gormal's misty vale. A moonbeam glittered on a rock; in the midst stood a stately form; a form with floating locks, like Lochlin's white-bosomed maids. Unequal are her steps, and short. She throws a broken song on


301

wind. At times she tosses her white arms; for grief is dwelling in her soul.

“Torcul-torno, of aged locks!” she said, “where now are thy steps, by Lulan! Thou hast failed, at thine own dark streams, father of Conban-cârglas! But I behold thee, chief of Lulan, sporting by Loda's hall, when the dark-skirted night is rolled along the sky.—Thou, sometimes, hidest the moon with thy shield. I have seen her dim in heaven. Thou kindlest thy hair into meteors, and sailest along the night. Why am I forgot, in my cave, king of shaggy boars? Look, from the hall of Loda, on thy lonely daughter.”

“Who art thou,” said Fingal, “voice of night?”

She, trembling, turned away.

“Who art thou, in thy darkness?”


302

She shrunk into the cave.

The king loosed the thong from her hands. He asked about her fathers.

“Torcul-torno,” she said, “once dwelt at Lulan's foamy stream: he dwelt—but now, in Loda's hall, he shakes the sounding shell. He met Starno of Lochlin in war; long fought the dark-eyed kings. My father fell, in his blood, blue-shielded Torcul-torno! By a rock, at Lulan's stream, I had pierced the bounding roe. My white hand gathered my hair, from off the rushing winds. I heard a noise. Mine eyes were up. My soft breast rose on high. My step was forward, at Lulan, to meet thee, Torcul-torno! It was Starno, dreadful king! His red eyes rolled on me in love. Dark waved his shaggy brow, above his gathered smile. Where is my father, I said, he that was mighty in war? Thou art left alone among foes, O daughter of Torcul-torno! He took my hand. He raised the sail. In this cave he placed me dark. At times, he comes, a gathered mist. He lifts, before me, my father's shield. But often passes a beam of youth, far-distant from my cave. The son of Starno


303

moves in my sight. He dwells lonely in my soul.”

“Maid of Lulan,” said Fingal, “white-handed daughter of grief! a cloud, marked with streaks of fire, is rolled along thy soul. Look not to that dark-robed moon; look not to those meteors of heaven. My gleaming steel is around thee, the terror of thy foes! It is not the steel of the feeble, nor of the dark in soul! The maids are not shut in our caves of streams. They toss not their white arms alone. They bend, fair within their locks, above the harps of Selma. Their voice is not in the desert wild. We melt along the pleasing sound!”

[OMITTED] [OMITTED]

Fingal again advanced his steps, wide through the bosom of night, to where the trees of Loda shook amid squally winds. Three stones, with heads of moss, are there; a stream, with foaming course: and dreadful, rolled around them,


304

is the dark-red cloud of Loda. High from its top looked forward a ghost, half-formed of the shadowy smoke. He poured his voice, at times, amidst the roaring stream. Near, bending beneath a blasted tree, two heroes received his words: Swaran of lakes, and Starno, foe of strangers. On their dun shields they darkly leaned: their spears are forward through night. Shrill sounds the blast of darkness, in Starno's floating beard.

They heard the tread of Fingal. The warriors rose in arms. “Swaran, lay that wanderer low,” said Starno, in his pride. “Take the shield of thy father. It is a rock in war.”—Swaran threw his gleaming spear. It stood fixed in Loda's tree. Then came the foes forward, with swords. They mixed their rattling steel. Through the thongs of Swaran's shield rushed the blade of Luno. The shield fell rolling on earth. Cleft the helmet fell down. Fingal stopt the lifted steel. Wrathful stood Swaran, unarmed. He rolled his silent eyes; he threw his sword on


305

earth. Then, slowly stalking over the stream, he whistled as he went.

Nor unseen of his father is Swaran. Starno turns away in wrath. His shaggy brows wave dark, above his gathered rage. He strikes Loda's tree with his spear. He raises the hum of songs. They come to the host of Lochlin, each in his own dark path; like two foam-covered streams, from two rainy vales!

To Turthor's plain Fingal returned. Fair rose the beam of the east. It shone on the spoils of Lochlin in the hand of the king. From her cave came forth, in her beauty, the daughter of Torcul-torno. She gathered her hair from wind. She wildly raised her song. The song of Lulan


306

of shells, where once her father dwelt. She saw Starno's bloody shield. Gladness rose, a light, on her face. She saw the cleft helmet of Swaran. She shrunk, darkened, from Fingal. “Art thou fallen, by thy hundred streams, O love of the mournful maid.”[OMITTED] [OMITTED]

U-thorno, that risest in waters! on whose side are the meteors of night! I behold the dark moon descending, behind thy resounding woods. On thy top dwells the misty Loda, the house


307

of the spirits of men! In the end of his cloudy hall, bends forward Cruth-loda of swords. His form is dimly seen, amid his wavy mist. His right hand is on his shield. In his left is the half-viewless shell. The roof of his dreadful hall is marked with nightly fires!

The race of Cruth-loda advance, a ridge of formless shades. He reaches the sounding shell, to those who shone in war. But, between him


308

and the feeble, his shield rises, a darkened orb. He is a setting meteor to the weak in arms. Bright, as a rainbow on streams, came Lulan's white-bosomed maid.


309

DUAN SECOND.


311

ARGUMENT.

Fingal returning, with day, devolves the command on Duth-maruno, who engages the enemy, and drives them over the stream of Turthor. Having recalled his people, he congratulates Duth-maruno on his success; but discovers, that that hero had been mortally wounded in the action.—Duth-maruno dies. Ullin, the bard, in honour of the dead, introduces the episode of Colgorm and Strina-dona, which concludes this duän. Macpherson.


313

Where art thou, son of the king,” said dark-haired Duth-maruno? “Where hast thou failed, young beam of Selma? He returns not, from the bosom of night! Morning is spread on Uthorno. In his mist is the sun, on his hill. Warriors, lift the shields, in my presence. He must not fall, like a fire from heaven, whose place is not marked on the ground. He comes, like an eagle from the skirt of his squally wind! In his hand are the spoils of foes. King of Selma, our souls were sad!

“Near us are the foes, Duth-maruno. They come forward, like waves in mist, when their


314

foamy tops are seen, at times, above the low-sailing vapour. The traveller shrinks on his journey; he knows not whither to fly. No trembling travellers are we! Sons of heroes call forth the steel. Shall the sword of Fingal arise, or shall a warrior lead?”

“The deeds of old,” said Duth-maruno, “are like paths to our eyes, O Fingal. Broad-shielded Trenmor is still seen, amidst his own dim years. Nor feeble was the soul of the king. There, no dark deed wandered in secret. From their hundred streams came the tribes, to grassy Colglancrona. Their chiefs were before them. Each strove to lead the war. Their swords were often half unsheathed. Red rolled their eyes of rage. Separate they stood, and hummed their surly songs. “Why should they yield to each other?


315

their fathers were equal in war.” Trenmor was there, with his people, stately in youthful locks. He saw the advancing foe. The grief of his soul arose. He bade the chiefs to lead, by turns: they led; but they were rolled away. From his own mossy hill blue-shielded Trenmor came down. He led wide-skirted battle, and the strangers failed. Around him the dark-browed warriors came: they struck the shield of joy. Like a pleasant gale, the words of power rushed forth from Selma of kings. But the chiefs led, by turns, in war, till mighty danger rose: then was the hour of the king to conquer in the field.

“Not unknown,” said Cromma-glass of shields, “are the deeds of our fathers. But who shall now lead the war, before the race of kings? Mist settles on these four dark hills: within it let each warrior strike his shield. Spirits may descend in darkness, and mark us for the war.”

They went, each to his hill of mist. Bards marked the sounds of the shields. Loudest rung thy boss, Duth-maruno. Thou must lead in war!

Like the murmur of waters, the race of U-thorno


316

came down. Starno led the battle, and Swaran of stormy isles. They looked forward from iron shields, like Cruth-loda fiery-eyed, when he looks from behind the darkened moon, and strews his signs on night. The foes met by Turthor's stream. They heaved like ridgy waves. Their echoing strokes are mixed. Shadowy death flies over the hosts. They were clouds of hail, with squally winds in their skirts. Their showers are roaring together. Below them swells the dark-rolling deep.

Strife of gloomy U-thorno, why should I mark thy wounds! Thou art with the years that are gone! thou fadest on my soul!


317

Starno brought forward his skirt of war, and Swaran his own dark wing. Nor a harmless fire is Duth-maruno's sword. Lochlin is rolled over her streams. The wrathful kings are lost in thought. They roll their silent eyes, over the flight of their land. The horn of Fingal was heard; the sons of woody Albion returned. But many lay, by Turthor's stream, silent in their blood.

“Chief of Crathmo,” said the king, “Duth-maruno, hunter of boars! not harmless returns my eagle, from the field of foes! For this white-bosomed Lanul shall brighten, at her streams; Candona shall rejoice, as he wanders in Crathmo's fields.”

“Colgorm,” replied the chief, “was the first of my race in Albion; Colgorm, the rider of ocean, through its watry vales. He slew his brother in I-thorno: he left the land of his fathers. He chose his place, in silence, by rocky Crathmo-craulo. His race came forth, in their years; they came forth to war, but they always fell. The wound of my fathers is mine, king of echoing isles!”

He drew an arrow from his side! He fell pale,


318

in a land unknown. His soul came forth to his fathers, to their stormy isle. There they pursued boars of mist, along the skirts of wind. The chiefs stood silent around, as the stones of Loda on their hill. The traveller sees them, through the twilight, from his lonely path. He thinks them the ghosts of the aged, forming future wars.

Night came down on U-thorno. Still stood the chiefs in their grief. The blast whistled by turns, through every warrior's hair. Fingal, at length, broke forth from the thoughts of his soul. He called Ullin of harps, and bade the song to rise. “No falling fire, that is only seen, and then retires in night; no departing meteor was he that is laid so low. He was like the


319

strong-beaming sun, long rejoicing on his hill. Call the names of his fathers, from their dwellings old!”

I-thorno, said the bard, that risest midst ridgy seas! why is thy head so gloomy, in the ocean's mist? From thy vales came forth a race, fearless as thy strong-winged eagles; the race of Colgorm of iron shields, dwellers of Loda's hall.

In Tormoth's resounding isle, arose Lurthan, streamy hill. It bent its woody head over a silent vale. There, at foamy Cruruth's source, dwelt Rurmar, hunter of boars! His daughter was fair as a sun-beam, white-bosomed Strina-dona!

Many a king of heroes, and hero of iron shields; many a youth of heavy locks came to Rurmar's echoing hall. They came to woo the maid, the stately huntress of Tormoth wild. But thou lookest careless from thy steps, high-bosomed Strina-dona!

If on the heath she moved, her breast was whiter than the down of Cana; if on the sea-beat


320

shore, than the foam of the rolling ocean. Her eyes were two stars of light. Her face was heaven's bow in showers. Her dark hair flowed round it, like the streaming clouds. Thou wert the dweller of souls, white-handed Strina-dona!


321

Colgorm came, in his ship, and Corcul-Suran, king of shells. The brothers came, from I-thorno, to woo the sun-beam of Tormoth wild. She saw them in their echoing steel. Her soul was fixed on blue-eyed Colgorm. Ul-lochlin's nightly eye looked in, and saw the tossing arms of Strina-dona.

Wrathful the brothers frowned. Their flaming eyes, in silence, met. They turned away. They struck their shields. Their hands were trembling on their swords. They rushed into the strife of heroes, for long-haired Strina-dona.

Corcul-suran fell in blood. On his isle raged the strength of his father. He turned Colgorm, from I-thorno, to wander on all the winds. In


322

Crathmo-craulo's rocky field, he dwelt by a foreign stream. Nor darkened the king alone; that beam of light was near, the daughter of echoing Tormoth, white-armed Strina-dona.


323

DUAN THIRD.


325

ARGUMENT.

Ossian, after some general reflections, describes the situation of Fingal, and the position of the army of Lochlin. The conversation of Starno and Swaran. The episode of Corman-trunar and Foinar-bragal. Starno, from his own example, recommends to Swaran to surprise Fingal, who had retired alone to a neighbouring hill. Upon Swaran's refusal, Starno undertakes the enterprise himself, is overcome, and taken prisoner, by Fingal. He is dismissed, after a severe reprimand for his cruelty. Macpherson.


327

Whence is the stream of years? Whither do they roll along? Where have they hid, in mist, their many-coloured sides?

I look into the times of old, but they seem dim to Ossian's eyes, like reflected moon-beams on a distant lake. Here rise the red beams of


328

war! There, silent, dwells a feeble race! They mark no years with their deeds, as slow they pass along. Dweller between the shields! thou that awakest the failing soul! descend from thy wall, harp of Cona, with thy voices three! Come with that which kindles the past: rear the forms of old, on their own dark-brown years!

Uthorno, hill of storms, I behold my race on thy side. Fingal is bending, in night, over Duthmaruno's tomb. Near him are the steps of his heroes, hunters of the boar. By Turthor's stream the host of Lochlin is deep in shades. The wrathful kings stood on two hills; they looked forward from their bossy shields. They looked forward to the stars of night, red-wandering in the west. Cruth-loda bends from high, like a


329

formless meteor in clouds. He sends abroad the winds, and marks them, with his sighs. Starno foresaw, that Morven's king was not to yield in war.

He twice struck the tree in wrath. He rushed before his son. He hummed a surly song; and heard his hair in wind. Turned from one another, they stood, like two oaks, which different winds had bent; each hangs over its own loud rill, and shakes its boughs in the course of blasts.


330

“Annir,” said Starno of lakes, “was a fire that consumed of old. He poured death from his eyes, along the striving fields. His joy was in the fall of men. Blood, to him, was a summer stream, that brings joy to withered vales, from its own mossy rock. He came forth to the lake Luth-cormo, to meet the tall Corman-trunar, he from Urlor of streams, dweller of battle's wing.

The chief of Urlor had come to Gormal, with his dark-bosomed ships. He saw the daughter of Annir, white-armed Foina-brâgal. He saw her! Nor careless rolled her eyes, on the rider of stormy waves. She fled to his ship in darkness, like a moon-beam through a nightly vale. Annir pursued along the deep; he called the winds of heaven. Nor alone was the king! Starno was by his side. Like U-thorno's young eagle, I turned my eyes on my father.

We rushed into roaring Urlor. With his people came tall Corman-trunar. We fought; but the foe prevailed. In his wrath my father stood. He lopped the young trees, with his sword. His


331

eyes rolled red in his rage. I marked the soul of the king, and I retired in night. From the field I took a broken helmet: a shield that was pierced with steel: pointless was the spear in my hand. I went to find the foe.

On a rock sat tall Corman-trunar, beside his burning oak; and near him, beneath a tree, sat deep-bosomed Foina-brâgal. I threw my broken shield before her. I spoke the words of peace. “Beside his rolling sea, lies Annir of many lakes. The king was pierced in battle; and Starno is to raise his tomb. Me, a son of Loda, he sends to white-handed Foina, to bid her send a lock from her hair, to rest with her father, in earth. And thou king of roaring Urlor, let the battle cease, till Annir receive the shell, from fiery-eyed Cruth-loda.

Bursting into tears, she rose, and tore a lock from her hair: a lock, which wandered, in the blast, along her heaving breast. Corman-trunar gave the shell, and bade me to rejoice before him. I rested in the shade of night, and hid my face in my helmet deep. Sleep descended on the foe. I rose, like a stalking ghost. I pierced


332

the side of Corman-trunar. Nor did Foina-brâgal escape. She rolled her white bosom in blood.

Why, then, daughter of heroes, didst thou wake my rage?

Morning rose. The foe were fled, like the departure of mist. Annir struck his bossy shield. He called his dark-haired son. I came, streaked with wandering blood: thrice rose the shout of the king, like the bursting forth of a squall of wind, from a cloud, by night. We rejoiced, three days, above the dead, and called the hawks of heaven. They came, from all their winds,


333

to feast on Annir's foes. Swaran! Fingal is alone, on his hill of night. Let thy spear pierce the king in secret; like Annir, my soul shall rejoice.

“Son of Annir,” said Swaran, “I shall not slay in shades. I move forth in light: the hawks rush from all their winds. They are wont to trace my course: it is not harmless through war.”


334

Burning rose the rage of the king. He thrice raised his gleaming spear. But, starting, he spared his son; and rushed into the night. By Turthor's cave a stream is dark, the dwelling of Conban-carglas. There he laid the helmet of kings, and called the maid of Lulan; but she was distant far, in Loda's resounding hall.

Swelling in his rage, he strode, to where Fingal lay alone. The king was laid on his shield, on his own secret hill.

Stern hunter of shaggy boars! no feeble maid is laid before thee. No boy, on his ferny bed, by Turthor's murmuring stream. Here is spread the couch of the mighty, from which they rise to deeds of death! Hunter of shaggy boars, awaken not the terrible!

Starno came murmuring on. Fingal arose in arms. “Who art thou, son of night?” Silent he threw the spear. They mixed their gloomy strife. The shield of Starno fell, cleft in twain. He is bound to an oak. The early beam arose. It was then Fingal beheld the king. He rolled a while his silent eyes. He thought of other days, when the white-bosomed Agandecca moved like the music of songs. He loosed the thongs from


335

his hands. “Son of Annir,” he said, “retire. Retire to Gormal of shells; a beam that was set returns. I remember thy white-bosomed daughter; dreadful king away! Go to thy troubled dwelling, cloudy foe of the lovely! Let the stranger shun thee, thou gloomy in the hall!

A tale of the times of old!


337

OINA-MORUL:

A POEM.


339

ARGUMENT.

After an address to Malvina, the daughter of Toscar, Ossian proceeds to relate his own expedition to Fuärfed, an island of Scandinavia. Mal-orchol, king of Fuärfed, being hard pressed in war, by Ton-thormod, chief of Sar-dronlo (who had demanded, in vain, the daughter of Mal-orchol in marriage), Fingal sent Ossian to his aid. Ossian, on the day after his arrival, came to battle with Ton-thormod, and took him prisoner. Mal-orchol offers his daughter Oina-morul to Ossian; but he, discovering her passion for Ton-thormod, generously surrenders her to her lover, and brings about a reconciliation between the two kings. Macpherson.


341

As flies the inconstant sun

As flies the inconstant sun, over Larmon's grassy hill; so pass the tales of old, along my soul, by night! When bards are removed to their place; when harps are hung in Selma's hall; then comes a voice to Ossian, and awakes his soul! It is the voice of years that are gone! they roll before me, with all their deeds! I seize the


342

tales, as they pass, and pour them forth in song. Nor a troubled stream is the song of the king, it is like the rising of music from Lutha of the strings. Lutha of many strings, not silent are thy streamy rocks, when the white hands of Malvina move upon the harp! Light of the shadowy thoughts, that fly across my soul, daughter of Toscar of helmets, wilt thou not hear the song! We call back, maid of Lutha, the years that have rolled away.

It was in the days of the king, while yet my locks were young, that I marked Con-cathlin, on high, from ocean's nightly wave. My course was towards the isle of Fuärfed, woody dweller of seas! Fingal had sent me to the aid of Mal-orchol, king of Fuärfed wild: for war was around him, and our fathers had met, at the feast.

In Col-coiled, I bound my sails; I sent my sword to Mal-orchol of shells. He knew the signal of Albion, and his joy arose. He came from his own high hall, and seized my hand in grief. “Why comes the race of heroes to a falling king? Ton-thormod of many spears is


343

the chief of wavy Sar-dronlo. He saw and loved my daughter, white-bosomed Oina-morul. He sought; I denied the maid; for our fathers had been foes. He came, with battle, to Fuärfed; my people are rolled away. Why comes the race of heroes to a falling king?”

“I come not,” I said, “to look, like a boy, on the strife. Fingal remembers Mal-orchol, and his hall for strangers. From his waves, the warrior descended, on thy woody isle. Thou wert no cloud before him. Thy feast was spread with songs. For this my sword shall rise; and thy foes perhaps may fail. Our friends are not forgot in their danger, though distant is our land.”

“Descendant of the daring Trenmor, thy words are like the voice of Cruth-loda, when he speaks, from his parting cloud, strong dweller of the sky! Many have rejoiced at my feast; but they all have forgot Mal-orchol. I have looked towards all the winds; but no white sails were seen. But steel resounds in my hall; and not


344

the joyful shells. Come to my dwelling, race of heroes; dark-skirted night is near. Hear the voice of songs, from the maid of Fuärfed wild.”

We went. On the harp arose the white hands of Oina-morul. She waked her own sad tale, from every trembling string. I stood in silence; for bright in her locks was the daughter of many isles! Her eyes were two stars, looking forward through a rushing shower. The mariner marks them on high, and blesses the lovely beams. With morning we rushed to battle, to Tormul's resounding stream: the foe moved to the sound of Ton-thormod's bossy shield. From wing to wing the strife was mixed. I met Ton-thormod in fight. Wide flew his broken steel. I seized the king in war. I gave his hand, bound fast with thongs, to Mal-orchol, the giver of shells. Joy rose at the feast of Fuärfed; for


345

the foe had failed. Ton-thormod turned his face away, from Oina-morul of isles!

“Son of Fingal,” begun Mal-orchol, “not forgot shalt thou pass from me. A light shall dwell in thy ship, Oina-morul of slow-rolling eyes. She shall kindle gladness, along thy mighty soul. Nor unheeded shall the maid move in Selma, through the dwelling of kings!”

In the hall I lay in night. Mine eyes were half-closed in sleep. Soft music came to mine ear: it was like the rising breeze, that whirls, at first, the thistle's beard; then flies, dark-shadowy, over the grass. It was the maid of Fuärfed wild! she raised the nightly song; she knew that my soul was a stream, that flowed at pleasant sounds. “Who looks,” she said, “from his rock, on ocean's closing mist? His long locks, like the raven's wing, are wandering on


346

the blast. Stately are his steps in grief! The tears are in his eyes! His manly breast is heaving over his bursting soul! Retire, I am distant far; a wanderer in lands unknown. Though the race of kings are around me, yet my soul is dark. Why have our fathers been foes, Ton-thormod, love of maids!”

“Soft voice of the streamy isle,” I said, “why dost thou mourn by night? The race of daring Trenmor are not the dark in soul. Thou shalt not wander, by streams unknown, blue-eyed Oina-morul! Within this bosom is a voice; it comes not to other ears: it bids Ossian hear the hapless, in their hour of woe. Retire, soft singer by night; Ton-thormod shall not mourn on his rock!”

With morning I loosed the king. I gave the long-haired maid. Mal-orchol heard my words, in the midst of his echoing halls. “King of Fuärfed wild, why should Ton-thormod mourn? He is of the race of heroes, and a flame in war.


347

Your fathers have been foes, but now their dim ghosts rejoice in death. They stretch their hands of mist to the same shell in Loda. Forget their rage, ye warriors, it was the cloud of other years.”

Such were the deeds of Ossian, while yet his locks were young: though loveliness, with a robe of beams, clothed the daughter of many isles. We call back, maid of Lutha, the years that have rolled away!


349

COLNA-DONA:

A POEM.


351

ARGUMENT.

Fingal dispatches Ossian and Toscar, the son of Conloch and father of Malvina, to raise a stone on the banks of the stream of Crona, to perpetuate the memory of a victory, which he had obtained in that place. When they were employed in that work, Car-ul, a neighbouring chief, invited them to a feast. They went: and Toscar fell desperately in love with Colna-dona, the daughter of Car-ul. Colna-dona became no less enamoured of Toscar. An incident, at a hunting party, brings their loves to a happy issue. Macpherson.


353

Col-amon of troubled streams

Col-amon of troubled streams, dark wanderer of distant vales, I behold thy course, between trees, near Car-ul's echoing halls! There dwelt bright Colna-dona, the daughter of the king. Her eyes were rolling stars; her arms were white as the foam of streams. Her breast rose slowly to sight, like ocean's heaving wave. Her soul was a stream of light. Who, among the maids, was like the love of heroes?

Beneath the voice of the king, we moved to Crona of the streams, Toscar of grassy Lutha,


354

and Ossian, young in fields. Three bards attended with songs. Three bossy shields were borne before us; for we were to rear the stone, in memory of the past. By Crona's mossy course, Fingal had scattered his foes: he had rolled away the strangers, like a troubled sea. We came to the place of renown; from the mountains descended night. I tore an oak from its hill, and raised a flame on high. I bade my fathers to look down, from the clouds of their hall; for, at the fame of their race, they brighten in the wind.

I took a stone from the stream, amidst the song of bards. The blood of Fingal's foes hung curdled in its ooze. Beneath, I placed, at intervals, three bosses from the shields of foes, as rose or fell the sound of Ullin's nightly song. Toscar laid a dagger in earth, a mail of sounding steel. We raised the mould around the stone, and bade it speak to other years.

Oozy daughter of streams, that now art reared on high, speak to the feeble, O stone, after Selma's race have failed! Prone, from the stormy night, the traveller shall lay him, by thy side:


355

thy whistling moss shall sound in his dreams; the years that were past shall return. Battles rise before him, blue-shielded kings descend to war: the darkened moon looks from heaven, on the troubled field. He shall burst, with morning, from dreams, and see the tombs of warriors round. He shall ask about the stone; and the aged shall reply, “This grey stone was raised by Ossian, a chief of other years!”

From Col-amon came a bard, from Car-ul, the friend of strangers. He bade us to the feast of kings, to the dwelling of bright Colna-dona. We went to the hall of harps. There Car-ul brightened between his aged locks, when he beheld the sons of his friends, like two young branches before him.


356

“Sons of the mighty,” he said, “ye bring back the days of old, when first I descended from waves, on Selma's streamy vale! I pursued Duthmocarglos, dweller of ocean's wind. Our fathers had been foes, we met by Clutha's winding waters. He fled, along the sea, and my sails were spread behind him. Night deceived me, on the deep I came to the dwelling of kings, to Selma of high-bosomed maids. Fingal came forth with his bards, and Conloch, arm of death. I feasted three days in the hall, and saw the blue-eyes of Erin, Ros-crana, daughter of heroes, light of Cormac's race. Nor forgot did my steps depart: the kings gave their shields to Car-ul: they hang, on high, in Col-amon, in memory of the past. Sons of the daring kings, ye bring back the days of old!”

Car-ul kindled the oak of feasts. He took two bosses from our shields. He laid them in earth, beneath a stone, to speak to the hero's race. “When battle,” said the king, “shall roar, and our sons are to meet in wrath, my race shall look, perhaps, on this stone, when they prepare the spear. Have not our fathers met in peace, they will say, and lay aside the shield?”


357

Night came down. In her long locks moved the daughter of Car-ul. Mixed with the harp arose the voice of white-armed Colna-dona. Toscar darkened in his place, before the love of heroes. She came on his troubled soul, like a beam to the dark-heaving ocean: when it bursts from a cloud, and brightens the foamy side of a wave. [OMITTED] [OMITTED]

With morning we awaked the woods; and hung forward on the path of the roes. They fell by their wonted streams. We returned through Crona's vale. From the wood a youth came forward, with a shield and pointless spear. “Whence,” said Toscar of Lutha, “is the flying beam? Dwells there peace at Col-amon, round bright Colna-dona of harps?”

“By Col-amon of streams,” said the youth, “bright Colna-dona dwelt. She dwelt; but her course is now in deserts, with the son of the king; he that seized with love her soul as it wandered through the hall.” “Stranger of tales,” said Toscar, “hast thou marked the warrior's course? He must fall, give thou that bossy shield!” In wrath he took the shield. Fair behind


358

it rose the breasts of a maid, white as the bosom of a swan, rising graceful on swift-rolling waves. It was Colna-dona of harps, the daughter of the king! Her blue eyes had rolled on Toscar, and her love! arose!


385

FRAGMENTS OF ANCIENT POETRY,

COLLECTED IN THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND, AND TRANSLATED FROM THE GAELIC OR ERSE LANGUAGE.

Vos quoque qui fortes animas, belloque peremtas
Laudibus in longum vates dimittitis ævum,
Plurima securi fudistis carmina Bardi.
Lucan.

I. SHILRIC, VINVELA.

Vinvela.
My love is a son of the hill.

My love is a son of the hill. He pursues the flying deer. His gray dogs are panting around him; his bow-string sounds in the wind. Whether by the fount of the rock, or by the stream of the mountain thou liest; when the rushes are nodding with the wind, and the mist is flying over thee, let me approach my love unperceived, and see him from the rock. Lovely I saw thee first by the aged oak of Branno; thou wert returning tall from the chace; the fairest among thy friends.


Shilric.

What voice is that I hear? that voice like the summer wind. I sit not by the nodding rushes; I hear not the fount of the rock. Afar, Vinvela, afar I go to the wars of Fingal. My dogs attend me no more. No more I tread the hill. No more from on high I see thee, fair-moving by the stream of the plain; bright as the bow of heaven; as the moon on the western wave.



386

Vinvela.

Then thou art gone, O Shilric! and I am alone on the hill. The deer are seen on the brow; void of fear they graze along. No more they dread the wind; no more the rustling tree. The hunter is far removed; he is in the field of graves. Strangers! sons of the waves! spare my lovely Shilric.


Shilric.

If fall I must in the field, raise high my grave, Vinvela. Grey stones, and heaped-up earth, shall mark me to future times. When the hunter shall sit by the mound, and produce his food at noon, “Some warrior rests here,” he will say; and my fame shall live in his praise. Remember me, Vinvela, when low on earth I lie!


Vinvela.

Yes!—I will remember thee—indeed my Shilric will fall. What shall I do, my love! when thou art gone for ever? Through these hills I will go at noon: I will go through the silent heath. There I will see the place of thy rest, returning from the chace. Indeed, my Shilric will fall; but I will remember him.


II. [I sit by the mossy fountain]

I sit by the mossy fountain; on the top of the hill of winds.

I sit by the mossy fountain; on the top of the hill of winds. One tree is rustling above me. Dark waves roll over the heath. The lake is troubled below. The deer descend from the hill. No hunter at a distance is seen; no whistling cow-herd is nigh. It is mid-day: but all is silent. Sad are my thoughts alone. Didst thou but appear, O my love, a wanderer on the heath! thy hair floating on the wind behind thee; thy bosom heaving


387

on the sight; thine eyes full of tears for thy friends, whom the mist of the hill had concealed! Thee I would comfort, my love, and bring thee to thy father's house.

But is it she that there appears, like a beam of light on the heath? bright as the moon in autumn, as the sun in a summer storm, comest thou, lovely maid, over rocks, over mountains to me?—She speaks: but how weak her voice! like the breeze in the reeds of the pool. Hark!

Returnest thou safe from the war? Where are thy friends, my love? I heard of thy death on the hill; I heard and mourned thee, Shilric!

Yes, my fair, I return; but I alone of my race. Thou shalt see them no more: their graves I raised on the plain. But why art thou on the desert hill? why on the heath, alone?

Alone I am, O Shilric! alone in the winter-house. With grief for thee I expired. Shilric, I am pale in the tomb.

She fleets, she sails away; as grey mist before the wind!—and, wilt thou not stay, my love? Stay and behold my tears! fair thou appearest, my love! fair thou wast, when alive!

By the mossy fountain I will sit; on the top of the hill of winds. When mid-day is silent around, converse, O my love, with me! come on the wings of the gale! on the blast of the mountain, come! Let me hear thy voice, as thou passest, when mid-day is silent around.

III. [Evening is grey on the hills]

Evening is grey on the hills.

Evening is grey on the hills. The north wind resounds through the woods. White clouds rise on the sky: the thin-wavering


388

snow descends. The river howls afar, along its winding course. Sad, by a hollow rock, the grey-haired Carryl sat. Dry fern waves over his head; his seat is in an aged birch. Clear to the roaring winds he lifts his voice of woe.

Tossed on the wavy ocean is He, the hope of the isles; Malcolm, the support of the poor; foe to the proud in arms! Why hast thou left us behind? why live we to mourn thy fate? We might have heard, with thee, the voice of the deep; have seen the oozy rock.

Sad on the sea-beat shore thy spouse looketh for thy return. The time of thy promise is come; the night is gathering around. But no white sail is on the sea; no voice but the blustering winds. Low is the soul of the war! Wet are the locks of youth! By the foot of some rock thou liest; washed by the waves as they come. Why, ye winds, did ye bear him on the desert rock? Why, ye waves, did ye roll over him?

But, Oh! what voice is that? Who rides on that meteor of fire? Green are his airy limbs. It is he! it is the ghost of Malcolm! Rest, lovely soul, rest on the rock; and let me hear thy voice. He is gone, like a dream of the night. I see him through the trees. Daughter of Reynold! he is gone. Thy spouse shall return no more. No more shall his hounds come from the hill, forerunners of their master. No more from the distant rock shall his voice greet thine ear. Silent is he in the deep, unhappy daughter of Reynold!

I will sit by the stream of the plain. Ye rocks! hang over my head. Hear my voice, ye trees! as ye bend on the shaggy hill. My voice shall preserve the praise of him, the hope of the isles.


389

IV. CONNAL, CRIMORA.

Crimora.
Who cometh from the hill

Who cometh from the hill, like a cloud tinged with the beam of the west? Whose voice is that, loud as the wind, but pleasant as the harp of Carryl? It is my love in the light of steel; but sad is his darkened brow. Live the mighty race of Fingal? or what disturbs my Connal?


Connal.

They live. I saw them return from the chace, like a stream of light. The sun was on their shields: Like a ridge of fire they descended the hill. Loud is the voice of the youth; the war, my love, is near. To-morrow the enormous Dargo comes to try the force of our race. The race of Fingal he defies; the race of battle and wounds.


Crimora.

Connal, I saw his sails like grey mist on the sable wave. They slowly came to land. Connal, many are the warriors of Dargo!


Connal.

Bring me thy father's shield; the iron shield of Rinval; that shield like the full moon when it is darkened in the sky.


Crimora.

That shield I bring, O Connal; but it did not defend my father. By the spear of Gauror he fell. Thou mayst fall, O Connal!



390

Connal.

Fall indeed I may: But raise my tomb, Crimora. Some stones, a mound of earth, shall keep my memory. Bend thy red eye over my tomb, and beat thy breast of sighs. Though fair thou art, my love, as the light; more pleasant than the gale of the hill; yet I will not stay. Raise my tomb, Crimora.


Crimora.

Then give me those arms of light; that sword, and that spear of steel. I shall meet Dargo with thee, and aid my lovely Connal. Farewell, ye rocks of Ardven! ye deer! and ye streams of the hill! We shall return no more. Our tombs are distant far.


V. Autumn is dark on the mountains

Autumn is dark on the mountains

Autumn is dark on the mountains; grey mist rests on the hills. The whirlwind is heard on the heath. Dark rolls the river through the narrow plain. A tree stands alone on the hill, and marks the grave of Connal. The leaves whirl round with the wind, and strew the grave of the dead. At times are seen here the ghosts of the deceased, when the musing hunter alone stalks slowly over the heath. Appear in thy armour of light, thou ghost of the mighty Connal! Shine, near thy tomb, Crimora! like a moon-beam from a cloud.

Who can search the source of thy race, O Connal? and who recount thy fathers? Thy family grew like an oak on the mountain, which meeteth the wind with its lofty head. But now it is torn from the earth. Who shall supply the place of Connal?


391

Here was the din of arms; and here the groans of the dying. Mournful are the wars of Fingal! O Connal! it was here thou didst fall. Thine arm was like a storm; thy sword, a beam of the sky; thy height, a rock on the plain; thine eyes, a furnace of fire. Louder than a storm was thy voice, when thou confoundedst the field. Warriors fell by thy sword, as the thistle by the staff of a boy.

Dargo the mighty came on, like a cloud of thunder. His brows were contracted and dark. His eyes like two caves in a rock. Bright rose their swords on each side; dire was the clang of their steel.

The daughter of Rinval was near; Crimora, bright in the armour of man; her hair loose behind, her bow in her hand. She followed the youth to the war, Connal her much-beloved. She drew the string on Dargo; but erring pierced her Connal. He falls like an oak on the plain; like a rock from the shaggy hill. What shall she do, hapless maid! He bleeds; her Connal dies. All the night long she cries, and all the day, O Connal, my love, and my friend! With grief the sad mourner died.

Earth here incloseth the loveliest pair on the hill. The grass grows between the stones of their tomb; I sit in the mournful shade. The wind sighs through the grass; and their memory rushes on my mind. Undisturbed you now sleep together; in the tomb of the mountain you rest alone.

VI. [Son of the noble Fingal]

Son of the noble Fingal

Son of the noble Fingal, Oscian, prince of men! what tears run down the cheeks of age? what shades thy mighty soul?


392

Memory, son of Alpin, memory wounds the aged. Of former times are my thoughts; my thoughts are of the noble Fingal. The race of the king return into my mind, and wound me with remembrance.

One day, returned from the sport of the mountains, from pursuing the sons of the hill, we covered this heath with our youth. Fingal the mighty was here, and Oscur, my son, great in war. Fair on our sight from the sea, at once, a virgin came. Her breast was like the snow of one night. Her cheek like the bud of the rose. Mild was her blue-rolling eye: but sorrow was big in her heart.

Fingal renowned in war! she cries, sons of the king, preserve me! Speak secure, replies the king, daughter of beauty, speak: our ear is open to all: our swords redress the injured. I fly from Ullin, she cries; from Ullin, famous in war. I fly from the embrace of him who would debase my blood. Cremor, the friend of men, was my father; Cremor the prince of Inverne.

Fingal's younger sons arose; Carryl expert in the bow; Fillan beloved of the fair; and Fergus first in the race. Who from the farthest Lochlyn? who to the seas of Molochasquir? who dares hurt the maid whom the sons of Fingal guard? Daughter of beauty, rest secure; rest in peace, thou fairest of women.

Far in the blue distance of the deep, some spot appeared like the back of the ridge-wave. But soon the ship increased on our sight. The hand of Ullin drew her to land. The mountains trembled as he moved. The hills shook at his steps. Dire rattled his armour around him. Death and destruction were in his eyes. His stature like the oak of Morven. He moved in the lightning of steel.

Our warriors fell before him, like the field before the reapers. Fingal's three sons he bound. He plunged his sword into the fair one's breast. She fell as a wreath of snow before the sun in spring. Her bosom heaved in death; her soul came forth in blood.


393

Oscur my son came down; the mighty in battle descended. His armour rattled as thunder; and the lightning of his eyes was terrible. There, was the clashing of swords; there, was the voice of steel. They struck and they thrust; they digged for death with their swords. But death was distant far, and delayed to come. The sun began to decline; and the cowherd thought of home. Then Oscur's keen steel found the heart of Ullin. He fell like a mountain oak covered over with glistering frost: He shone like a rock on the plain. Here the daughter of beauty lieth; and here the bravest of men. Here one day ended the fair and the valiant. Here rest the pursuer and the pursued.

Son of Alpin! the woes of the aged are many: their tears are for the past. This raised my sorrow, warrior; memory awaked my grief. Oscur my son was brave; but Oscur is now no more. Thou hast heard my grief, O son of Alpin; forgive the tears of the aged.

VII. [Why openest thou afresh the spring of my grief]

Why openest thou afresh the spring of my grief

Why openest thou afresh the spring of my grief, O son of Alpin, inquiring how Oscur fell? My eyes are blind with tears; but memory beams on my heart. How can I relate the mournful


394

death of the head of the people! Prince of the warriors, Oscur, my son, shall I see thee no more!

He fell as the moon in a storm; as the sun from the midst of his course, when clouds rise from the waste of the waves, when the blackness of the storm inwraps the rocks of Ardannidder. I, like an ancient oak on Morven, I moulder alone in my place. The blast hath lopped my branches away; and I tremble at the wings of the north. Prince of the warriors, Oscur, my son! shall I see thee no more!

Dermid and Oscur were one: They reaped the battle together. Their friendship was strong as their steel; and death walked between them to the field. They came on the foe like two rocks falling from the brows of Ardven. Their swords were stained with the blood of the valiant: warriors fainted at their names. Who was a match for Oscur but Dermid? and who for Dermid, but Oscur?

They killed mighty Dargo in the field; Dargo before invincible. His daughter was fair as the morn; mild as the beam of night. Her eyes, like two stars in a shower: her breath, the gale of spring: her breasts, as the new-fallen snow floating on the moving heath. The warriors saw her, and loved; their souls were fixed on the maid. Each loved her as his fame; each must possess her or die. But her soul was fixed on Oscur; my son was the youth of her love. She forgot the blood of her father; and loved the hand that slew him.

Son of Oscian, said Dermid, I love; O Oscur, I love this maid. But her soul cleaveth unto thee; and nothing can heal Dermid. Here, pierce this bosom, Oscur; relieve me, my friend, with thy sword.

My sword, son of Morny, shall never be stained with the blood of Dermid.

Who then is worthy to slay me, O Oscur, son of Oscian? Let not my life pass away unknown. Let none but Oscur slay me. Send me with honour to the grave, and let my death be renowned.


395

Dermid, make use of thy sword; son of Morny, wield thy steel. Would that I fell with thee! that my death came from the hand of Dermid!

They fought by the brook of the mountain, by the streams of Branno. Blood tinged the silvery stream, and curdled round the mossy stones. Dermid the graceful fell; fell, and smiled in death.

And fallest thou, son of Morny, fallest thou by Oscur's hand! Dermid invincible in war, thus do I see thee fall!—He went, and returned to the maid whom he loved; returned, but she perceived his grief.

Why that gloom, son of Oscian? what shades thy mighty soul?

Though once renowned for the bow, O maid, I have lost my fame. Fixed on a tree by the brook of the hill, is the shield of Gormur the brave, whom in battle I slew. I have wasted the day in vain, nor could my arrow pierce it.

Let me try, son of Oscian, the skill of Dargo's daughter. My hands were taught the bow: my father delighted in my skill.

She went. He stood behind the shield. Her arrow flew and pierced his breast.

Blessed be that hand of snow; and blessed thy bow of yew! I fall resolved on death: and who but the daughter of Dargo was worthy to slay me? Lay me in the earth, my fair one, lay me by the side of Dermid.

Oscur! I have the blood, the soul of the mighty Dargo.


396

Well pleased I can meet death. My sorrow I can end thus.— She pierced her white bosom with steel. She fell; she trembled; and died.

By the brook of the hill their graves are laid; a birch's unequal shade covers their tomb. Often on their green earthen tombs the branchy sons of the mountain feed, when mid-day is all in flames, and silence is over all the hills.

VIII. [By the side of a rock]

By the side of a rock on the hill

By the side of a rock on the hill, beneath the aged tree, old Oscian sat on the moss; the last of the race of Fingal. Sightless are his aged eyes; his beard is waving in the wind. Dull through the leafless trees he heard the voice of the north. Sorrow revived in his soul: he began and lamented the dead.

How hast thou fallen like an oak, with all thy branches round thee! Where is Fingal the king? where is Oscur my son? where are all my race? Alas! in the earth they lie. I feel their tombs with my hands. I hear the river below murmuring hoarsely over the stones. What dost thou, O river, to me? Thou bringest back the memory of the past.

The race of Fingal stood on thy banks, like a wood in a fertile soil. Keen were their spears of steel. Hardy was he who dared to encounter their rage. Fillan the great was there. Thou Oscur wert there, my son! Fingal himself was there, strong in the grey locks of years. Full rose his sinewy limbs; and wide his shoulders spread. The unhappy met his arm, when the pride of his wrath arose.

The son of Morny came; Gaul, the tallest of men. He stood


397

on the hill like an oak! his voice was like the streams of the hill. Why reigneth alone, he cries, the son of the mighty Corval? Fingal is not strong to save; he is no support for the people. I am strong as a storm in the ocean; as a whirlwind on the hill. Yield, son of Corval; Fingal, yield to me. He came like a rock from the hill, resounding in his arms.

Oscur stood forth to meet him; my son would meet the foe. But Fingal came in his strength, and smiled at the vaunter's boast. They threw their arms round each other; they struggled on the plain. The earth is ploughed with their heels. Their bones crack as a boat on the ocean, when it leaps from wave to wave. Long did they toil; with night, they fell on the sounding plain; as two oaks, with their branches mingled, fall crashing from the hill. The tall son of Morny is bound; the aged overcame.

Fair with her locks of gold, her smooth neck, and her breasts of snow; fair, as the spirits of the hill when at silent noon they glide along the heath; fair, as the rainbow of heaven; came Minvane the maid. Fingal! she softly saith, loose me my brother Gaul. Loose me the hope of my race, the terror of all but Fingal. Can I, replies the king, can I deny the lovely daughter of the hill? Take thy brother, O Minvane, thou fairer than the snow of the north!

Such, Fingal! were thy words; but thy words I hear no more. Sightless I sit by thy tomb. I hear the wind in the wood; but no more I hear my friends. The cry of the hunter is over. The voice of war is ceased.


398

IX. [Thou askest, fair daughter of the isles!]

Thou askest, fair daughter of the isles!

Thou askest, fair daughter of the isles! whose memory is preserved in these tombs? The memory of Ronnan the bold, and Connan the chief of men; and of her, the fairest of maids, Rivine the lovely and the good. The wing of time is laden with care. Every moment hath woes of its own. Why seek we our grief from afar! or give our tears to those of other times? But thou commandest, and I obey, O fair daughter of the isles!

Conar was mighty in war. Caul was the friend of strangers. His gates were open to all; midnight darkened not on his barred door. Both lived upon the sons of the mountains. Their bow was the support of the poor.

Connan was the image of Conar's soul. Caul was renewed in Ronnan his son. Rivine the daughter of Conar was the love of Ronnan; her brother Connan was his friend. She was fair as the harvest moon setting in the seas of Molochasquir. Her soul was settled on Ronnan; the youth was the dream of her nights.

Rivine, my love! says Ronnan, I go to my king in Norway. A year and a day shall bring me back. Wilt thou be true to Ronnan?

Ronnan! a year and a day I will spend in sorrow. Ronnan, behave like a man, and my soul shall exult in thy valour. Connan my friend, says Ronnan, wilt thou preserve Rivine thy sister? Durstan is in love with the maid; and soon shall the sea bring the stranger to our coast.


399

Ronnan, I will defend: Do thou securely go. He went. He returned on his day. But Durstan returned before him.

Give me thy daughter, Conar, says Durstan; or fear and feel my power.

He who dares attempt my sister, says Connan, must meet this edge of steel. Unerring in battle is my arm: my sword, as the lightning of heaven.

Ronnan the warrior came; and much he threatened Durstan.

But, saith Euran the servant of gold, Ronnan! by the gate of the north shall Durstan this night carry thy fair one away. Accursed, answers Ronnan, be this arm if death meet him not there.

Connan! saith Euran, this night shall the stranger carry thy sister away. My sword shall meet him, replies Connan, and he shall lie low on earth.

The friends met by night, and they fought. Blood and sweat ran down their limbs as water on the mossy rock. Connan falls; and cries, O Durstan, be favourable to Rivine! And is it my friend, cries Ronnan, I have slain? O Connan! I knew thee not.

He went, and he fought with Durstan. Day began to rise on the combat, when fainting they fell, and expired. Rivine came out with the morn; and, O what detains my Ronnan! She saw him lying pale in his blood; and her brother lying pale by his side. What could she say? what could she do? her complaints were many and vain. She opened this grave for the warriors; and fell into it herself, before it was closed; like the sun snatched away in a storm.

Thou has heard this tale of grief, O fair daughter of the isles! Rivine was fair as thyself: shed on her grave a tear.


400

X. [It is night]

It is night; and I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms.

It is night; and I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms. The wind is heard in the mountain. The torrent shrieks 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, appear! Lead me, some light, to the place where my love rests from the toil of the chace! 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; nor can I hear the voice of my love.

Why delayeth my Shalgar, why the son of the hill, his promise? Here is the rock, and the tree; and here the roaring stream. Thou promisedst with night to be here. Ah! whither is my Shalgar gone? With thee I would fly my father; with thee, my brother of pride. Our race have long been foes; but we are not foes, O Shalgar!

Cease a little while, O wind! stream, be thou silent a while! let my voice be heard over the heath; let my wanderer hear me. Shalgar! it is I who call. Here is the tree, and the rock. Shalgar, my love! I am here. Why delayest thou thy coming? Alas! no answer.

Lo! the moon appeareth. The flood is bright in the vale. The rocks are grey on the face of the hill. But I see him not on the brow; his dogs before him tell not that he is coming. Here I must sit alone.


401

But who are these that lie beyond me on the heath? Are they my love and my brother? Speak to me O my friends! they answer not. 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 Shalgar? why, O Shalgar! 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, sons of my love! But alas! they are silent; silent for ever! Cold are their breasts of clay!

Oh! from the rock of the hill; from the top of the mountain of winds, speak, ye ghosts of the dead! speak, and I will not be afraid. Whither are ye gone to rest? In what cave of the hill shall I find you? No feeble voice is on the wind: no answer half-drowned in the storms of the hill.

I sit in my grief. I wait for morning in my tears. Rear the tomb, ye friends of the dead; but close it not till I come. My life flieth 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 wind is upon the heath; my ghost shall stand in the wind, 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; for pleasant were they both to me.

XI. [Sad! I am sad indeed]

Sad! I am sad indeed; nor small my cause of woe!

Sad! I am sad indeed; nor small my cause of woe! Kirmor, thou hast lost no son; thou hast lost no daughter of beauty. Connar the valiant lives; and Annir, the fairest of maids. The


402

boughs of thy family flourish, O Kirmor! but Armyn is the last of his race. Dark is thy bed, O Daura! and deep thy sleep in the tomb. When shalt thou awake with thy songs? with all thy voice of music?

Rise, winds of autumn, rise; blow upon the dark heath! streams of the mountains, roar! howl, ye tempests, in the top of the oak! walk through broken clouds, O moon! show by intervals thy pale face; bring to my mind that sad night, when all my children fell; when Arindel the mighty fell; when Daura the lovely failed; when all my children died.

Daura, my daughter! thou wert fair; fair as the moon on the hills of Jura; 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 denied; fair was the hope of their friends.

Earch, son of Odgal, repined; for his brother was slain by Armor. He came disguised like the 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 Armyn! a rock not distant in the sea, bears a tree on its side; red shines the fruit afar. There Armor waiteth for Daura. I came to fetch his love. Come, fair daughter of Armyn!

She went; and she called on Armor. Nought answered but the son of the rock. Armor, my love! my love! why tormentest thou me with fear? hear, son of Ardnart, hear: it is Daura who calleth thee! Earch the traitor fled laughing to the land. She lifted up her voice, and cried for her brother and her father. Arindel! Armyn! none to relieve your Daura!

Her voice came over the sea. Arindel, 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 attended his steps. He saw fierce Earch on the shore;


403

he seized, and bound him to an oak. Thick fly the thongs of the hide around his limbs; he loads the wind with his groans.

Arindel ascends the surgy deep in his boat, to bring Daura to the land. Armor came in his wrath, and let fly the grey-feathered shaft. It sung; it sunk in thy heart, O Arindel, my son! for Earch the traitor thou diedst. The oar is stopt 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 by the waves. Armor plunges into the sea, to rescue his Daura, or die. Sudden a blast from the hill comes over the waves. He sunk, and he rose no more.

Alone, on the sea-rock, my daughter was heard to complain. Frequent and loud were her cries; nor could her father relieve her. All night I stood on the shore. I saw her by the faint beam of the moon. Loud was the wind; and the rain beat hard on the side of the mountain. 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, Armyn, alone: gone is my strength in the war, and fallen my pride among women.

When the storms of the mountain come; when the north lifts the waves 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.


404

XII. RYNO, ALPIN.

Ryno.
The wind and the rain are over

The wind and the rain are over: 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 the song, mourning for the dead. Bent is his head of age, and red his tearful eye. Alpin, thou son of the 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 the inhabitants of the grave. Tall thou art on the hill; fair among the sons of the plain. But thou shalt fall like Morar; and 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 hill; terrible as a meteor of fire. Thy wrath was as a storm of December. Thy sword in battle, as lightning in the field. Thy voice was like 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 returnedst 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


405

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 none but thee. He heard of thy fame in battle; he heard of foes dispersed. He heard of Morar's fame; 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 shall he 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. But the song shall preserve thy name. Future times shall hear of thee; they shall hear of the fallen Morar.


XIII. [Raise high the stones]

Raise high the stones; collect the earth

Raise high the stones; collect the earth: preserve the name of Fear-comhraic. Blow, winds, from all your hills; sigh on the grave of Muirnin.

The dark rock hangs, with all its wood, above the calm dwelling of the heroes.

The sea, with its foam-headed billow, murmurs at their side.


406

Why sigh the woods, why roar the waves! They have no cause to mourn.

But thou hast cause, O Diorma! thou maid of the breast of snow! Spread thou thy hair to the wind; send thy sighs on the blasts of the hills.

They vanished like two beams of light, which fly from the heath in a storm: They sunk like two stars in a cloud when the winds of north arise.

For thee weep the maids, Fear-comhraic, along the echoing hills. For thee the women weep, O Muirnin! chief of the wars of Erin. I see thee not, Fear-comhraic, on the hill; I see not Muirnin in the storms of ocean. Raise, raise the song, relate the tale. Descend ye years of other times.

Diorma was the daughter of Connaid, the chief of a thousand shields.

Diorma was among the maids, as the white flower among the heath.

Her breast was like a white cloud in heaven. Her bosom like the top of a wave in a storm. Her hair was like smoke in the sun: her eye like the star of morn. Not fairer looks the moon from between two clouds, than the face of Diorma from between her locks.

A thousand heroes loved the maid; the maid loved none but Fear-comhraic. He loved the maid; and well he might; fair among women was the daughter of Connaid. She was the light of his soul in danger; the strength of his arm in battle.

Who shall deny me the maid, said Fear-comhraic, who, the fairest of women, Diorma? Hard must be his helm of steel, and strong his shield of iron.

I deny her, said Muirnin, son of the chief of generous shells. My sword is keen, my spear is strong; the valiant yield to Muirnin.

Come, then, thou son of Cormac, O mighty Muirnin, come! leave the hill of Erin, come on the foamy wave. Let thy ship, like a cloud, come over the storms of ocean.


407

He came along the sea: his sails were like grey mist on the heath: long was his spear of ash; his shield like the bloody moon.—Aodan, son of Armclach, came; the youth of the gloomy brow.

Rise, Fear-comhraic, rise thou love of the soft Diorma! fight, or yield the maid, son of the great Comhfeadan!

He rose like a cloud on the hill, when the winds of autumn blow.

Tall art thou, said Fear-comhraic, son of mighty Cormac; fair are thy cheeks of youth, and strong thy arm of war. Prepare the feast, and slay the deer; send round the shell of joy: Three days we feast together; we fight on the fourth, son of Cormac.

Why should I sheath my sword, son of the noble Comhfeadan? Yield to me, son of battle, and raise my fame in Erin.

Raise thou my tomb, O Muirnin! If Fear-comhraic fall by thy steel, place my bright sword by my side, in the tomb of the lonely hill.

We fight by the noise of the stream, Muirnin! wield thy steel.

Swords sound on helmets, sound on shields; brass clashes, clatters, rings. Sparkles buzz; shivers fly; death bounds from mail to mail. As leaps a stone from rock to rock; so blow succeeds to blow. Their eyes dart fire; their nostrils blow: they leap, they thrust, they wound.

Slowly, slowly falls the blade of Muirnin, son of war. He sinks; his armour rings; he cries, Fear-comhraic, I die!

And falls the bravest of men, the chief of Innisfhallin! Stretch wide the sail; ascend the wave, and bring the youth to Erin. Deep on the hills of Erin is the sigh of maids. For thee, my foe, I mourn: thou art the grief of Fear-comhraic.

Rise ye winds of the sounding hill; sigh over the fall of Muirnin! Weep, Diorma, for the hero; weep, maid of the arms of snow; appear like the sun in rain; move in tears along the shore!


408

Aodan saw the fall of Muirnin, and drew the sounding bow: The grey-winged arrow flew, and pierced the breast of Fear-comhraic. Aodan, said Fear-comhraic, where was the sword of war? where was the spear of thy strength, when thus thou hast slain Fear-comhraic? Raise, gloomy youth, raise thou our tombs! I will rest with the chief of Innisfhallin.

Who is that on the hill, like a sun-beam in a storm? Who is that with the heaving breasts, which are like two wreaths of snow? Thy blue eyes roll in tears, thou daughter of mighty Connaid! Thy hair flies round thy temples, as the mist on the rocks of Ardven. Thy robe flows on the heath, daughter of grief, Diorma! He is fallen on the hill like a stream of light in a cloud. No more shall he hear thy voice like the sound of the string of music. The strength of the war is gone; the cheek of youth is pale.

XIV. [Cuchulaid sat by the wall]

Cuchulaid sat by the wall

Cuchulaid sat by the wall; by the tree of the rustling leaf. His spear leaned against the mossy rock. His shield lay by him on the grass. Whilst he thought on the mighty Carbre, whom he slew in battle, the scout of the ocean came, Moran, the son of Fithil.

Rise, Cuchulaid, rise! I see the ships of Garve. Many are the foe, Cuchulaid; many the sons of Lochlyn.

Moran! thou ever tremblest; thy fears increase the foe.


409

They are the ships of the desert of hills arrived to assist Cuchulaid.

I saw their chief, says Moran, tall as a rock of ice. His spear is like that fir; his shield like the rising moon. He sat upon a rock on the shore, as a grey cloud upon the hill. Many, mighty man! I said, many are our heroes; Garve, well art thou named, many are the sons of our king.

He answered like a wave on the rock; who is like me here? The valiant live not with me; they go to the earth from my hand. The king of the desert of hills alone can fight with Garve. Once we wrestled on the hill. Our heels overturned the wood. Rocks fell from their place, and rivulets changed their course. Three days we strove together; heroes stood at a distance, and feared. On the fourth, the king saith that I fell; but Garve saith, he stood. Let Cuchulaid yield to him that is strong as a storm.

No. I will never yield to man. Cuchulaid will conquer or die. Go, Moran, take my spear; strike the shield of Caithbait which hangs before the gate. It never rings in peace. My heroes shall hear on the hill. ------

XV. DUCHOMMAR, MORNA.

Duchommar.
Morna thou fairest of women

Morna thou fairest of women, daughter of Cormac-Carbre! why in the circle of stones, in the cave of the rock, alone! The


410

stream murmureth hoarsely. The blast groaneth in the aged tree. The lake is troubled before thee. Dark are the clouds of the sky. But thou art like snow on the heath. Thy hair like a thin cloud of gold on the top of Cromleach. Thy breasts like two smooth rocks on the hill, which is seen from the stream of Brannuin. Thy arms, as two white pillars in the hall of Fingal.


Morna.

Whence the son of Mugruch, Duchommar, the most gloomy of men? Dark are thy brows of terror. Red thy rolling eyes. Does Garve appear on the sea? What of the foe, Duchommar?


Duchommar.

From the hill I return, O Morna, from the hill of the flying deer. Three have I slain with my bow; three with my panting dogs. Daughter of Cormac-Carbre, I love thee as my soul. I have slain a deer for thee. High was his branchy head; and fleet his feet of wind.


Morna.

Gloomy son of Mugruch, Duchommar! I love thee not: hard is thy heart of rock; dark thy terrible brow. But Cadmor, the son of Tarman, thou art the sun of Morna! thou art like a sun-beam on the hill, in the day of the gloomy storm. Sawest thou the son of Tarman, lovely on the hill of the chace? Here the daughter of Cormac-Carbre waiteth the coming of Cadmor.


Duchommar.

And long shall Morna wait. His blood is on this sword. I met him by the mossy stone, by the oak of the noisy stream. He fought; but I slew him; his blood is on my sword. High


411

on the hill I will raise his tomb, daughter of Cormac-Carbre. But love thou the son of Mugruch; his arm is strong as a storm.


Morna.

And is the son of Tarman fallen; the youth with the breast of snow! the first in the chace of the hill; the foe of the sons of the ocean! Duchommar, thou art gloomy indeed; cruel is thy arm to me. But give me that sword, son of Mugruch; I love the blood of Cadmor!


[He gives her the sword, with which she instantly stabs him.]
Duchommar.

Daughter of Cormac-Carbre, thou hast pierced Duchommar! the sword is cold in my breast; thou hast killed the son of Mugruch. Give me to Moinie the maid; for much she loved Duchommar. My tomb she will raise on the hill; the hunter shall see it, and praise me. But draw the sword from my side, Morna; I feel it cold. ------


[Upon her coming near him, he stabs her. As she fell, she plucked a stone from the side of the cave, and placed it betwixt them, that his blood might not be mingled with her's.]

XVI. [Where is Gealchossa]

Where is Gealchossa my love

Where is Gealchossa my love, the daughter of Tuathal-Teachvar? I left her in the hall of the plain, when I fought with the hairy Ulfadha. Return soon, she said, O Lamderg!


412

for here I wait in sorrow. Her white breast rose with sighs; her cheek was wet with tears. But she cometh not to meet Lamderg; or sooth his soul after battle. Silent is the hall of joy; I hear not the voice of the singer. Brann does not shake his chains at the gate, glad at the coming of his master. Where is Gealchossa my love, the daughter of Tuathal-Teachvar?

Lamderg! says Firchios, son of Aydon, Gealchossa may be on the hill; she and her chosen maids pursuing the flying deer.

Firchios! no noise I hear. No sound in the wood of the hill. No deer fly in my sight; no panting dog pursueth. I see not Gealchossa my love; fair as the full moon setting on the hills of Cromleach. Go, Firchios! go to Allad, the grey-haired son of the rock. He liveth in the circle of stones; he may tell of Gealchossa.

Allad! saith Firchios, thou who dwellest in the rock; thou who tremblest alone; what saw thine eyes of age?

I saw, answered Allad the old, Ullin the son of Carbre: He came like a cloud from the hill; he hummed a surly song as he came, like a storm in leafless wood. He entered the hall of the plain. Lamderg, he cried, most dreadful of men! fight, or yield to Ullin. Lamderg, replied Gealchossa, Lamderg is not here: he fights the hairy Ulfadha; mighty man, he is not here. But Lamderg never yields; he will fight the son of Carbre. Lovely art thou, O daughter of Tuathal-Teachvar! said Ullin. I carry thee to the house of Carbre; the valiant shall have Gealchossa. Three days, from the top of Cromleach, will I call Lamderg to fight. The fourth, you belong to Ullin, if Lamderg die, or fly my sword.

Allad! peace to thy dreams!—sound the horn, Firchios! Ullin may hear, and meet me on the top of Cromleach.

Lamderg rushed on like a storm. On his spear he leaped over rivers. Few were his strides up the hill. The rocks fly


413

back from his heels; loud crashing they bound to the plain. His armour, his buckler rung. He hummed a surly song, like the noise of the falling stream. Dark as a cloud he stood above; his arms, like meteors, shone. From the summit of the hill he rolled a rock. Ullin heard in the hall of Carbre. ------


414

THE SIX BARDS,

A FRAGMENT.


415

[_]
NOTE ON CROMA,

Those extempore compositions were in great repute among succeeding bards. The pieces extant of that kind shew more of the good ear, than of the poetical genius of their authors. The translator has only met with one poem of this sort, which he thinks worthy of being preserved. It is a thousand years later than Ossian, but the authors seem to have observed his manner, and adopted some of his expressions. The story of it is this: Five bards, passing the night in the house of a chief, who was a poet himself, went severally to make their observations on, and returned with an extempore description of, night. The night happened to be one in October, as appears from the poem; and in the north of Scotland, it has all that variety which the bards ascribe to it, in their descriptions. Macpherson.


416

FIRST BARD.

Night is dull and dark,
The clouds rest on the hills;
No star with twinkling beam,
No moon looks from the skies.
I hear the blast in the wood,
But distant and dull I hear it.
The stream of the valley murmurs,
Low is its murmur too.
From the tree at the grave of the dead,
The lonely screech-owl groans.
I see a dim form on the plain,
'Tis a ghost! it fades, it flies;
Some dead shall pass this way.
From the lowly hut of the hill

418

The distant dog is howling;
The stag lies by the mountain-well,
The hind is at his side;
She hears the wind in his horns,
She starts, but lies again.
The roe is in the cleft of the rock:
The heath-cock's head beneath his wing.
No beast, no bird is abroad,
But the owl, and the howling fox;
She on the leafless tree,
He on the cloudy hill.
Dark, panting, trembling, sad,
The traveller has lost his way;
Through shrubs, through thorns he goes,
Beside the gurgling rills;
He fears the rock and the pool,
He fears the ghost of the night.
The old tree groans to the blast;
The falling branch resounds.
The wind drives the clung thorn
Along the sighing grass;
He shakes amid the night.
Dark, dusky, howling is night,

420

Cloudy, windy, and full of ghosts;
The dead are abroad; my friends
Receive me from the night.

SECOND BARD.

The wind is up on the mountain;
The shower of the hill descends.
Woods groan, and windows clap;
The growing river roars:
The traveller attempts the ford,
He falls, he shrieks, he dies.
The storm drives the horse from the hill,
The goat and the lowing cow;
They tremble as drives the shower,
And look for the shade of the stall.
The hunter starts from sleep in his lone hut,

422

And wakes the fire decay'd;
His wet dogs smoke around him:
He stops the chink with heath.
Loud roar two mountain streams,
Which meet beside his booth.
Sad on the side of the hill
The wandering shepherd sits.
The tree resounds above him.
The stream roars down the rock.
He waits the rising moon
To lead him to his home.
Ghosts ride on the storm to-night.
Sweet is their voice between the gusts of wind,
Their songs are of other worlds.

424

The rain is past. The dry winds blow.
Streams roar, and windows clap;
Cold drops fall from the roof.
I see the starry sky.—
But the shower gathers again.
Dark, dark is the western sky!
Night is stormy, dismal, dark;
Receive me, my friends, from the night.

THIRD BARD.

The winds still sound between the hills,
And groan on the riven rocks:
The firs fall from their place on high.
The turfy hut is torn.
The clouds divided fly o'er the sky,
And shew the burning stars.
The meteor (token of death)
Flies sparkling through the gloom.
It rests on the hills, it burns.—I see the fern,
The dark rock, and fallen oak.
What dead is that in his shroud,
Beneath the tree by the stream?
The waves dark tumble on the lake,
And lash the rocky sides.
The boat is brimful in the cove;

426

The oars on the rocky tide.
Sad sits a maid beneath a rock,
And eyes the rolling stream:
Her lover promised to come.
She saw his boat, when it was light, on the lake.
Is this his broken boat on the shore?
Are these his groans on the wind?
Hark! the hail rattles around,
The flakes of snow descend.
The tops of the hills are white.
The stormy winds abate.
Various is night and cold;
Receive me, my friends, from the night.

FOURTH BARD.

Night is calm and fair;
Blue, starry, and settled is night.
The winds, with the clouds, are gone;
They descend behind the hill.
The moon is up on the mountains;
Trees glister; streams shine on the rocks.
Bright rolls the settling lake;

428

Bright the stream of the vale.
I see the trees overturned;
The shocks of corn on the plain.
The wakeful peasant rebuilds the sheaves,
Or drives the beasts of the hills away.
Calm, settled, and fair is night.
Who comes from the place of the dead?
That form in the robe of snow;
These white arms, that hair of gold!
The daughter of the chief of the people;
She that lately fell!
Come, let us view thee, maid;
Thou that wert the desire of heroes!
The blast drives the phantom away;
White, and without form, it ascends the hill.
The breezes drive the blue mist
Over the narrow vale:
Grey on the hill it ascends,
And joins itself to the sky.
Night is settled and calm,
Blue, starry, bright with the moon.
Receive me not, my friends,
For lovely is the night.

FIFTH BARD.

Night is calm, but dreary;
The moon in a cloud in the west.

430

Slow moves that feeble beam
Along the shady hill.
The distant wave is heard;
The stream dull murmurs on the rock.
The cock is heard from the booth.
More than half the night is passed.
The housewife, groping in the gloom,
Rekindles the settled fire.
The hunter thinks it day,
And calls his nimble dogs:
He ascends the hill,
And whistles the road away:
A blast removes the cloud;
He sees the starry plough of the north:
Much of the night is to pass.
He nods by the mossy stone.
Hark! the whirlwind is in the wood;
Low murmurs on the plain.
'Tis the army of the mighty dead
Returning from the air!

432

The moon rests behind the hill;
The beam is still on the lofty rock;
Long are the shades of the trees.
But now 'tis dark over all.
Night's dreary, silent, and dark!
Receive me, my friends, from the night.

SIXTH BARD.

(THE CHIEF HIMSELF.)

Let clouds rest on the hill,
Spirits fly, and travellers fear;
Let the winds of the wood arise,
The sounding storm descend;
Roar streams, and windows clap,
And green-winged meteors fly;
Rise the pale moon on the mountain,
Or inclose her head in clouds;
Night is alike to me,
Blue, gloomy, or stormy the sky.
Night flies, and her goblin crew,
When morn is poured on the hills.
Light returns from the gloom;
But we return no more!

434

Where are our chiefs of old?
Where our kings of modern name?
The fields whereon they fought are silent;
Scarce their mossy tombs remain.
We, too, shall be forgot;
This lofty house shall fall:
Our sons shall scarce see its ruins on the grass;
And shall ask, Where dwelt our fathers?
Raise the song, strike the harp;
Send round the shell of joy.
Suspend a hundred tapers on high.
Maids and youths begin the dance.
Some grey-lock'd bard be near,

436

And sing the deeds of other times;
Of kings renowned in Albion,
Of chiefs we see no more.
Thus pass the night,
Till morn is grey in our hall:
Then be the bow in hand,
The dogs and youth of the chace.
We ascend the hill with day,
And rouse the flying deer.

417

FIRST BARD.

Night is dull and dark. The clouds rest on the hills. No star with green-trembling beam; no moon looks from the sky. I hear the blast in the wood; but I hear it distant far. The stream of the valley murmurs; but its murmur is sullen and sad. From the tree at the grave of the dead the long howling owl is heard. I see a dim form on the plain! It is a ghost! it fades, it flies. Some funeral shall pass this way: the meteor marks the path.


419

The distant dog is howling from the hut of the hill. The stag lies on the mountain moss: the hind is at his side. She hears the wind in his branchy horns. She starts, but lies again.

The roe is in the cleft of the rock; the heath-cock's head is beneath his wing. No beast, no bird is abroad, but the owl and the howling fox. She on a leafless tree; he in a cloud on the hill.

Dark, panting, trembling, sad, the traveller has lost his way. Through shrubs, through thorns, he goes, along the gurgling rill. He fears the rock and the fen. He fears the ghost of night. The old tree groans to the blast; the falling branch resounds. The wind drives the withered burs, clung together, along the grass. It is the light tread of a ghost! He trembles amidst the night.

Dark, dusky, howling, is the night, cloudy, windy, and full


421

of ghosts! The dead are abroad! my friends, receive me from the night.

SECOND BARD.

The wind is up. The shower descends. The spirit of the mountain shrieks. Woods fall from high. Windows flap. The growing river roars. The traveller attempts the ford. Hark! that shriek! he dies! The storm drives the horse from the hill, the goat, the lowing cow. They tremble as drives the shower, beside the mouldering bank.

The hunter starts from sleep, in his lonely hut; he wakes the


423

fire decayed. His wet dogs smoke around him. He fills the chinks with heath. Loud roar two mountain streams which meet beside his booth.

Sad on the side of a hill the wandering shepherd sits. The tree resounds above him. The stream roars down the rock. He waits for the rising moon to guide him to his home.

Ghosts ride on the storm to-night. Sweet is their voice between the squalls of wind. Their songs are of other worlds.


425

The rain is past. The dry wind blows. Streams roar, and windows flap. Cold drops fall from the roof. I see the starry sky. But the shower gathers again. The west is gloomy and dark. Night is stormy and dismal; receive me, my friends, from night.

THIRD BARD.

The wind still sounds between the hills; and whistles through the grass of the rock. The firs fall from their place. The turfy hut is torn. The clouds, divided, fly over the sky, and shew the burning stars. The meteor, token of death! flies sparkling through the gloom. It rests on the hill. I see the withered fern, the dark browed rock, the fallen oak. Who is that in his shroud beneath the tree, by the stream?

The waves dark-tumble on the lake, and lash its rocky sides.


427

The boat is brimful in the cove; the oars on the rocking tide. A maid sits sad beside the rock, and eyes the rolling stream. Her lover promised to come. She saw his boat, when yet it was light, on the lake. Is this his broken boat on the shore? Are these his groans on the wind?

Hark! the hail rattles around. The flaky snow descends. The tops of the hills are white. The stormy winds abate. Various is the night, and cold; receive me, my friends, from night.

FOURTH BARD.

Night is calm and fair; blue, starry, settled is night. The winds, with the clouds, are gone. They sink behind the hill. The moon is up on the mountain. Trees glister; streams shine


429

on the rock. Bright rolls the settled lake; bright the stream of the vale.

I see the trees overturned; the shocks of corn on the plain. The wakeful hind rebuilds the shocks, and whistles on the distant field.

Calm, settled, fair is night! Who comes from the place of the dead? That form with the robe of snow; white arms, and dark-brown hair! It is the daughter of the chief of the people: she that lately fell! Come, let us view thee, O maid! thou that hast been the delight of heroes! The blast drives the phantom away; white, without form, it ascends the hill.

The breezes drive the blue mist, slowly, over the narrow vale. It rises on the hill, and joins its head to heaven. Night is settled, calm, blue, starry, bright with the moon. Receive me not, my friends, for lovely is the night.

FIFTH BARD.

Night is calm, but dreary. The moon is in a cloud in the


431

west. Slow moves that pale beam along the shaded hill. The distant wave is heard. The torrent murmurs on the rock. The cock is heard from the booth. More than half the night is past. The housewife, groping in the gloom, rekindles the settled fire. The hunter thinks that day approaches, and calls his bounding dogs. He ascends the hill, and whistles on his way. A blast removes the cloud. He sees the starry plough of the north. Much of the night is to pass. He nods by the mossy rock.

Hark! the whirlwind is in the wood! A low murmur in the vale! It is the mighty army of the dead returning from the air.


433

The moon rests behind the hill. The beam is still on that lofty rock. Long are the shadows of the trees. Now it is dark over all. Night is dreary, silent, and dark; receive me, my friends, from night.

THE CHIEF.

Let clouds rest on the hills: spirits fly, and travellers fear. Let the winds of the woods arise, the sounding storms descend. Roar streams, and windows flap, and green-winged meteors fly! rise the pale moon from behind her hills, or inclose her head in clouds! night is alike to me, blue, stormy, or gloomy the sky. Night flies before the beam, when it is poured on the hill. The young day returns from his clouds, but we return no more.


435

Where are our chiefs of old? Where our kings of mighty name? The fields of the battles are silent. Scarce their mossy tombs remain. We shall also be forgot. This lofty house shall fall. Our sons shall not behold the ruins in grass. They shall ask of the aged, “Where stood the walls of our fathers?”

Raise the song, and strike the harp; send round the shells of joy. Suspend a hundred tapers on high. Youths and maids begin the dance. Let some grey bard be near me, to tell the


437

deeds of other times; of kings renowned in our land, of chiefs we behold no more. Thus let night pass, until morning shall appear in our halls. Then let the bow be at hand, the dogs, the youths of the chace. We shall ascend the hill with day; and awake the deer.


443

DEATH:

A POEM.


445

Come melancholy, soul-o'erwhelming power!
Woe's sable child! sweet meditation come;
Come, pensive gaited, from thy hermit cell,
Brood wide o'er life, and all its transient joys,
The noisy follies, and corroding strifes:
Shut the pleas'd ear from harmony and song;
And from the heart ensnaring voice of fame.

446

They come, they come! I seem through fields to rove,
Sacred to woe, where Sorrow, sable shade!
Looks pensive to the uncomfortable ground.
On the soft breezes die the doleful notes,
And swell the soul with doleful harmony.
O life! how many are thy sons? how few
Pursue the paths of happiness, though here
The goddess reigns acceptable to all?
Enraptured in the solemn maze of thought,
My soul is all attention; Fancy reigns,
And spreads before my view the flower-like race
Of mortals; folly, pride, and luxury,
Enwrap them round, till Death, impartial, shall
Deal the sure stroke, and seize the gasping prey.
High from an iron car, the gloomy king
Outstretches o'er the world his hagard eye.
His jaws, wide parting, open to the fill
Of sad oblivion—sable mantled shade!
At the dark chink the undistinguish'd throng
Enter, of maids, gay youths, and tottering age.
In gloomy pomp, array'd before their king,
Fear, grisly Terror, shivering Dismay,
And cloud-envelop'd Horror, gloomy stand.
When far before, by sable Fate empowered,
With wanton glee, and fool-insnaring grace,
A soft deluding fair disarms the strong,
And throws the brave into the jaws of death.

447

The sons of pride, her Happiness, but men
Call her Intemp'rance, daughter of this age,
Got on Prosperity, born on the banks
Of ill-used Liberty, and nursed up
By Plenty, Indolence, and Gallantry,
By Looks lascivious, by luxurious Ease.
Behind her comes Consumption—meagre ghost!
With slow, weak, languid pace, and self-devour'd;
Born drooping on a tedious flux of time,
With pain deep loaden, sluggish flowing down:
Then ulcers, swellings, apoplectic fits,
Convulsive trances, fever scorching hot,
The sage Physician—all a gloomy train!
Their general parent follow; while grim Death,
Wide-wasting Terror! shuts the dismal scene.
Already from the noise of life remov'd,
Does Damon seek the solitary shade,
Woe's gloomy haunts? does Contemplation please
The youthful soul, and love imbibing heart?
Ah, no! far other cares the soul invade,
Whelm the sad breast, and melt the tearful eyes.
Still sighing youth! how languid, pale, and wan,
Unsanguine, meagre, lifeless, loveless, sad?
Here, through the desolated streets, the crowds,
Half-naked, fly from home; and born in streams
The young Doricles left his joy behind,
The blooming Daphne! memory starts up
Of former love, and now defenceless charms.
He starts, he views, he flies; no dangers fright
But those of Daphne: her he shivering found,
Rock'd in the tottering hall; her azure eyes,
Like two fair fountains, watered the plain
Of roses on her cheek. He clasp'd her round,
And bore, through death, the lovely prize away.

448

Death, death might pity, could but death relent:
The field appears, and joy begins to dawn;
When from a tottering roof a fragment falls,
And crush'd the lovely Daphne in his arms!
How did Doricles stand aghast! How beat,
With broken sighs, his sorrow-wounded breast!
Still, still he grasps the dying innocent;
Yet sweet in death, and lovely in decay.
Death once felt pity, stretched his sable hand,
Shook the high tow'r, and sunk him with the blow.
Thus, when the younger bears the parent stork,
On wearied pinions through the fluid air,
Some greedy fowler wings the deathful shaft,
And brings them lifeless, fluttering to the ground.
A horrid form, in hell's deep track enchained
By the Almighty hand, till wickedness
Broke the firm cords, and loos'd the grisly fiend,
With sounding pinions, riding on the air,
Death's sable sister, withering Pestilence,
Clang'd her black wings o'er earth. The nations die:
The rich, the poor, the feeble, and the great,
Promiscuous throng: here, in the hall of state,
The wither'd monarch drops the wand of power:
There drops the easy-blasted plume of pride;
And wit, half-uttered, dies upon the tongue.
The uplifted tool drops from the tradesman's hand:
Himself out-stretched in death: his youthful spouse
Cries, save us Heaven! It was the last she said,
And drop'd, disfigured, in the jaws of death.
Breathless the mother lies, while on her breast
The child hangs weeping: there the blooming youth
Stumbles to death; the father spreads his hands
To save his son, and is enwrapt in fate.
Hence desolation spreads the awful wing
O'er kingdoms; thence shall rough brow'd Ruin reign

449

O'er the dispeopled earth, and Wealth and Power,
Pomp, Pleasure, Pageantry, the sister train
Of Vanity, become the slaves of Death.
Drear solitude he loves; while Memory,
Officious recorder! brings to view
The pleasing phantom of preterite joy:
But Pain and Sorrow, sister twins, start up,
And shew how weak, how feeble now! how chang'd
From what he was: Death takes the hint, and comes;
Ah! now he nods; eternal sleep o'erwhelms
His eyes; his breath, short-panting, scarcely heaves
His breast. But, hark! that sigh! the soul is fled;
The mournful form sinks pale into the grave.
Ah! what avail these sable flowing locks,
The air of pride; the folly-moving tongue,
That gaudy shell, and these deluding eyes,
The graceful form, and fair ensnaring port?
In vain sweet Delia rends her flowing locks,
Or heaves her breast, or melts her azure eyes;
In vain! relentless Death is never mov'd.
No more that youthful blood shall circling rise,
And, love-creative, warm that pallid corse;
No more that wit will cheer the unthinking heart;
And that shut eye will roll its airs no more.
Now sad remembrance calls to Delia's view,
These plays, these concerts, nightly masquerades;
That love, that wit, these dear deluding smiles,
Where Damon was, that cheer'd the raptur'd soul:
But now no more! these fleeting joys are fled.
Fond memory mourns, crush'd by a load of woe.
Is Damon gone, and Delia left behind?
Is Damon dead, and Delia feed on air?

450

Dear hapless youth, thy Delia seems unkind,
And hugs her life and you enwrapt in fate.
Come, sable Death! thou ever gentle shade,
Come, woe's kind soother, still the sting of grief,
Enwrap the mournful mind, and triumph o'er,
Or what is sweet on earth, or what can love,
She said; grew pale, the blooming roses dy'd
On her wan cheek; and now her shivering limbs
Felt Death's chill hand. Involved in a cloud
Or spicy breath, the soul, complaining, fled.
Thus, in the valley, a sweet-smelling flower
Exults, the blooming daughter of the spring,
Till, blasted with the breath of the north, it bows,
Droops, withers, dies, press'd in the jaws of death.
O life-destroying, cannot beauty please,
Imprint compassion on the rigid brow,
And blunt the edge of fate? Ah! no; in vain
Rolls the soft eye, forth-darting all its love;
In vain shall tears bedew the rosy cheek,
Or the world-firing snowy bosom heave:
Pity, soft pity! dreads thy awful reign,
And far from thee melts on the field of life.
O Temperance divine, neglected fair!
O ever-loving mate of happiness,
Sweet nurse of virtue, mother of long days,
Why fled? O mildness, from these iron times,
Return, return, and save a sinking age;
Sinew the arm effeminate, repulse
Death in thy absence, until Nature, tir'd,
Shall stoop the hoary head, and wish for sleep.
Scarce from this doleful scene I turn my eye,
When o'er the wounded mind new horrors rise.
Disease and pain, these sable scouts of death,
For ever sting the unhappy race of men.

451

Hark! hear that cry dolorous, tun'd by Woe,
That grates the ear! 'Tis sure the voice of Pain.
How doleful! that desponding wretch, outstretch'd
On torment's bed! He raves, he grins insane,
He grasps and tears in madness! Reason flies;
How fierce his looks! how loud he howls! But see
How life low ebbs, and strength itself gives way!
The silent shade prevails: How faint, how weak,
How low that voice that once battalions shook
With iron tone! how feeble is that arm
Robust, that often foil'd his country's foe!
But hear that groan! it seems the last farewell.
Of life departing—All is calm, and he
Inhiant, slumbers in eternal rest.
So, should a shepherd find the lordly pride
Of beasts asleep, he latent gives the wound.
He starts, roars loud, and waves his angry mane;
Falls, wallows, roars, and in a groan expires.
O man! what is thy boast? A beauteous face?
That soon is blasted. Strength itself decays.
Strong is the foe, and all his allies strong.
Ev'n Nature's self and elements combine
With death, with force confederate. Hapless man!
How fallen, fallen from that high estate
Of innocence and love, thy prior boon:
When Pleasure stretched the untainted wing
O'er fields of bliss; where fair Content and Joy,
With Meditation and Serenity,
Led the eternal choir, and Virtue smil'd
To see her children sport; when, far removed,
Death pin'd in hell's deep bounds: But, oh the pow'r
Of vile ambition, virtue-hated fiend!
Heaven's changed to hell, and death to life preferr'd;
Hatred to love, and vice to innocence;
Content, and virtue, and serenity,

452

Are chang'd to folly, woe, and gloomy thought.
Escap'd from hell once, Discord gnashed her teeth,
And roll'd her glaring eyes: the nations quake,
Affrighted peace the sinful earth foregoes,
And truth is gone: Death recognised the sign,
Smiles grimly, and begins to whet his shafts;
Then o'er Hiberian floods, with mighty noise,
Self-balanced, through midheaven wings his way,
Eager for war. The affrighted waves subside,
And with retreating hosts invade the earth:
Earth dreads, and shivers from her inmost womb;
Her mountains tremble, and her rough rocks fall
Thundering along the ground; while through the chink
Flames subterraneous flash, smoke wraps the sky,
Domes throw their stately towers to earth; men groan,
Torn in the jaws of death; half-stiffl'd cries
Of suffocated infants, from the embrace
Of cold maternal arms, invade the ear.
Nor are these only foes to hapless man:
Man, man himself is still his greatest foe!
Man first brought death; and man pursues the trade,
And by themselves unhappy mortals die.
War, man destroying, on an iron car,
Death's eldest brother, scours along the world:
Before, Contention brandishes her stings;
Fear, pallid shade! and feet-compelling flight,
Sit on his brow, and cloud-envelop'd Woe,
With heavy steps, pursues the bloody king.
Upborne on Death, and on the pride of kings,
The frightful monster shakes the solid tow'rs
Of state, and nations at one morsel churns.
See, on that field two gloomy hostile bands
Frown terribly, in awful silence mute;
While breathing winds sigh through the upright arms,
And in each sigh a whispering sp'rit foretells

453

The coward's fate. But, hark! the clarion sounds.
Ah! see each phalanx gloomily incedes;
They rush together! Gleaming arms afar
Reflect the light; and dying groans, confus'd
With iron clangour, wound the patient heart.
See how they fall! This in his manly breast
Receives the spear, and, groaning, falls in death:
Through Damon's body glides the deathful shaft,
And sinks him lifeless to the spreading arms
Of sighing friends; here, through the parting skull,
The shining blade descends; he, roaring, falls,
Shakes the firm earth, and spreads his trembling limbs.
Blood forms a lake around him; gasping life
Heaves up the corse, and spurts the foaming blood.
Thus, when the fisher hauls the finny prize
To land, and throws it gasping on the shore,
The dying fish his quivering body heaves,
Dashing the watry relicks of the tide.
See! bright in arms, along the iron field
The stately young Philanthes drives the foe;
No thirst of fame, no lion-hearted thought
Prompts on the youth—nought but his country's love.
Hear how they groan! what deaths his conquering arm
Pours down, impetuous, on the fright'ned foe!
But, ah! surrounded in the fierce embrace
Of men, in vain he whirls the shining blade.
Ah, mangled! mangled! See! see how he falls!
How his great soul, her loved associate rears
Reluctant, window'd; feeble for the weight
Of foul mortality, the spirit flies.

454

Yet wing'd to life, she cries, Save, Heavens save!
Save! save my country, was the last he said.
The young Lysander saw his brother fall,
And sorrow spread a cloud around his eyes.
Save, save Philanthes! save, my brother save!
Relent, O foe! relent, and spare the youth!
But, if soft pity melts not in your breasts,
Turn, turn your shafts; pierce, pierce Lysander! pierce
The unhappy brother! this the boon I crave.
He said; he leap'd, he rushed, he sweeps along
Amidst the embattled throng; there, there he raves
O'er hills of slain, till, overpower'd by fate,
He breathless falls, and grasps Philanthes' corse.
Not death itself could quench fraternal love.
So, when her whelps the furious lioness
Views dying, roaring, 'midst the hunter throng,
She furious rolls her angry eyes; then leaps
Undaunted, tearing; but at length she falls
By strokes redoubl'd, 'midst her gasping young.
What tuneful woe invades my raptured ear,
Borne on the sighing breeze? but when a blast
Hoarse whistling howls, the moving accents die.
'Tis fair Miranda for her Anthes sighs.
Anthes! the pride of all Britannia's sons,
T'assert his monarch's sinking rights, is borne
On floating forts, the terror of his foes.
Ye blustering winds and hoarse resounding main,
Ye storms, ye tempests, and death-winged bolts,
Save, save the lovely youth, and pity me!
Ye zephyrs bland, waft Anthes to the shore;
Restore him blooming to my longing arms!
Ah, no! Britannia, with superior charms,

455

Detains the youth. Ah! Glory, Fame, and War,
And hell-descended Discord, perish all,
Sink in Oblivion's womb! and let sweet Love
Triumph, soft tyrant! o'er the pleased world.
Now rosy Shame, call'd up by modesty
And thoughts of worth, supports her tuneful voice,
And paints the cheek with beauty's fairest bloom.
Now on the bosom of the sounding main
Two fleets, with brazen prows, white billows plough;
The bending mast low struggles with the wind,
And quivering billows lash the oaken sides.
They come; the sternly-looking chiefs command:
The battle joins, and cannon from each side
From their wide entrails breath the burning bolts.
Loud thunders roar; men groan; the cordage crack;
The wounded vessels reel from shore to shore;
Old ocean trembles; and fraternal shades
To frighten'd Neptune seem a kind recess.
Jove calls his thunder, thinking that the sons
Of earth, again rebellious, strove to rise
With rival bolts; again he hears the noise;
Again he calls: again Olympus shook;
Heaven quakes; seas belch; the trembling earth concuss'd
By circumambient ocean, cries of men,
Torn in Death's jaws, incessant wound the air.
Now through the breaches pours the briny tide,
And weighs to death the vessels and the men;
Some rear the head above the watery plain,
And cry for help; but, ah! no help is near;
Then sink in night: another stems the tide
With brawny arms, he seeks the distant shore;
Then wearied, breathless, droops the tardy limbs,

456

And seeks for rest, e'en in the arms of death!
The young Alethes grasps a broken mast,
And steers, half hoping, to the friendly sand:
All night he steered, and with the dawning morn
The land emerges from a sea of clouds.
While sage Iphthima press'd the higher strand,
And looks attentive o'er the rolling flood;
This way and that she cast her longing eyes,
If or a boat, or sea-dividing ship,
Brought news of her Alethes; him she saw,
Half-naked, leaning on a foaming jaw.
Ah me! my son, my Alethes, my dear,
Joy of my youth, dear object of my woe!
Come, come, my dear! press, press my son to land!
What fate, what cruel fate, what more than death
Has laid my son incumbent on a wave?
Here, here my hand! Stretch, stretch, my son, thy arm!
Thus she, outstretching o'er the foaming tide,
When a rough whirlwind sweeps along the main,
And plunged him headlong in the gulphy deeps:
Thrice he upraised his head; and thrice he sunk
In death, and thrice the circling eddies bell'd:
The fourth up-springing, Mother, mother! dear
Author of life, farewell! A wave supprest
His voice, and sunk him to the mighty dead.
Thus water-fowl upon the sable flood,
Now here, now there, their floating bodies shew,
But then are lost amidst the sounding foam,
And empty billows dash the yellow sand.
O Discord! gnashing fury, rav'nous fiend,
Hell's sharpest torment, nauseous qualm of life!
You bathe the poinard oft in Friendship's breast!
Peace, Virtue, Friendship, Harmony, and Love,

457

Delightful train of graces! shrink from thee;
Vice, Envy, Villany, deceitful thoughts,
Blood-thirsty Cruelty, insatiate Pride,
War, woe of mothers and new-married maids!
Attend thy shrine; and thence long plighted leagues
And unity are broke; thence streams of blood
Flow from the patriot's honest-thinking heart;
And rapine, bloodshed, carnage, train of Death!
Resistless, restless, tear the unhappy world.
Fly, fly foul fiend! and leave the mangled world,
Too long thy prey. Ah me! shall hapless men
For ever, ever feel thy iron rod?
Come Peace, come life-befriending, lovely fair!
A thousand graces 'tend thy placid reign:
Stretch the soft pinions o'er a happy world;
Snatch the sharp weapon from the warrior's hand,
And chace the jarring monster down to hell.
Let Science raise on high her drooping head,
And Muses tune the soul-delightful lay.
In vain the poet glides in melting strains,
In vain attunes his soul to tuneful woe;
Deaf is the jar of Discord, dim the eye
Of War, and Happiness far flies the earth.
Come Contemplation, then, my lovely fair!
Solemnly walking, unaffected grace!
Absorpt from life, I join thy sable train,
And turn my aching eye from dismal war.
Hear how Palæmon, from his humble bed,
Palæmon! whom twice fifty winters bend,
Pale, to the tomb; Vice, with her iron hand,
Ne'er gloomed his days, that innocently flow'd,
With mind serene, and aspect all composed,
Breathes virtue in each word, and paves the way
To sweet felicity in heaven and earth:
While mournful, near, the consort of his love.

458

Droops the sad eye, and fair Lavinia's cheeks
Lie, rosy, drown'd in tears; paternal love
Melts the young heart, and pours the briny tears.
With mournful look, and with attentive ear,
Near to his father's bed, Acasto stands,
And drinks large draughts of virtue. Now the soul
Flutters, to meet the untainted minds above.
Death, sable shade! with silent awful step
Approaches gentle, and o'erwhelms his eyes;
He nods, and falls asleep, when on his tongue
The word, half-uttered, dies. So, in the noon
Of night, the crying babe the officious nurse
Sooths with half-sleeping sounds; when to repose
The innocent is lull'd, the song shall die,
Imperfect, on her sleep suspended tongue.
Solemnly slow, along the mournful plain,
The melancholy croud support the corse
Of young Philætes, snatched, in early bloom
Of youth, from life, and all its fading joys.
Outstretched, in the sable-mantled dome,
Sleep reason, virtue, beauty, sweetness, youth,
All, all that man can boast, now withered lie.
Behind, with trembling steps, the hoary age
Of old Philanthes mourns; a staff supports
His tottering feet: he droops his silvered head;
And tears run trickling down his pallid cheeks.
He now and then looks to the sable hearse,
And all his soul's oppress'd with mighty woes,
And from his faultering tongue these accents break.
Ah me! my son, ah, comfort of my age!
My only son, supporter of our house!
Ah! why, Philætes, have you left your sire,
Struggling with age, and soul-corroding woe!
Why sunk in death the sun that brightly shone
On th' evening of my days! Almighty power,

459

Thine is the world—whate'er Thou wilt is done:
Thine is the young, and he that bows with age;
And whom Thou wilt thou call'st! Why then repine?
Death ne'er too soon enwraps the good: short life
Well spent is age, and not the hoary head.
Thus he. The sad attendance sigh'd; but chief
The young Acanthes gave to mighty woe
His manly mind. Not blood, with all its streams,
Could form such ties as bound him to his friend;
Their age, their thoughts, their words, their deeds, the same;
To virtue form'd alike their youthful souls.
The sun descending to the western waves,
Shot parallel to earth his evening ray,
And lines the virid hills with fusile gold.
To sigh for lost Philætes, through the field
Acanthes strays, and views the pleasing scene,
Where oft he with his dear Philætes roam'd.
Deep sorrow veils, with pearly drops, his eye,
And from his heaving breast these accents break:
Sleep'st thou for ever, O, my darling friend,
My other self! Has death for ever seal'd
The friendly eye, and bound the tuneful tongue?
Ah me! no parting word has blest thy friend;
No token of our spotless friendship left!
But I, alone, unfriended, sad, forlorn,
Shall mourn thy absence in this vale of tears.
He said, when through the field Philætes step'd:
A heavenly beauty, and unfading youth,
Flush'd in his cheeks, and sparkled from his eyes;
A snowy robe, in wreathy volumes, flowed
Down from his shoulders, and his golden hair
Play'd in the murmuring breeze. Ambrosia sheds
Its pleasing vapours on the ambient air.
He came, he spoke, and smiled upon his friend,
And melody drops from his youthful tongue.

460

Thine is the youth, and he that bows with age;
And whom Thou wilt, Thou call'st. Why then repine?
Death ne'er too soon enwraps the good; short life
Well spent is age, and not the hoary head.
But, ah! fond nature for Philætes mourns.
Why name Philætes, now my greatest woe,
Though once the comfort of my drooping mind!
Dear hapless youth! for thee my bosom sighs.
And shall till Death enwrap me to his reign.
Thus he. The sad attendance sigh'd; but chief
The young Andræmon gave to silent woe
His manly mind: not blood, with all its streams,
Could so attach Andræmon to his friend;
Their age, their thoughts, their actions, words the same,
To virtue formed alike their youthful souls.
Whether the sun sports in the fields of light,
Or gloomy night her sable mantle throws
O'er sleeping earth, still imaged to the mind
Of young Andræmon is his darling friend.
Still sighs the breast, still melts the tearful eye,
Still flows the soul in elegies of woe.

461

The rocks, the plains, the woods, the pleasing scenes
Where he and young Philætes raptured, pray'd,
And talked of virtue, echo to his moan.
Sleep'st thou for ever, O my darling friend!
My other self! has death for ever seal'd
The friendly eye, and bound Philætes' tongue?
Ah me! no parting look has blest thy friend,
No token of our spotless friendship left;
From me removed, you breathed the spotless soul.
Now I, alone, unfriended, sad, forlorn,
Must mourn your absence in this vale of tears,
Till death, with sable hand, shall quench this pain,
And still the dire commotions of the breast.
He said—'twas night, and solemn silence reign'd
Throughout the plain; no voice, no sound is heard,
But now and then the breathing breezes sigh
Through the half-quivering leaves, and, far removed,
The sea rolls feeble murmurs to the shore;
The birds hang, sleeping, on the bending sprigs,
And setting Luna gave a silver gleam.

463

THE HUNTER:

A POEM.

IN TEN CANTOS.


465

CANTO I.

Once on a time, when Liberty was seen
To sport and revel on the northern plain,
Immortal fair! and was supremely kind
On Scotia's hills to snuff the northern wind;
There lived a youth, and Donald was his name.
To chace the flying stag his highest aim;
A gun, a plaid, a dog, his humble store;
In these thrice happy, as he wants no more.

466

The flesh of deer his food; the heath his bed;
He slept contented in his tartan plaid.
Sprightly as morn he rose with dawning light,
And strode o'er hills until the approach of night;
Then bounding homeward, joyful burden bears
Of heath-hens, woodcocks, or of fearful deers.
Then Bessy gets upon the homely board
What Donald's gun and oaten field afford.
Blest in the chace, blest in his barren soil,
And more than happy in his temperate toil,
Our Donald lived; but, oh! how soon the light
Of happiness is sunk in blackest night!
It chanced the Fairie's king a daughter had,
A beauteous, blooming, and a sportive maid.
She took delight, upon the flowery lawn
To frisk, transported, round a female fawn.
The hunter aims the tube: the powder flies;
The fawn falls, roars, and shakes her limbs, and dies.
The blooming Flavia saw her play-thing die;
Sighs rend her breast, and tears bedew her eye,
Wrath, sorrow, rage, her tender fabric rock,
And thus, indignant, she the silence broke:
“Ah me! what frailties fairies' nature owe,
The sport of every blast that likes to blow:
One blast of Boreas, whistling o'er the hill,
Shall drive the stoutest headlong half a mile;
The rain, the rattling hail, deep wounds impress,
Which two warm summers scarcely can redress.
Not only these, but man, our greatest foe,
Vile, rough-spun creature, minister of woe!
Scarce Flavia loves a deer upon the vale,
E'er torn by dogs, or by the winged ball,
Her darling falls. Ah me! my little fawn,
How oft with thee I sported on the lawn,
But shall no more: but what thy Flavia grieves,
Her abject strength no hopes of vengeance gives.

467

But stop! what nature does not still impart,
May be amended by the wiles of art.”
She spoke—The eddying whirlwind sweeps the skies:
Borne on a blast, the fleeting Flavia flies.
Clods, dust, and straws, in one confusion fly,
And trembling atoms mingle with the sky.
A hill there is, whose sloping sides of green
Are by the raptured eye at distance seen;
Rocks intersperse the variegated space:
Here columns rise; there smiles the virid grass;
There timid deers, and shaggy goats abound;
There tripping fairies dance the fleeting round;
Within the king of fairies makes abode,
And waves o'er prostrate crowds his regal rod:
A sea-green throne his royal limbs support,
Full in the middle of the spacious court.
His furrowed front majestic he uprears;
His waving locks are silvered o'er with years.
Upon the wall, supply the want of day,
Arranged lamps, that dart a glimmering ray.
Unhallowed viands on the table stand,
The unblest produce of the neighbouring land.
Old Murdock plow'd: an ox died in the yoke;
And here his tumid limbs in cauldrons smoke.
The maid, the youth, the matron, and the sage,
The call of craving hunger all assuage:
While, clad in woe, the lovely Xanthe comes,
And lightens with her charms the shady rooms.
All start—The monarch tumbles from his throne.
Why weeps my daughter? why that tender moan?
Why, why that sigh, my dear? the parent cries,
What sorrow veils thy beauty-sparkling eyes?

468

Parent and king, replies the faultering maid,
The little fawn, my pretty fawn, is dead!
Her Donald slew, and I am left alone;
A wretched princess, now my fawn is gone.
Come, then, my parent, visionary king!
Some vengeance due upon the murderer bring.
Wing with revenge each ill-chastising art,
Or hear the bursting of a daughter's heart.
The king commands; the reverend senate meet,
And first Euchenor rises from his seat.
With graceful air, solemnly slow, he rose;
Down to his heel the light green mantle flows.
He paused, then coughed; the vaulted grotto rung,
And from their seats the attentive peerage hung.
Then thus: O thou, unlimited in sway!
Whom all the fairy-phantom crowds obey,
Whether they glide in undistinguish'd night,
Or sport, self-balanced, in the fields of light;
Still cheerful, ready at thy great command,
They skim o'er seas, or trip o'er desert land.
'Tis mine the blooming Xanthe to console,
That share thy banquet, and that quaff thy bowl.
In vain shall myriads, hovering on the wing,
Even though directed by their godlike king,
Assault the hunter; his firm limbs deride
Embattled squadrons, ranged side by side.
It is not ours to try by strength, but art,
To foil the body, but to wound the heart.
Once on a time, when youth my bosom warm'd,
By the Cerulean sky and zephyrs charm'd,
I strayed through fields of air; intent I view
Fields, cities, trees, and men, a beavy'd crew.
Content upon the green the peasant lives,
While damn'd in courts of state the courtier grieves;
For power, for grandeur, pours the eternal pray'r,
Wakes sleepless nights, and yawns whole days of care.

469

Should some foe-fairy glide through fields of light,
And to the regal seat direct his flight,
Take the black humour, boiling round the brain,
Then, soft-transported, seek the northern plain;
Around the hunter the black humour shed,
And fill, with vile ambition, all his head;
Then, damn'd to care, the deer-destroying man
Shall rue the slaughter of the bounding fawn.
The motion pleased; applause from every side
Pours on the senator its sounding tide.
Young Xanthe mov'd; a robe of sprightly green,
In amorous folds, to grasp her waste is seen;
A bongrace does her lovely forehead shade,
Soft wave behind the honours of the head.
A fan her hand, her feet bright sandals grace;
And beauty wanders in her blooming face.
She mounts; around her soft-wing'd zephyrs fly,
Kiss her white limbs, and waft her through the sky.
On downy tracts of air the fairy glides,
And all the north hill shaded, backward slides.
Thus on the main, when favouring zephyr sings
Through the swift frigate's wide extended wings,
Ports, rocks, and cities, seem to glide away,
And the cloud-wounding hills themselves decay.
On rocks a city stands, high-tower'd, unwall'd,
And from its scite the hill of Edin call'd,
Once the proud seat of royalty and state,
Of kings, of heroes, and of all that's great;
But these are flown, and Edin's only stores
Are fops, and scriveners, and English'd whores.
Here blooming Xanthe slopingly descends,
And, softly lighting, all her journey ends.
Invisible; for Fergus' Scottish line,
Disdain'd not yet on barren fields to reign.
The hours through half his journey drove the day.
While slumbering yet the hiant Meno lay,

470

Fair Xanthe entered; round his pillow shed
Sleep-deep'ning air, and fum'd his dizzy head.
He snored aloud; the palace thundered round,
And repercussive walls repel the sound.
She took a knife, a deep incision made,
Then healed the wound, and with the humour fled.
Zephyr again resumed his lovely load,
And through the plains of ether with her trode.
Arrived, the vision round the hunter shed,
And filled with wild ambition all his head.

471

CANTO II.

In Donald's eye now fade the blissful scenes:
The rough brow'd rocks, the sloping hills and plains,
Delight no more; no chace, no winged fowl,
No goat, no cattle, cheer the troubled soul;
The hut is hateful, and the fields of corn
Contract their bounds, and promise no return.
All is one blank—O envy'd, envy'd state,
The hunter cries, of all the happy great!
While press'd in poverty's hard iron hand,
I force poor sustenance from barren land,
Remote from life, and curs'd by fate unkind,
To struggle on the hill with northern wind,
Secure, in stately halls, the feast they ply,
And swim through life in deluges of joy.
The hut, the heathy wild, the barren fold,
The rattling hail, the north-descended cold,
Is all my portion—all a swain can boast,
Still 'twixt vicissitude's rough billows toss'd.

472

O partial Heavens! O Providence unkind!
Mine is the well-strung arm, the feeling mind;
Yet scarce can wade through miseries of life,
Combat with care, with care in endless strife.
O why, ye Powers, not bless me with a mind
To all the blasts of poverty resigned,
Or bless me greatly with the affluent store,
Nor doom the hapless hunter to be poor?
But why this moan? Thus always to complain
Suits only women, worthless 'tis in men:
Why thus repine! why thus for ever grieve!
I am but young, 'tis time enough to live;
Youth, sprightly bloom! the prize is still in view:
Rise, hunter, rise, and happiness pursue.
Thus on the hilly surface of the heath
The dog pursues the hare, and gasps for breath;
Unfainting, eager, he devours the way,
Till in his jaws he churns the quivering prey.
Thus said, the mountaineer indignant rose;
Around his limbs the spangled plaid he throws;
About his waist the rough broad cincture flies;
The plaid hangs plaited down his brawny thighs;
Straight down his side the temper'd dagger hung;
Athwart his thigh the sabre glides along;
On his left breast he heaveth with his breath
The polished pistol, minister of death!
He snatched the tube, companion of his toil,
Secured from rust by foxes furry spoil:
Then bounding forward, he devours the way;
The oaten fields, and low-roof'd hut decay;
The hills slip backward, as the hunter strides
Along the sharp spik'd rocks and mountain's sides.
In sober majesty the silent night
Advanced from the east, and drove before the light;
While yet the hunter rattled through the heath,
Moved the lithe limbs, and sigh'd with panting breath.

473

A hill there is, which forms a sable wall
Through all the north, and men it Grampus call.
Here lean-cheek'd Barrenness terrific strides;
A tattered robe waves round her iron sides;
Two baleful eyes roll in her iron face;
Her meagre hand supports a pile of grass;
Her bare white skull no decent covering shews;
Eternal tempests rattle on her brows;
Lank-sided Want, and pale-eyed Poverty,
And sharp-tooth'd Famine, still around her fly;
Health-gotten Hunger, want-descended Pain,
Vein-numbing Cold—are all her gloomy train.
The hunter view'd; a shiv'ring tremour ran
Through every vein, and vanquished all the man:
Extended wide he lay upon the heath,
And catch'd from zephyr to recruit his breath.
Refreshed he rose, and levels with his eye
The blue-tubed gun. Black deaths in lightning fly;
A roe falls shrieking: her the hunter flead;
The beast on heathy shrubs in order laid;
Then struck the fire; the living sparkles fly,
The flames ascend, and quiver in the sky.
The flesh, surrounded by the wasteful fire,
Buzz in the flames; the flames in smoke expire.
And now the pangs of hunger drop their rage,
His thirst the gently-flowing brooks assuage.
Secure upon the bank his limbs he spread,
And peaceful slumbers hover round his head.
The night her sable car through half the plain
Of heaven drove, and spread her silent reign;
Her twinkling eyes the gloomy goddess shrouds
With a dark veil of rain-condensed clouds;
When, lo! before the sleeping hunter's eyes
His father Malcolm's phantom seem'd to rise.
Thin are the snowy honours of his head;
An half-worn shroud waves round the long since dead.

474

He slow advanced, his furrow'd visage shook,
Then stretched his skinny hand, and thus he spoke:
Why, why, my son! O, why, my only joy!
Why from his house does youthful Donald fly?
What wicked demon, enemy of rest,
Has ruffled the smooth surface of your breast?
Return, return! in vain you fly from Care,
Sharp stings the gnawing monster every where.
To shun him sailors vainly billows cleave;
He sits incumbent on each sable wave.
In vain through rugged earth incessant roam;
Man is his prey, and everywhere his home.
Him vile Ambition, in a foul embrace,
Got on Corruption; ghastly is his face,
Red are his wakeful eyes; around he stares,
His form is rack'd with never ceasing fears.
Face-wintering wrinkles on his cheeks he draws,
And poison bubbles round his grinning jaws.
He always looks, but never sees aright;
Imagined phantoms swim before his sight.
The shade of Want remote, and Poverty,
Are figured out by the unfaithful eye.
He starves in plenty, troubled is in rest,
And sleep ne'er floats upon his boiling breast.
Unseen, but felt, oft in the halls of state
He sits, and tinges all the pompous treat.
And oft he hovers round the downy bed,
Thundering despair around the statesman's head,
While happy, on the wide extended plain,
The shepherd scarcely owns his rigid reign.
What though no grandeur spreads his homely boards,
Confined to what sweet temperance affords:
No pride, with gaudy mazes, ever swims
Around his ample chest and brawny limbs;
Yet sweet Content anxiety beguiles,
Triumphs o'er Care, and tempers life with smiles.

475

Thus, in the dark recesses of the grove,
The shrouded birds tune elegies of love;
The walker listens to the tuneful lay,
While unperceived the rough road steals away.
Thus said, he fades before the hunter's sight,
And the pale form is wrapt in gloomy night;
Amidst the breeze the dying words are lost,
And nought is heard but the shrill whistling blast.
Aghast the hunter rose; soft sleep is fled;
Upright stood all the honours of his head:
He draws his sword, around a circle broke;
Then blest the place, and to himself thus spoke:
If in the wide expanses of the sky,
On gloomy air departed spirits fly,
Sure this was he, for yet I seem to hear,
As yet his accents hang upon the ear.
The well-known voice, the child-instructing tongue,
Could to no shade but to my sire belong.
The same his visage, and his shape the same;
Thus sunk into the grave the ancient frame.
But how be here? since fleeting spirits dwell,
As parsons say, in heaven or in hell,
Not wandering free, but still confined to space,
To gulphs of sorrow, or to vales of peace,
Unheedful, unconcerned for aught below,
And blood created friendship cease to glow.
For when the unharnessed soul is fled in breath,
And the rough vessel sinks in gloomy death,
Each earthly love, each blood-formed passion gone,
The untainted soul shall love the soul alone.

476

Cease, Donald cease, to be in endless pain
For the wild fancy of thy dastard brain.
'Tis cowardice that raised the grisly shade,
Described grim Care, and not thy father dead.
Thus oft the trembling, easy frightened hind,
Hears shrill dogs yelping in each blast of wind;
His frighten'd fancy empty terrors sees,
Makes dogs of stones, and men of distant trees.
The Hunter argued thus, devoid of rest,
Thus rolled the passions in his troubled breast:
While sprightly morn, in spangled beauties clad,
Reared o'er the eastern hill her rosy head;
Cool through the heath the mattin breezes sigh,
And wave the plaid on Donald's brawny thigh.
Cheered with the blest return of sacred light,
Eased of the gloomy terrors of the night,
He stretched his limbs, and ceaseless metes the way,
Till on the banks of clearly-flowing Tay
The Hunter stood, where the rough bubbling flood
Roars 'twixt two hills, through rocks and murmuring woods:
Laid on the banks, the trees above him waved;
His scrip provides what gnawing hunger craved.
Refresh'd he rose, then plunged into the tide;
The waves arose, and, bubbling, wash his sides;
He gains the farther shore; then, with a bound,
The Hunter rises: Showers descend around.
Thus water-fowl their downy bodies lave
In the bright bubbles of the silver wave;
Then seek the shore, and clap the ruffled wing;
Then through the air on well fledged pinions sing.
Thus shook, thus fled the man, till setting day
Darts parallel to earth his western ray.
A place there is, where the cerulean main
Glides up through earth, and forms an azure plain;

477

The Hunter stood astonish'd, to survey
The roaring billows on the watry way,
How liquid mountains dash against the shore,
The rough rocks rumble, while the billows roar.
He stretched his limbs along the murmuring deep,
And the hoarse billows lull his soul to sleep.

478

CANTO III.

While thus the wanderer pressed his sandy bed,
And downy sleep sheds balm around his head,
Destructive Care on sable pinion flies,
And spreads his phantoms on the monarch's eyes.
Fierce foes the throne of regal Scotia threat;
The English thunder at the palace gate.
The monarch starts, the reverend senate calls;
The nobler peerage throng the royal halls.
The king arose, his graceful visage shook,
Then stretched his sceptre, and commanding spoke.
Ye chiefs, ye heroes, ye professed foes
Of hateful slavery and th' aspiring Rose,
If on the iron field, incased in arms,
Ye taught your foes that liberty had charms;
If, dauntless chiefs! ye bore of generous toil,
And met with death to save a barren soil;
Now, now, O! generous lend the timely aid,
And break the storm that threatens Scotia's head.

479

This to our mother we, her children, owe;
Our country's enemy is still our foe.
Bleak Desolation, on her lonely wings,
The foe through all the south terrific brings:
And now, nocturnal, on the yellow sand,
In sable walls the embattled English stand
In close array. To-morrow they prepare
To hurl against our walls the stormy war.
Rise, Caledonian chiefs! ye heroes, rise!
Your bleeding country for your succour cries.
Thus in the iron field a father falls,
And grasping his dear son, incessant calls,
Revenge, my son, revenge my death! he cries.
The son obeys—revenges, or he dies.
The monarch said; the loyal chiefs obey,
Their homage done, majestic strode away.
His country's love each generous bosom warms;
The streets resound with fight deciding arms. [OMITTED]
Before the camp they rest, till sacred light
Inflame the soul, and teach the hands to fight.
Dark night, involved in gloomy clouds, now fled;
The sun o'er ocean reared his beamy head:
In dazzling light the foaming billows roll'd,
The sloping hills are lined with fusil gold.
On sable pinions, from the Hunter's eyes
Lid-bending sleep, cloud-mantled, silent flies.
On downy gales the restful power is laid,
Oblivious vapours fume his drowsy head.
His half-shut eye all in confusion sees
His matted hair remurmur in the breeze:
His loose-thrown robe hangs careless round his limbs,
Or in the gale in wreathy volumes swims.

480

With downcast eyes, Oblivion, silent shade!
In her dark bosom hugs his vapour'd head.
[OMITTED]
Refresh'd, the Highlander uprightly stood,
And views afar the silver-gilded flood;
While in the port the loved sea-faring train
Fit the tall bark to the rough murmuring main.
He enters; to the sea the ship advanced,
Plow'd through the waves, and on the billows danced.
Cut by the prow, the foam inlaced tides
Quiver astern, and lash the oaken sides:
The murmuring north-west, with refreshing gales,
Hoarse whistles through the shrouds, and swells the sails.
Now on the eye the southern mountains grow,
Lithæan towers advance, solemnly slow;
While trumpets, clarions, noble shouts of war,
With mingled sounds, invade the Hunter's ear.
A noble ardour, never known till then,
Swells on the blood, and boils in every vein:
He more majestic moves; enlarged more,
His soul accused the slow-coming shore.
Arrived—he eager leaps upon the ground;
His rattling arms emit an iron sound.
With mighty strides he sweeps along the sand,
And bends his footsteps to the lesser band.
Thus in the lowly hut, the faithful hound,
With tender twigs of yielding osier bound,
When, far without, he hears the blasting horns,
Leaps here and there, and in his bondage burns;
But once let loose, he snuffs the gelid wind,
And leaves the winged blast to puff behind.
The youth arrived, when o'er the northern main
The lovely form of Liberty is seen.
A heavenly splendour, and unfading grace,
Flashed from her eyes, and wandered in her face;

481

Her lovely skin the varied beauty shews,
Of the white lilly, and the blushing rose.
Justice around her spreads her awful reign,
And Innocence, in white robes, neatly plain,
Smiles life away; when sweet Fidelity,
With sister Modesty, completes the joy.
There Science stands, in endless pleasure clad,
Eternal laurels flourish on her head.
Each Muse, a lovely choir! around her sings,
And gnawing Care thére drops the pointless stings.
Oppression, ghastly shade! her presence flies;
The trembling tyrant veils his coward eyes,
When clad in wrath, and law-maintaining arms,
The goddess shines in more than mortal charms.
Majestically slow descends the fair;
Her snow-white robe swims on the placid air,
And on the royal head conspicuous stood,
With courage keen, and dauntless fortitude.
She raised her voice; the rocks re-echo round;
The embattled English tremble at the sound.
Thrice call'd the power, and thrice the ocean rang,
And from the starting horse the riders hang:
When Courage, through the Scottish ranks confessed,
With his immortal steel incased each breast.
Each generous soul confess'd with ardent joy,
I'll save my country, or revenged die.
But more than all the youthful Hunter burns,
Joy swells his breast, and vengeance stings by turns.
Pain heaves his beating heart; his form, improved,
Towers o'er the field, and as a god he moved.
Terror, commixed with soul-attractive grace,
Flashed from each feature of his manly face.

482

CANTO IV.

And now the war-inciting clarions sound,
And neighing coursers paw the trembling ground.
At once they move, majestically slow,
To pour their headlong force upon the foe;
Then stop, and, awful, solemn silence reigns,
Along the sable walls, and frowning plains.
When, wrapt in all the majesty of state,
Adorned with all the honours of the great,
The king, resplendent on his regal car,
Shines awful in the iron front of war:
He stood, then stretched his sceptre; all around
Hang in attention to the grateful sound.
Down to the dust he bends his reverend head,
And to the Almighty, supplicating, pray'd.
O great unknown—O all-creating mind,
In greatness lost, Almighty, unconfin'd
To space or time, whose mighty hand informs
The rattling tempests, and the sable storms,

483

Absorb'd in light, O vast infinitude!
Incomprehensible, supremely good,
Attend, O heavenly! from thy glory hear,
And to a dust-formed worm incline thine ear!
String the firm arm, and teach the hand to fight;
Confound the proud, that trust in mortal might.
All own thy sway, and at thy great command
Success attends the weak and feeble hand.
Thus said, the devout monarch suppliant bowed,
And muttering prayers ran along the crowd.
In dazzling arms the chiefs terrific shine,
Glide through the ranks, and form the lengthening line.
While from the embattled foe a hero strode;
A coat of mail hangs from his shoulders broad;
On his high towering head terrific waved
A crested helmet that the sabre braved.
On his left hand he bears a spacious shield,
Glittering with iron terrour o'er the field;
And in his right he waves the shining blade.
He greatly stood—and thus provoking said:
Ye Scots, ye nation full of fraud and guile!
Ye mean descendants of a barren soil!
Let one advance (the bravest I demand),
And fall a victim to my conquering hand;
Forget your fears, your wonted fears controul,
Let fate enlarge the ever little soul.
He said; and rage, in tickling poison, ran
Through every soul, and stung each generous man.
The Hunter heard; rage sparkled from his eyes,
And from his inmost soul the hero sighs;
Then thus indignant spoke:—Ah! glory gone!
Ah! ancient virtue now for ever flown!
What blessed corner does the godhead rest?
No more you swell the generous Scottish breast,
When thus, O Scotland! Saxons dare deride
Thy steel-clad warriors, ranged side by side—

484

I can no more—my panting vitals swell;
I'll give thee glory, or thy soul to hell!
Then towards the foe the youth indignant moved:
Fear trembles, en'mies praise, and envy loved.
He strides along the men-environed ground;
His rattling arms emit an iron sound:
The Saxon saw, advanced, nor looked behind,
Fate hurried on, and courage steel'd his mind.
Bright in effulgent arms the youths appeared;
Each o'er the plain a steely column reared:
They rush together; clashing arms afar
Reflect the horrours of the dismal war.
Awful the blades wave gleaming in the sky,
And from the crashing steel the sparkles fly.
They fight, and, wearied, cease, and fight again;
Their feet bake dust with blood upon the plain.
Death undetermined points to each his stings,
And conquest flutters round on dubious wings.
The hill-born youth reminds, with anxious care,
What vaunts the foul-mouth'd Saxon breath'd on air;
His country's love the youthful hero warms,
And vengeance strung his almost wearied arms.
Upraised aloft, the light reflexive blade
Sings through the air, and cleaves the Saxon's head.
The broken skull, and shivered helmet, strew'd
The sandy plain, that reeks with human blood.
He gasping falls, and shakes the thundering ground,
And, dying, toss'd his quivering limbs around.
Thus falls an oak, that long majestic stood
The tallest honours of the waving wood;
Deep hack'd by the shipwright's unerring hand,
Groans, slow inclines, and, falling, shakes the land.

485

When on the field the Saxon lay supine,
The English tremble through each sable line.
Half-bending backward, much they wish to fly,
And terror sparkles from each troubled eye.
Confirmed with joy, the Scots advance the war;
To save their country is their only care:
Fair liberty each youthful bosom warms,
And in the jaws of death they seek her arms.
Now from the levelled tubes loud thunders roar,
And lightning flashed along the awful shore.
They fall, and pitchy smoke enwraps them round;
The bubbling blood floats on the fatal ground.
Shouts, dying groans, and noise of arms, invade
The dreaming portals of the startled head.
So, when contending blasts for empires strive,
Through the Cerulean vault the clouds they drive,
Till o'er some brow the gloomy shades engage,
And low'ring heaven trembles at their rage;
Red lightnings flash, and rough voiced thunders shake,
Earth bends her mountains, and her vallies quake.
Now raging 'midst the foe, terrific shines
The hill-born youth, and breaks the hostile lines.
Around him nought is heard but dying groans,
The crashing steel, and noise of fractured bones.
Where'er he towers, the foe betake to flight,
Or death enwraps them in eternal night.
Arms, half-lopt limbs, and gasping men up-piled,
O'erspread confusion on the dismal field.
Diminished now, the vanquished English fly,
Force, valour, conduct, could no aid supply.
Fierce on the rear the hill-born hero hangs,
Lops the slow tail, and every hero bangs.
Henry returns—Henry, whose haughty line
Descends from Edward—Edward, half divine,
Who knew stern Mars in all his frightful forms!
Proud Gallia trembles as the hero storms:

486

Great in his blood, great in his manly mind,
The godlike Harry stately stood behind.
To cope with Donald is his only care,
And dam the deluge of the rushing war.
The youthful hero stood in arms incased,
And thoughtful argued in his manly breast.
If carried on the headlong stream I fly,
I'll fall inglorious, unrevenged die:
Or, even if safety should reward my flight,
How many souls will be enwrapt in night!
The Scots would glory to see how Henry fled,
The blood of Edward, and the Saxon head.
The people perish when the chieftain flies—
No; Henry conquers, or revenged dies!
Thus rashly said, the hero, bold and young,
Swells in his arms, and stately strides along;
With easy steps, majestically slow,
To brave the headlong fury of the foe.
Thus of his youthful might the courser proud,
Stems the rough current of the headlong flood;
White his broad chest the bubbling liquid laves,
Steadfast he moves amidst the raging waves.
Towards youthful Henry Donald furious strode;
He longs to revel in his English blood.
They meet, they fight, and rage each youth possessed;
Fierce vengeance fired, and anger gnawed each breast.
Intent to conquer, both to fly forgot;
Each for his life, and both for glory fought.
Death, empty bugbear! could no longer fright,
Or ought restrain the youthful hand from fight.
Now Henry silver skin with wounds inlaced,
And crimson flood-gates in his manly breast:
Adown his limbs the purple torrent flows:
By slow degrees his arm more feeble grows;
He parries faintly, and he strives with pain;
Then falls, o'erwhelmed, and shakes the dusty plain.

487

Low-ebbing life faint on his eye-ball swims,
And scarce he moves his death-suspended limbs.
O! would to Heaven that thus each Saxon lay;
Then late posterity would bless this day,
The Hunter cries: Nor should it be forgot,
That Steuart's sceptered, and that Donald fought.
But ah! how fading is a mighty name,
And but a moment sounds the trump of fame!
Forgot the conqueror and the vanquished die;
No little deeds claim immortality.
The Hunter spoke: and Henry thus replies;
(And scarcely lifts his death-congealed eyes)
It ill becomes a man to gasp for fame;
An empty phantom is a mighty name.
Boast now the conquering Caledonians may,
Since victory has crowned the toilsome day;
But Donald most may his own valour raise,
Since weeping matrons shall record his praise.
But comes the day this shall be dearly paid
(Prophetic Merlin thus in rapture said),
Long Saxons shall for Scottish liberty,
Enwrapt in death, far from your country lie.
The hill-descended shall retain the prize,
Until a race, deep-versed in policies,
Shall sprout from Saxon trunk, and schemes unfold,
To change their steely points to fusil gold;
Then shackled on his heath, the hill-born swain
Shall crawl along, and move his hard-bound limbs with pain.
Fair Liberty to them shall lose her charms,
And Scots shall tremble at the sight of arms.
Exalted in his soul, the hero said,
Then shut his lips, and slept among the dead.

488

CANTO V.

Deep musing in his inmost soul retired,
Or damped with grief, or indignation fired,
The hunter stood, and all himself forgot,
Within the fancied field of solemn thought.
Be shackled, tremble at the sight of arms,
Shook all his youthful soul with dire alarms.
His soul-tormenting thoughts no pleasure find;
And all the hero trembled in his mind.
Or stung by grief, or fired with patriot rage,
O more than slaves—O sluggish poltroon age,
The Hunter cries; O should my life restored
Inform these limbs,—then should the avenging sword
Lop off the mean debasers of our blood,
And drive from earth the gold-deluded brood.
In vain the valiant Caledonian dies,
To conquer liberty, a noble prize
For his degenerate race, if yet a toy,
A glittering plaything, can your cares employ.

489

Vile empty shew, and no substantial good,
Not proof against the north, no fostering food.
Ah! then shall Liberty for ever fly
With downcast head, and tear-o'erflowing eye!
Methinks I see the lovely form decay;
While honour quenches each resplendent ray.
The hero tortured thus his manly mind,
While shouts triumphal swell upon the wind.
For lifeless now the English press'd the plains,
Or pined reluctant in coercive chains;
Now sprightly Victory, on her golden car,
Leads arms and trophies, and the spoils of war.
Joy sparkles from her eye, and from her tongue
A turbid stream of vaunting roars along;
Shouts, rough bravadoes, a loquacious train!
Her blustering handmaids, croud her noisy reign.
The assembled chiefs around the Hunter stood,
And withered elders to the hero bowed.
Amazed each chieftain views the great unknown;
Him dread of Saxons, and their bulwark own;
His manly port, and round-form'd limbs admire;
And whence the youth, inquisitive inquire.
Thus they; the monarch, with majestic mien,
Triumphant towers along the bloody plain.
And where the youth to whom my crown I owe?
The bold chastiser of the invading foe?
The monarch cries—where is the youth unknown,
The stedfast pillar of my regal throne?
Methinks I see him 'midst the day's alarms,
Hang on the foe, and raving in his arms;
Towering along the field with panting breath,
Hew down the man, and mark his steps with death.
The task be mine his valour to condone,
While grateful Scotia owns her warlike son.
Swift at the word the obsequious herald flies,
His message painted in his joyful eyes.

490

Then thus: O! chief of men, your country's shield;
O! valiant reaper in the iron field;
Come, bold physician of your country's groans,
Thou best and greatest of her warlike sons;
Thee, thee, O chief, Fergusian Stewart calls
To endless honour in his regal halls.
There, there, in honour's arms resign thy breath,
Till age shall snatch thee to the shades of death.
Nor shall the shade involve thy splendid fame,
But distant ages shall resound thy name.
He ceased—Let him command, whose righteous sway
These heroes own, 'tis Donald's to obey,
The youth rejoins—too well my feats he pays;
And greater merit would deserve thy praise.
He said, then towards the king he greatly moved;
Admired by heroes, and by heroes loved.
While thus majestic strode the youth along,
To either side incline the warrior throng.
With polished horns, and curling front upreared,
Thus moves the bull amidst the lowing herd;
Awed by their chief, the lowing field divide,
And form a sable wall on either side;
While unconcerned he moves amidst the throng,
And drags behind a length of tail along.
Arrived—O thou whose all-defending sway,
The hero cries, and godlike chiefs obey;
Who deal'st thy blessings on our rocky shore,
Thy enemies tremble when thy thunders roar.
Let every rising day thy glories sing,
And Caledonians bless their godlike king.
Whene'er the foe assails my country's laws,
My soul takes wing to side the generous cause:
No hope of gain incites, no fears control;
My love, my duty, hurry on my soul:

491

Unpuffed by honour, by thy gold unstored,
Thy foes shall gasp beneath this shining sword.
That empty toy shall ne'er command my will;
Let future ages God the shining ill.
The king admires the man, his deeds, his mind
Averse to ill, and placid, thus rejoined:
O more than valiant, honest, steady, brave,
Eternal honour shall the hero have,
Who saves his country, nor is basely sold
To sordid interest and the love of gold.
He said, then to his manly bosom prest
The hill-born youth, and grew upon his breast.
Such condescension fired the hero's mind;
The man removed, but left his soul behind.
Love, loyalty, esteem, his mind imprest,
Ran through his soul, and kindled in his breast.
The ranks condensed, slow to the town incede,
Foot rose with foot, and head advanced with head.
The polished arms reflect the setting day,
Wave o'er the men, and clank along the way.
Round hoarse-voiced drums, and crooked trumpets sound;
And echo trembles through the mountains round.
Now with the pomp Edina's turrets rung;
Soft maids, old matrons, from the windows hung.
A general shout salutes them from their toils,
And gloomy age is brightened into smiles.
Amidst the crowd the fond maternal eye
Seeks out her son, her young and only joy:
Sometimes she hopes, and then she trembling fears,
And down the furrowed cheeks descend the tears.
The soft enamoured maid is racked with pain,
She blushed to seek, and trembled for her swain.
Along the ranks slow moves the silvered sage,
A staff supports the senior's tottering age;
And keen inquires, O does my Allan breathe?
Or gasp'd my son beneath the arm of death?

492

By slow degrees retired the fading day;
Advanced from east the night in sober gray:
Triumphal bonfires on the darkness gain,
And light internal chequered through the pane.
Rocks, sky, and houses rend with noisy joy:
And sparkling fireworks blaze along the sky.
Thus some hybernal nights, when darkness veils
The weeping sky, the fiery meteor sails
Oblique along the gloom—and silent night
Yields to the glories of the thwarting light.
Assembled now within the palace halls,
While lights resplendent glitter on the walls,
To crown the joyful day, majestic sat
The dauntless pillars of the rocky state.
Joy, liberty, and dangers past, combine
To mingle gladness with the joys of wine.
With temperate draughts they cheer the tossed soul;
And Gallia's nectar sparkles in the bowl.
Each chief the Hunter's valour blazes forth,
And greatness stoops to honour real worth.
Each valiant Caledonian's health goes round;
With every hero's name the vaulted halls resound.
Exalted with such breast-inflaming joys,
Let fair Egidia come, the monarch cries;
For her, her sovereign, her, her father calls,
To please his heroes in his regal halls.
She and her nymphs shall form a sprightly choir
To move harmonious to the charming lyre.
The blooming nymphs shall form the graceful round,
And trip obedient to the various sound.
Swift as the word the blooming maids obey,
The king commands, though blushes tempt to stay.
The blooming bevy come with modest grace,
Love-darting eyes, and rose-suffused face.

493

Attractive charms each lovely damsel wears,
In youth's fair bloom, and pride of vernal years:
Above the rest, with more majestic air
Egidia towers, and more divinely fair
Outshines the maids, as the bright queen of night,
Amidst attendant stars, with silver-streaming light.
Adown her neck the golden ringlets flow;
Her lovely cheeks with roseate colours glow:
In her mild face the modest graces rise,
And beauty sparkles from her heavenly eyes.
The lilies wander in her heaving breast;
Her beauties self-admiring throngs confest.
A robe around her fragrant body swims,
But ill concealed her round-formed snowy limbs.
The fair advanced, the astonished peers admire,
And withered elders felt an inward fire.
Abashed, immoveable, the Hunter stood,
Unusual ardour bubbled through his blood;
From head to foot the lovely maid surveys,
And on her beauties feeds his longing eyes.
From admiration love's unerring dart
Inflamed his soul, and tickled through his heart.

494

CANTO VI.

The tuneful minstrel touch'd the sounding string,
And at the sound the virgins form a ring;
And to his voice he first prelusive played,
When music's soul his moving hand obeyed,
How Kenneth, furious for his father slain,
Hews down the foe, and reaps the bloody plain,
When hostile bodies, Scoon, thy fields bestrowed,
And Tay empurpled ran with Pictish blood,
The peers take fire with the war-moving sound,
And vaulted halls rebellow the hoarse sound.
The minstrel changes to a softer strain,
The vows of virgins, and the lover's pain.
How Wallace fired with fair Hersclea's charms,
His country saved, then rushed into her arms:
How first reluctant, then with love opprest,
The fair one melts upon the lover's breast.
Obedient to the sound, the maids advance,
And form the mazes of the sprightly dance.

495

First slow-majestic swim the harmonious round;
Then soft-inclining catch the changing sound.
Poise the small body, swing arms white and soft,
And with alternate tripping shake the loft.
In mournful melody now melts the strain;
How the fair one, by cruel Heslrig slain,
Transfixed with steel, resigned her balmy breath,
And pallid, gasp'd in the iron jaws of death:
How tossing her white limbs the charmer died,
When blood flows round her in a crimson tide.
The lovely choir restrain the swelling joy,
And pearly drops hang in each tender eye.
The harmonious gestures sorrowful represt,
And sadness heaves the great o'erwhelmed breast.
Then, then, he sung the hero's shameful end,
Who thought no foe lurked in the insidious friend.
What cries, O Scotland! filled thy studded plains!
When thy great son thus struggled in thy chains.
The hill-born youth, fired with the moving strain,
All furious rose, concussed with generous pain.
He half-unsheathed his sword, and even though dead,
Wish'd in the traitor's head to sheath the blade.
He greatly towers along, nor can assuage
His manly fury, and his patriot rage.
The fair admire his shape, his port, his size,
The sprightly splendour of his manly eyes;
The endearing features of his generous face;
He stands majestic, and he walks with grace.
Adown his neck a flowing tide unfurls
Of golden hair, that waves in orient curls.
His party-coloured leg is decked with snow;
And all the graces in the hero glow.
But more than all, his high-respected name,
His well-got honours, and unspotted fame,
Find easy access to a virgin's heart,
And venom add to Cupid's killing dart.

496

The fair Egidia views, and viewing loves;
Through all the man her eye incessant roves.
By slow degrees she felt the flame increase;
Her soul denies it, but her eyes confess.
High inbred thoughts oft turn the eye aside;
But love steps in, and steals a look from pride.
Long, long, against the rushing tide she strove;
Then tumbled headlong down the stream of love.
Thus watermen incessant ply the oar
Up the rough stream, and round the billows roar:
Then wearied throw the water vans aside,
And unobserved descend along the tide.
The pleasant tyrant all the fair oppressed,
And lordly revelled in her snowy breast.
Love heavy sits on every deep-fetched sigh,
Love languid looks from either tender eye:
Love, love expelled each passion of the soul;
No room for these, for love possessed the whole.
Despised the minstrel, and forgot the strain,
Love only pleases; love alone shall pain:
Disturbed the mien of unaffected ease,
And all that native sweetness formed to please.
The fair to all the pangs of love resigned;
And hugged the tyrant in her labouring mind.
What blest solace shall the racked maid require!
In crowds and silence glows the inchanted fire:
Some hope of ease in solitude to find,
The fair removes, but left her soul behind.
Night's silver shield possessed the southern way,
And silent sheds on earth nocturnal day.
Remove the peers—to drown in soft repose
The care, the toils of day, and all its woes.
In vain the hill-born courts, with bending eyes,
The downy power, soft sleep far distant flies.
To heart-corroding thoughts he gives his breast,
And fair Egidia all his soul possessed.

497

Still to his mind the fair ideas rise,
Still blooming painted to his fancy's eyes.
The blooming virgin swims th' harmonious round,
Her eyes with every glance inflict a wound,
Each little gesture, each attractive grace,
Each smirking feature of her lovely face;
Each harmless look, to innocence resigned,
In fond procession pass before the mind.
O blooming! lovely, more than mortal charms;
But, ah! created for another's arms.
O! heavenly nymph, adorned with every grace,
Whom lavish nature has designed to please:
Could aught like me, O maid! the Hunter cries,
Draw but one look from these love-darting eyes!
O could my longing hours, devoid of rest,
Excite a sigh within that throbbing breast!
But, ah! methinks I hear yon virgin say,
Away, away, indecent clown, away:
It ill befits these labour-hardened arms
To clasp, enraptured, such a world of charms.
How ill his figure, how uncouth he moves:
Away, rough hind, unfit for courtly loves.
Life I will sink the pangs of love beneath,
Or shame shall throw me to the jaws of death.
The Hunter said, and hugged his gloomy care,
And pined beneath thy sable hand, Despair!
These drooping thoughts employed the troubled head;
He tumbles ceaseless on the downy bed:
Till pitying sleep floats on his boiling breast,
Stole on his eyes, and gave a troubled rest.
Now mimic Fancy, fleeting fairy! reigns,
And gentle trips through thought-created scenes.
A thousand eye-balls in her forehead stare;
A thousand wings around her beat the air.
Far swifter than the cloud-compelling wind,
The fleetest daughter of the spirit mind,

498

Or skims the sea, or trips o'er desart land,
And nature listens to her great command.
Create, with equal ease, the goddess can
An atom, world, an insect, or a man.
By Fancy's hand, the sleeping hero led,
Strayed in the windings of a verdant mead;
Her own creation: rocks environed round,
And leafy wood surround the happy ground.
Down the black rocks, descend on every side
The bubbling streams, and silent roll the tide
Through the dyed vale; while breathing zephyrs pass
Along the plain, and whistle through the grass.
The fragrant flowers their dewy bells unfold,
While southern Phœbus paints the buds with gold.
There, half-inclining, blushed the crimson rose;
The snowy lily all its beauty shews;
In golden splendour there the crocus shines;
Surcharged with dew the violet inclines:
And more ten thousand ne'er acquired a name,
Hanging, projected o'er the murmuring stream.
From every bough the feathered warblers sing,
And youthful laughs around the joyful spring.
While thus the sleeping youth delighted roves
Through fancied fields, and breeze-remurmuring groves,
Upon a flowery bank Egidia lay,
In beauty's bloom, and all serenely gay.
The fair observed, and to the grove she flies,
But gently courts him with returning eyes.
The youth inflamed, O! stay, my darling, stay!
No foe you fly, O stay, my love! I pray.
No wood-born savage rudely seeks your arms;
Stay, stay, O nymph! and let us view thy charms.
I crave, I burn, I die of mad despair;
Stay, lovely maid! and sooth my glowing care.
The fair relents, and seems to yield her charms;
The youth prepares to clasp her in his arms:

499

While, fleet as thought, the blissful vision flies,
And nought appears to his new-wakening eyes.
The youth awakes, again awakes the flame;
Dream on, fond soul, for ever dream the same,
The hero cries; in vain he calls for rest,
Soft sleep far flies from the revolving breast.

500

CANTO VII.

Monday, 29th November.

Aurora opes the portals of the dawn,
And orient Phœbus chequered through the pane.
Up springs the youth, the youth upsprings and sighs—
Farewell, ye regal halls, farewell, he cries;
Farewell, unhappy honours of the war:
I grasp, I grasp, thy sable hand, Despair.
Ye well-known mountains, and ye rural scenes,
Ye rough-browed rocks, and heath-involved plains,
Receive your traveller, nor receive him whole,
The fair Egidia claims your ranger's soul:
Once more I'll trace alone these arduous brows,
And pitying Echo shall repeat my woes.
Ye once-loved scenes, what pleasure can ye find?
What blessed solace to sooth the Hunter's mind?

501

None, none but thee, O soul-attractive fair!
Can free my mind of heart-corroding care.
Still to my mind thy form shall stand confessed,
Till death shall snatch thee from my bleeding breast.
 

These dates in the MS. are preserved, to mark the period when the poem was written.

November 30.

But how remove and leave the maid behind,
The pain, the comfort, of my love-sick mind?
Farewell, O north! farewell, ye heathy plains,
The maid detains me in coercive chains.
But how be here, and view these heavenly charms
Infolded willing in another's arms?
Another revel on that snowy breast;
Another in the fair Egidia blessed.
I'll fly, I'll fly these soul-inflaming eyes,
Roar seas betwixt us, and let mountains rise.
Be silent fame, nor ever pain the ear,
I wish to know, it thrills my soul with fear.
Thus racked the hill-born youth his manly mind;
Nor knew beneath thy hand Egidia pined,
All-conquering love! Increased the golden day,
And darts oblique on earth a sultry ray.
The peers assembled in the audience hall,
And, where the valiant youth? incessant call.
With heavy steps the mountaineer descends;
Each honoured hero to the warrior bends.
The feast renewed—goes round the sparkling bowl,
And temperate draughts revive the drooping soul.
And deigns the stranger tell from whence he came,
To reap this harvest of unequal fame,
The monarch placid spoke—What happy sire
To hear thy deeds shall feel a father's fire?
What happy mother does the hero own,
Who now sits tearful for her godlike son?

502

What numerous tribe now miss your warrior-head,
While in the youth the people's bulwark fled?
Say, highly-honoured, say, your country's friend,
Speak, valiant youth:—Ye noble peers attend.
The monarch said, and with attentive mien
Expects reply.—The Hunter, touched with pain,
In mute suspense, and deep-revolving stands,
Fain to evade—but 'tis the king commands.
Then thus: Of me no joyful father hears,
No matron's eye for me is drowned in tears;
No numerous tribe sigh for their absent head;
In me, in me no popular bulwark fled:
Obscure, unhonoured, and the mate of swains;
No noble blood encircles in these veins.

2d December, 1756.

Ere reason shone upon my infant mind,
If fame says true, too fickle fortune, kind,
Smiled on the morn of life; her little care
A nurse removes from all-destroying war.
From house to house, from land to land, she flies,
Infolding in her arms her little prize:
My dear, my dear, oft, oft she weeping said,
And me unto her heaving bosom laid;
How fallen! how fallen is that house of state!
Once blest recess of what is truly great.
How wrapt in night is all that grandeur gone!
And you, my darling, hopeless, left alone.
Ah me! when pierced with steel thy father lay,
And bloody streams flow round him every way,
Thy mother came, she starts, she tears her hair,
And with her shrieks she rends the midway air;

503

What cruel hand, what bloody hand, she cries,
Has done this deed? her words are lost in sighs.
My life! my soul! what more have I beneath?
She stopt—she staggered, and she swooned in death.
What ruffian rage from every hall resounds;
Groans press on groans, and wounds increase on wounds.
Here, pierced with steel, a faithful servant lay;
And windowed there the mangled maids decay.
With thee, with thee, my life, I trembling fly,
And tempt the horrors of the nightly sky;
Through want and penury with thee I fare,
Nor pay too dearly for protecting care.
Thus oft she said, thus oft she wept and sighed,
While I, in pity to her sorrow, cried.
Now twice three summers scarce my limbs informed
With hapless life, while yet more roughly stormed
Thy blasts, Misfortune! fluctuating tide
Of life, how changeful! my preserver died.
Then sighing, tearing, friendless, sad, forlorn,
Full on thy headlong stream, Misfortune! borne;
With trembling steps, through unknown lands, I stray;
Goodnature feeds, and fortune points the way.
Unheedful, onward thus I mournful tread,
Till Grampian rocks, projected o'er my head,
Threat ruin o'er my head; bewildered there,
With mournful cries, I rend the empty air.
I sigh, I gasp, my hapless fate bemoan,
And echoing rocks returning groan for groan.
Woe's me, I soft repeat in broken sighs;
Woe's me, false echo from the rocks replies.
O come, O come, I then enraptured cry;
O come, O come, the hollow rocks reply.
The voice obeyed. I come, 'tis silence all;
I cry, another rock repeats the call.
From rock to rock, from hill to hill, I move,
And long, Fatigue! against thy toils I strove:

504

O'ercome with care, o'erwhelmed with endless toil,
I spread my limbs along the heathy soil.
The plaintive sound begins to faint in sighs;
The sad response in just gradation dies.
I now am dandled by the hand of fate,
And death seems knocking at the trembling gate.
Upon the cheek the roseate colour dies,
And life swims faintly on my closing eyes.
While 'twixt two rocks the setting sun displays
A golden splendour and a stream of rays,
Advanced a shade; I, starting, hope to fly,
The weakened limbs my vain efforts defy.
At first I saw a frizled snow of hair,
Lost in the gleam, or glistering wave in air:
A nearer view disclosed a withered man,
Deep-dinted wrinkles both his cheeks o'er-ran;
Sunk are his bloodshot eyes, each blooming grace
Congealed, and age sat wintered on his face.
Inwrapt in party-coloured plaid he stands;
A batton trembled in his aged hands:
He views, he feels the hapless foundling's woes,
And pity brightens on his aged brows:
A generous sympathy his bosom warms;
He hugs me, trembling, in his folding arms.
Cease, cease to cry, my dear, he soothing said,
Cease, cease to cry, then wrapt me in his plaid.
Whence came the babe? whence came my child? he cries;
I answered not, congealed in dumb surprise.
What cursed design, what cruel heart could part
Such blooming beauty from a brazen heart?
What heavenly features, what attractive grace,
What beauty wanders in his blooming face!
How sweetly pleasant through that vail of woes,
Thus in a shower is seen the blushing rose:
O cease, my son, and dry these briny tears,
You'll find a father in my tottering years.

505

He ceased, and me unto his bosom pressed,
Yet unconfirmed, I trembled on his breast;
As one who, hopeless, carried on the tide,
By unexpected fortune gains the side,
Suspended on a twig, in deep surprise,
Quakes on the plain, and scarce believes his eyes.
I trembled thus; he shakes the heathy plains
With tottering feet; his steps a staff sustains.
At length from his low roof black columns rise
Of pitchy smoke, and gain on evening skies.
The turfy hut, with virid moss o'ergrown,
Long rows support of uncemented stone.
Round, sheep, rough goats, and lowing herds appear,
And sounds commixed invade at once the ear.
Rocks intersperse the variegated space;
Here stony columns rise, there smiles the virid grass:
While through the shaded green, rough murmuring, glides
A brook crystalline, with meand'ring tides.

506

CANTO VIII.

Now past a child, yet an imperfect man,
With youthful limbs through mossy heaths I ran;
Exulting in the vernal pride of years,
Forgot misfortune and my childish tears;
From twanging strings began let fly the dart,
Or with the winged ball arrest the hart;
The flying chace with supple joints pursue,
Or gird the forest with the hunter's crew;
To wholesome sports gave all my youthful mind,
Gain on the youths, and leave the youths behind.
The senior saw his son outstrip the whole,
And gladness brightens the time-laden soul.
Thus when some country sees her son afar
Extend her arms, and urge the prosperous war,
Exulting thoughts each generous soul elate,
And gladness looks around with joy complete.
Soon as Aurora faintly promised day,
And mountains hood their tops in dusky gray,

507

The narrow vales and steepy rocks resound
With shouts inciting on the faithful hound.
The fleeting tribe devour the heathy way,
Vanish along, and rouse the lurking prey.
The timid prey to every quarter fly,
Skim o'er the heath, and leave the aching eye.
The branching stag, and lightly-bounding roe,
Stretch o'er the field, and pant before the foe:
The gasping hind the cooling flood relieves,
One death she flies, another death receives;
In vain attempts to leave the liquid tide,
The nimble foe awaits on every side:
Long floating, wearied, sinks in watery death,
And spirts the foam with her departing breath.
Increased the day, the branchy nation fall,
Or torn by dogs, or winged by the ball.
Stag falls on stag, hound lacerates with hound,
And bloody torrents smoke along the ground.
The radiant lord of day his glory shrouds,
And hides his beamy head in sable clouds;
Rough-murmuring blasts along the mountains howl,
And sable darkness quenched the glowing pole:
Thick-gathered mists enwrap the mountains o'er,
And hoarse-voiced thunders roughly rumbling roar.
Red lightnings dart in awful streams of light,
Flash through the gloom, and vanish from the sight.
Engaged the warring elements resound,
Rain batters earth, and smokes along the ground.
Down the steep hill the headlong torrent groans,
Drives trees uprooted, rocks and rattling stones.
Nought can resist: earth from her caverns rung;
The flood spreads on the vale, and turbid rolls along.
Bewildered in the dark diurnal night,
Hood-winked with clouds, and with uncertain light,

508

I ply the moist uncomfortable way,
And errant, through the shaggy mountains stray.
My friends, my fellows, I incessant cry;
In the rough blast my words half-uttered die.
My friends I call, my words in wind are lost;
And nought is heard but the shrill-whistling blast.
From heath to heath, from hill to hill, I roam
In vain, researching for my humble home.
When on the howling wild, black rained the night,
And from my eyes erased the glimmering light.
Athwart the gloom the sparkling meteor sails
With livid glories and volcanian trails.
The dire portents my youthful soul affright,
And kindle horrors in the womb of night.
Aghast, immoveable, I shivering stood,
Cold horror trembled through my freezing blood.
While a soft voice invades my trembling ear,
My soul is charmed, and listened in my fear.
'Twixt every blast is heard the pleasing sound,
Then in the howling hurricane is drowned.
Led by the voice, I cheerful mete the way;
Swells on the ear the soft-approaching lay.
Charmed, I advanced, astonished I survey
Dart through a rocky chink a livid ray.
Inward I peeped, a lovely maid is seen,
Trip through the cave in robes of sprightly green:
White is her skin, her cheeks are rosy red;
Soft wave behind the honours of her head.
Ennobled features due respect command,
And blazed a taper in her snowy hand:
Swifter than wind the fleeting vision glides
Athwart the cave, and swims on airy tides.

509

The sport of every blast the vision reels,
Nor touched the earth with lightly-bounding heels.
Thus, in a splendid day, or lunar night,
Assembled boys let fly the towering kite;
The beardless youths extatic leap with joy,
While it ascends and flutters in the sky.
With sprightly air the phantom beauty sings
Exploits of fairies and of phantom kings;
The vows of youths, the enamoured virgin's care,
And all the soft deceits of shifting fear.
Charmed with the lay, yet freezed with dumb surprise,
I staring stood, and scarce believed my eyes.
Doubtful advancing to enjoy the light,
Or glide, retreating, to the womb of night,
I reasoned long in my revolving breast,
At length my soul, half muttering, thus expressed:
Behind, rough rushes night with thundering storms,
And awful light the gloomy sky deforms;
Before, a calm recess attracts the view,
Where fainting nature may her strength renew.
What though there glides within a feeble mind,
An empty phantom, or a puff of wind?
By fancy formed; to life restrain your flight,
Nor fly a shade and perish in the night.
Confirmed, advancing, O! whose noble birth
Descends from more than men the worms of earth;
O be propitious, nymph! I suppliant said,
And to the wanderer lend thy timely aid;
Rest here my limbs until returning day
Instruct the path, and point the ranger's way.
I suppliant said—the vision thus replies,
And bends aside her beauty-sparkling eyes.
A youth, descended from the blood of great,
Lost to himself, to honour, and to state,
Long Grampus shall ascend your arduous brows,
And with the winged death arrest the roes;

510

At length, bewildered in the sable night,
Led by a voice and feeble ray of light,
Shall, undesigning, learn approaching fate,
And mount from knowledge to the arms of state.
Hard is the ascent, but, oh! how seeming light,
When honour tempts thee to the world polite!
The phantom said, while to my wondering eyes
Green prospects spread, and varied scenes arise.
A spacious field, to limits unconfined,
Spreads every way, and leaves the eye behind.
Ten thousand through its spacious windings stray;
Ten thousand walk, and each a different way:
They ceaseless ply their errors, void of rest;
Each cursed his way, but calls his way the best.
Scoffs, murmurs, accusations, causeless fear,
And desperate voices thunder on the ear.
Full in the centre of the spreading ground,
With sloping sides, arose a virid mound:
Easy the ascents at distance seem to rise;
A nearer view disclosed the slippery ice.
Glad on the top a maid of winning charms,
Courts from below with snowy-spreading arms;
Her rosy cheeks are dimpled o'er with smiles,
And with one wink the hapless she beguiles.
Up the steep hill ten thousand lovers crawl,
And on the point of bless they headlong fall.
Again, again the glittering steep they ply;
Again they fall, again they quivering lie.
But some more happy gain the arduous brow,
And giggle scoffs upon their mates below.
By the gay maid in splendid garments clad,
And laurels planted on the towering head:
Thus for a moment they majestic reign,
The envy of their rivals on the plain.
With swelling cheeks, and vengeance-flaming eyes,
I saw a ghastly form terrific rise:

511

Thy offspring, hell! her ever-moving tongue
Rolls infamy, thy sluggish stream, along;
Pregnant with ill, she heaves her rolling breast;
For ever stare her eyes devoid of rest:
Her poison-churning jaws divide with rage,
She puffs and hurls them trembling off the stage.
The raging fury bangs the flying throng,
Roars on the rear, and sweeps the wretch'd along.
Nor ceased the pest, till in the flood beneath,
Deep, silent, sable stream, they sunk in death.
The foul-voiced noise begins to melt away,
The ghastly fury feels a swift decay,
And vanish; lo! a new succession rose;
It falls, another on its ruins grows.
Thus in the circle of the rolling year,
Fierce winter blasts, and vernal showers uprear
The flowery field; here drops the blushing rose,
There from the withered stem another grows:
Flower grows on flower, and stem succeeds on stem,
For ever different, but appear the same.

512

CANTO IX.

O, more than mortal! then I raptured cry,
Explain these wonders that attract the eye!
Youth, feeble youth, with ignorance combined,
Weaken the soul, and vail the wondering mind:
I said,—the blooming vision quick replies,
This field's the world, there honour's columns rise;
There stray, inconstant, all thy feeble kind;
Their roads as various as the shifting wind.
Towards that blooming form they turn their eyes,
And honour, honour, is the good they prize.
They rave, they burn, they died for honour's charms!
Through toil, through death, they seek her lovely arms:
But scarce their ardent thirst they can assuage,
Till slander hiss them off the envied stage;
Till infamy shall blast the ill got fame,
And dark oblivion tumble round their name.
The phantom spoke, the wonderous scene decayed:
A new creation graced the forming maid;

513

A rural scene! there heavy ears inclined,
Shine o'er the field, and vibrate in the wind.
The loaden tree with ripened fruitage glows;
And through the grove the balmy zephyr blows.
With gathered squadrons, cays, a sable train,
Swim in the sky, or cheque the yellow plain.
To different toils apply the rustic throng;
Here lazy oxen drag the plough along:
The lusty sheaves the binding reapers swell,
And the slow carman hurls the screaming wheel.
Now, ripe for birth, the full grown autumn smiled,
And more than nature laughs along the field.
Sated with joys complete, I turn the eye
To shaggy mountains, and inclement sky;
My fellows of the chace, I trembling view,
In quest of me, a lamentable crew:
The sable rocks they ceaseless rend with cries,
And sorrow trickled from their longing eyes.
Here, here I am, I often, often cried;
The heedless crew passed on, nor aught replied.
While on the plain I view my parent—sage,
Tottering beneath a load of grief and age;
With drooping head, which years had cap'd with snow,
Laid on a staff, and move unwilling slow,
The senior quaked on age-suspended limbs,
And sad around, his fading eye-ball swims:—
My son, my son! O, darling of my age!
What headlong torrent, with impetuous rage,
Roars round thy lifeless limbs; and, drowned, bears
The light, the comfort of my aged years.
O life fallacious! how thy hopes decay,
You grant a bliss, then snatch the prize away!
Ah me! for this did I my age employ,
For death untimely save the rising boy!

514

What ardent joys did then my soul confess,
While Donald vanquished in the rapid race;
What ardent joys dilate my ardent mind,
While you transfixed the hart, or bounding hind;
Oft have I seen, but ah! shall see no more,
Here, here, where hapless I your loss deplore,
Unerring wing the feathered arrow's flight,
Or wield the gauntlet, or discharge the quoit.
Come, Death, inwrap me, sable, silent shade;
And, mourning grave! receive this hoary head.
He stopt, he sighed, and tore the silver hair,
And gnashed beneath thy grievous weight, Despair!
I feel his grief, the tears begin to flow,
And all my soul is touched with mighty woe.
I start, I stretch my limbs, his soul to ease,
While on the eye the transient scene decays:
Faded the view, extinct diurnal light,
And howled without the cloud-enveloped night.
Thus in the horizon of the silent night,
The setting moon darts parallel its light,
Silvers the flood, and paints the landscape gay,
And deals around the bright nocturnal day:
But, sunk beneath, the pleasing prospects fail,
And every object wears a melancholy veil.
Sunk in a flood of heart-corroding woes,
O'erwhelmed I stood; another scene arose:—
Mingled with heroes in the iron field,
A second self, astonished, I beheld;
My shape, my size, my features, all the same,
As oft looked trembling from undimpled stream;
Athwart the side the well-known scabbard flies,
The well-known plaid hangs plaited down the thighs;
O'er half my leg the spangled buskin glows,
And orient hair from th' azure bonnet flows:
Upon this breast the plaid half hid beneath,
The polished pistol, minister of death!
Beneath my lifted arm the enemies groan,
And I exult in bravery not my own;

515

And victory, terrific, in her car,
Hurls on the deluge of the noisy war;
Graspt honour in thy arms, and high renowned
My godlike heroes their preserver owned.
Shouts, acclamations, rend the fluid air,
While slow approached a soft majestic fair;
Her blooming charms my reeling soul surprize,
I senseless stood, and fixed on her my eyes:
My soul is melted with the soft desire,
The virgin smiled, and seemed to feel my fire.
At once concedes her more than mortal charms,
I spread my hands to clasp her in my arms;
When all at once the blooming scene disjoin'd,
And Donald hugged a blast of empty wind.
Oh! cruel, cruel! I desponding said,
While sunk the taper and the phantom maid;
Rough-rumbling thunders through the sable groan,
And blustering winds proclaim the vision gone.
I start, unsheathed my sword, uprightly stood
My hair, surprise ran shivering through my blood.
A sprite in every fiery meteor past,
A sprite seemed howling in each whistling blast;
Until my soul, by resolution swayed,
Despised each fear, and thought upon the maid.
The maid, the maid, all, all my soul possessed,
The maid sat empress in my rolling breast.
Then, then her phantom all my bosom warms,
What must I feel who saw her real charms;
Her thought-created graces I admire,
My reason slept, and fancy fed the fire.
The wished for morn its early blushes spread,
Reared o'er the eastern hill her rosy head;
Sunk are the winds, the clouds together fly,
And glows serene the azure-arched sky.
Cheered with the blest return of sacred light,
Eased of the gloomy terrors of the night,

516

I glad ascend, and homeward bend my way;
The hut appears with the meridian day.
What scene appears of heart-corroding woe,
The melancholy crowd, solemnly slow,
Support my dead preserver to the grave;
Death sped the blow, which aged sorrow gave.
For me, for me, the senior drew his breath!
For me, for me, the aged sunk in death!
To find me in the grave; I sobbing paid
My tearful tribute to the reverend shade:
At once, love, gratitude, and duty mourn,
My sire, my counsel, in the silent urn.
Now on the eye decay the blissful scenes,
The rough-browed rocks, and all the sloping plains
Delight no more; no chace, no winged fowl,
No goat, no cattle, cheer the mournful soul.
The senior gone, the rural sports decayed,
And love attracts the traveller to the maid.
As when the playful youth delighted views
A thousand flowers, of thousand various hues,
Glow on the murmuring rivulet's farther side;
He dips his foot, and, trembling, backward flies,
Returns again, and lops the blooming toys:
Thus undetermined long I dubious stood,
Then headlong plunged in fortune's sable flood;
Swift bounding forward, I devour the way,
The oaten field and low-roofed hut decay;
The hills step backward, as I onward stride
Along the sharp-spiked rocks and mountains side.
Tay, on thy banks, a courteous host! received,
And balmy rest the nerve of toil relieved.
Soon as the sky with, Sol! thy chariot glows,
Made strong for toil, the wandering traveller goes;
Ceaseless I mete the road, till setting day
Darts parallel to earth a golden ray.

517

A place there is, where the cerulean main
Glides up 'twixt rocks, and forms an azure plain;
There, there I stood, astonished to survey
The roaring billows on the watery way;
How liquid mountains dash against the shore,
The rough rocks rumble, hoarse the billows roar:
I stretch'd my limbs along the murmuring deep,
And the hoarse billows lull my soul asleep.

518

CANTO X.

His toils, his woes, the hill-born hero sung,
While from their seats the attentive audience hung.
His woes, his toils, as yet they seem to hear;
As yet his accents hang upon the ear,
Though ceased. Swift from his seat Alcanor rose,
Down to his heel the sable mantle flows;
His aged limbs shook with the weight of years,
His fading eyes distil the briny tears:
O valiant youth! your face, the age rejoined,
Recalls my hopeless son unto my mind;
The same his features, and his shape the same,
Thus death untimely wrapt the youthful frame.
Ah me! my son, you treason's victim lay,
While at your side thy consort's charms decay;
While with thy child a matron servant fled;
And friends enquiring thought your memory dead.
But thou, dear object of my aged care,
Whom Heaven designed the sad Alcanor's heir,

519

By more than mortal led—thee, thee I own,
My joy, my hope, my reviviscent son!
Be still, fond heart! no more Alcanor grieves,
Since in my godlike youth my Allan lives.
The Senior said; and clasped the hero round:
His reverend sire the valiant grandson owned.
Tears flow on tears, and sigh succeeds on sigh,
And either soul melts with the sudden joy;
Swell on the air congratulations round,
And mighty titles round the Hunter sound.
Now, envy fled, the ancient peerage own,
And greatness flashes from the mean unknown.
Thus in the quarry, rough in every part,
The moss-grown marble, till reformed by art,
Unvalued lies, till forming hammers groan,
The halls of greatness shine with Parian stone.
Thus shone the chief amidst the bevied great,
Brighter his fame shone on the arms of state;
With joyful shouts the palace thundered round,
And repercussive walls repel the sound.
Thus lost in distance empty thunders roar,
Or foaming billows lash the sounding shore;
Heard by the midnight travellers as they roam,
And swells the murmur on the silent gloom.
The fair Egidia, as she sat alone,
And silent breathed her sighs in plaintive moan,
Felt noisy shouts invade the trembling ear,
Starts from the dream of thought, and looks with fear.
Surprise is painted in her blooming mien,
And care succeeds the soft enamoured pain:
Ah! hapless me! the trembling virgin cries,
The tear half dropping from her azure eyes,
The warrior youth, all by the great envied,
Falls now perhaps a victim to their pride;
O'erpowered, for such of late assailed the ear,
From fields of death, and iron noise of war.

520

Ophelia there? Come, maid! What means that noise?
The hill-born youth departs, the peers rejoice:
My queen! the maid replies; the bowl is crowned,
And with the hero's health the vaulted halls resound.
A sudden stupor every sense pervades,
Upon her cheek the roseate tincture fades;
In dumb surprise her soul astonished swims;
The downy bed supports her falling limbs:
A sudden qualm of sorrow and surprise
Bound up the tongue, and blocked the gates of voice:
The wakening soul resumes the seat again,
She ceaseless rolls in agonizing pain;
Tossed round her limbs, and furious with despair,
She beat her breast, and tore her golden hair.
Surprise is o'er; the tears begin to flow;
And words expressive of the mighty woe:
Egidia lives! and what she prized is fled!
Come, death! and waft the hapless to the dead.
Come lop this virgin flower, my sable spouse,
And quench the flood-gates of these rushing woes.
Sooth, sooth, O gentle! all my troubled breast;
Within thy arms at last my soul shall rest!
Birth, grandeur, state, farewell, ye empty toys,
Ye curse of life, obstructions of my joys!
O should a shepherdess upon the plain
Bear me, a daughter, to some humble swain;
Not nursed to grandeur, unconfined to state,
The stately youth might love his rural mate!
Clasped in Love's arms, in some low hut reclined,
I'd pour upon his breast my love-sick mind;
With thee, my swain, would bear the wintry cold,
With thee would guard the cattle to the fold;
Through Poverty's cold stream-with thee would gain,
And lean-cheek'd Want might puff his blast in vain;
With thee, with thee would tempt the rugged heath;
With thee would live, with thee would sink in death.

521

O bear me, bear me, Fortune, to some grove,
Where your transfixer, harts! and mine may rove.
Touched with my care, my tyrant may prove kind,
Nor let that form conceal an iron mind.
I seem, I seem through lonely fields to stray,
Love wings my feet, and Love directs the way;
I see, I see my lovely Hunter come,
In pride of years, and beauty's fairest bloom.
See, see, the suppliant seems to own my charms!
I rush, I rush into his manly arms.
But why, enthusiast! does thy fancy stray?
Grandeur forbids, and birth besets the way.
See! Greatness chides me with a frowning face;
For shame, for shame, desire a clown's embrace!
Let opening earth the blushing maid receive,
Avail from Calumny the spotless grave.
But, Calumny, can you my case remove?
Too weak a combatant for mighty Love—
Love, mighty Love, I am thy victim whole!
Love holds the reins, and actuates my soul.
But ah! perhaps a maid of happier charms
Attracts the traveller to her lovely arms.
In vain, Egidia, melts thy tearful eyes,
Thy rival shall enfold thy envied prize.
Blow, Boreas, blow the rough cerulean main,
And from her arms the lovely youth detain.
Time, time may wear her image from his mind,
And chance may make the hill-born hero kind.
In vain, in vain I sooth my glowing care,
In vain elude thy venomed pangs, Despair!
Even now, perhaps, the seamen ply the oar,
And waft my soul into the farther shore.
The lovely maid upon the bed reclined,
Thus mournful tortured all her virgin mind.
Obsequious maids, around the love-sick fair,
Fetch sigh for sigh, and tear distil with tear.

522

Some silent stand, and some attempt relief
By balmy words, and sooth the virgin's grief;
But still her snowy throbbing bosom sighs,
And tears descend from her love-darting eyes.
Her snowy neck disordered hair o'erspread,
Her tear-washed cheeks diffuse a rosy red,
Her swelling arms are decored with snow,
And all the graces in the virgin glow.
Thus, spreading her white limbs along the plains,
The blooming Venus mourned Adonis slain:
Adown her rosy neck the tresses flow,
Her eyes look languid through the veil of woe;
'Twixt her loose robe her heaving breast is seen,
And all the graces mourn around their queen.
Thus on the downy bed the virgin burns,
And round the fair the blooming bevy mourns.
The monarch hears his love-sick daughter's pain:
Why weeps my daughter, why, my joy, complain?
The youth remains, nor is the noble fled,
Nor shall his noble blood disgrace the marriage-bed.
No horrid herdsman, no indecent hind,
Of clownish manners, or rapacious mind,
First, Cupid, aimed thy soft enamouring dart,
And vanquished all my young Egidia's heart.
Obscure, unhonoured, heedless, all alone,
Lost to himself, and to the world unknown,
The youth, long, Grampus! climbed thy brows, till fate
Instructs the mind, and spread the arms of state.
Good is thy choice, and what thy sire designed;
Dry, dry these cheeks, and sooth thy troubled mind.
The monarch placid spoke: The maid arose,
Her raptured soul with joys extatic glows.
The veil of woe removed, she brightly shone;
As beamy Phœbus, or the silver moon

523

Emerging from a cloud, she graceful moves,
And gently trip around the little loves.
Before the priest the blooming couple stand;
Much she desired, but blushed to join the hand.
'Tis done; the youthful hero spreads his arms,
And clasps, enraptured, more than phantomed charms.

525

THE HIGHLANDER:

A POEM.

IN SIX CANTOS.


527

CANTO I.

The youth I sing, who, to himself unknown,
Lost to the world and Caledonia's throne,
Sprung o'er his mountains to the arms of Fame,
And, winged by Fate, his sire's avenger, came;
That knowledge learn'd so long deny'd by Fate,
And found that blood, as merit, made him great.
The aged chieftain on the bier is laid,
And grac'd with all the honours of the dead:
The youthful warriors, as the corpse they bear,
Droop the sad head, and shed the gen'rous tear.
For Abria's shore Tay's winding banks they leave,
And bring the hero to his father's grave.
His filial tears the godlike Alpin sheds,
And towards the foe his gallant warriors leads.
The chief along his silent journey wound,
And fixed his rainy eyes upon the ground;

528

Behind advanced his followers sad and slow,
In all the dark solemnity of woe.
Meantime fierce Scandinavia's hostile pow'r
Its squadrons spread along the murmuring shore;
Prepar'd, at once, the city to invade,
And conquer Caledonia in her head.
His camp, for night, the royal Sweno forms,
Resolv'd with morn to use his Danish arms.
Now in the ocean sunk the flaming day,
And streaked the ruddy west with setting ray;
Around great Indulph, in the senate, sat
The noble chiefs of Caledonia's state.
In mental scales they either forces weigh,
And act, before, the labours of the day;
Arrange in thought their Caledonia's might,
And bend their little army to the fight.
Thus they consult. Brave Alpin's martial gait
Approach'd the portals of the dome of state,
Resolv'd to offer to his king and lord,
The gen'rous service of his trusty sword.
Th' unusual sight the gallant chief admires,
The bending arches and the lofty spires.
On either side the gate, in order stand
The ancient kings of Caledonia's land.
The marble lives; they breathe within the stone,
And still, as once, the royal warriors frown.
The Fergusses are seen above the gate;
This first created, that restor'd, the state.
In warlike pomp the awful forms appear,
And, bending, threaten from the stone the spear;
While to their side young Albion seems to rise,
And on her fathers turns her smiling eyes.
And next appears Gregorius' awful name,
Hibernia's conqu'ror for a gen'rous fame.

529

Incased in arms, the royal hero stands,
And gives his captive all his conquered lands.
The filial heart of hapless Alpin's son
In marble melts, and beats within the stone.
Revenge still sparkles in the hero's eye:
Around the Picts a nameless slaughter lye.
The youthful warrior thus reviews, with joy,
The godlike series of his ancestry.
The godlike forms the drooping hero cheer,
And keen ambition half believes the seer:
Eager he shoots into the spacious gate;
His eye commands;—without his followers wait.
No frowning spearman guards the awful door;
No borrowed terror arms the hand of power;
No cringing bands of sycophants appear,
To send false echoes to the monarch's ear;
Merit's soft voice, oppression's mournful groan,
Advanced, unstifled, to th' attentive throne.
The hero, ent'ring, took his solemn stand
Among the gallant warriors of the land.
His manly port the staring chiefs admire,
And half-heard whispers blow the soldier's fire.
A while his form engaged the monarch's eyes;
At length he raised the music of his voice:
“Whence is the youth? I see fierce Denmark warms
Each generous breast, and fires 'em into arms.
A face once known is in that youth exprest,
And mends a dying image in my breast.”
He said:—and thus the youth: “'Midst rocks afar,
I heard of Denmark, and of Sueno's war.
My country's safety in my bosom rose:
For Caledonia's sons should meet her foes.
We ought not meanly wait the storm at home,
But rush afar, and break it ere it come.
Few are my followers, but these few are true;
We come to serve our country, fame, and you!”

530

He said:—the king retorts: “Thy form, thy mind,
Declare the scion of a generous kind.
With Scotia's foes maintain the stern debate,
And spring from valour to the arms of state.
Whoe'er would raise his house in Albion, should
Lay the foundation in her en'mies' blood.”
Then to the chiefs: “Supporters of my throne,
Your sires brought oft the Roman Eagles down.
Yourselves, my lords, have caused the haughty Dane
To curse the land he tried so oft in vain.
Norvegian firs oft brought them o'er the waves,
For Albion's crown; but Albion gave 'em graves.
Be still the same; exert yourselves like men,
And of th' invaders wash our rocks again.
Though few our numbers, these, in arms grown old,
In Albion's and in Indulph's cause are bold.
The brave man looks not, when the clarion sounds,
To hostile numbers, but his country's wounds;
Bold to the last, and dauntless he'll go on,
At once his country's soldier, and her son.”
The monarch thus his royal mind exprest,
The patriot kindling in each generous breast.
Each chieftain's mind with pleasure goes before,
Already mingling with the battle's roar.
In thought each hero sweeps the bloody plain,
And deals, in fancy, death upon the Dane.
Dunbar arose, the brave remains of wars,
Silver'd with years, o'er-run with honest scars;
Great in the senate, in the field renown'd:
The senior stood; attention hung around.
He thus: “Fierce Denmark all the north commands,
And belches numbers on our neighb'ring lands;
England's subdued, the Saxons are o'ercome,
And meanly own a Danish lord at home.
Scarce now a blast from Scandinavia roars,
But wafts a hostile squadron to our shores.

531

One fleet destroy'd, another crowns the waves:
The sons seem anxious for their fathers' graves:
Thus war returns in an eternal round;
Battles on battles press; and wound on wound.
Our numbers thinned, our godlike warriors dead,
Pale Caledonia hangs her sickly head.
We must be wise, be frugal of our store,
Add art to arms, and caution to our pow'r.
Beneath the sable mantle of the night,
Rush on the foe, and, latent, urge the fight.
Conduct, with few, may foil this mighty power,
And Denmark shun th' inhospitable shore.”
The senior spoke: a general voice approves;
To arm his kindred-bands each chief removes.
Night from the east the drowsy world invades,
And clothes the warriors in her dusky shades.
The vassal-throng advance, a manly cloud,
And with their sable ranks the chieftains shroud.
Each chief, now here, now there, in armour shines,
Waves through the ranks, and draws the lengthened lines.
Thus, on a night when rattling tempests war,
Through broken clouds appears a blazing star;
Now veils its head, now rushes on the sight,
And shoots a livid horror through the night.
The full-form'd columns, in the midnight-hour,
Begin their silent journey tow'rds the shore:
Through every rank the chiefs inciting roam,
And rouzing whispers hiss along the gloom.
A rising hill, whose night-invelop'd brow
Hung o'er th' encamped squadrons of the foe,
Shoots to the deep its ooze-immantled arm,
And stedfast struggles with the raging storm.
Here ends the moving host its winding road,
And here condenses, like a sable cloud,
Which long was gathering on the mountain's brow,
Then broke in thunder on the vales below.

532

Again the chiefs, in midnight-council met,
Before the king maintain the calm debate:
This waits the equal contest of the day,
That rushes headlong to the nightly fray.
At length young Alpin stood, and thus begun:
“Great king! supporter of our ancient throne!
Brought up in mountains, and from councils far,
I am a novice in the art of war;
Yet hear this thought.—Within the womb of night,
Confirm the troops, and arm the youth for fight,
While, softly treading, to yon camp I go,
And mark the disposition of the foe;
Or wakeful arm they for the dismal fight,
Or, wrapt within the lethargy of night,
Are left abandon'd to our Scottish sword;
By sleep's soft hand in fatal chains secur'd.
If Denmark sleeps in night's infolding arms,
Expect your spy to point out latent storms;
But, they in arms, too long delay'd my speed,
Then place the faithful scout among the dead.”
A general voice th' exploring thought approves,
And every wish with youthful Alpin moves.
The hero slides along the gloom of night:
The camp-fires send afar their gleaming light.
Athwart his side the trusty sabre flies;
The various plaid hangs plaited down his thighs;
The crested helm waves awful on his head;
His manly trunk the mail and corslet shade;
The pond'rous spear supports his dusky way;
The waving steel reflects the stellar ray.
Arrived, the dauntless youth, solemnly slow,
Observant moved along the silent foe.
Some 'braced in arms the midnight vigil keep;
Some o'er the livid camp-fires nod to sleep;
The feeding courser to the stake is bound;
The prostrate horseman stretched along the ground;

533

Extended here the brawny footman lay,
And, dozing, wore the lazy night away;
The watchman there, by sleep's soft hand o'erpowered,
Starts at the blast, and half unsheaths his sword.
Th' exploring youth, through night's involving cloud,
Circling the foe, their disposition viewed.
At length the hero's dusky journey ends,
Where Haco feasted with his Danish friends.
Haco by more than Sueno's blood was great,
The promis'd monarch of the triple state.
The Scandinavian camp the youth secured
With watchful troops, and not unfaithful sword.
Two oaks, from earth by headlong tempests torn,
Supply the fire, and in the circle burn;
Around, with social talk, the feast they share,
And drown in bowls the Caledonian war.
O'erpowered at length by slumber's silken hand,
They press the beach, and cower upon the strand.
A gallant deed the mountain-youth design'd;
And nursed a growing action in his mind.
Awful the chief advanced; his armour bright
Reflects the fire, and shines along the night.
Hovering he stood above the sleeping band,
And shone, an awful column, o'er the strand.
Thus, often to the midnight traveller,
The stalking figures of the dead appear:
Silent the spectre towers before the sight,
And shines, an awful image, through the night.
At length the giant phantom hovers o'er
Some grave unhallowed, stained with murdered gore.—
Thus Alpin stood. He exiles to the dead
Six warrior youths; the trembling remnant fled:
Young Haco starts, unsheaths his shining sword,
And views his friends in iron chains secured.
He rushes headlong on the daring foe;
The godlike Alpin renders blow for blow.

534

Their clattering swords on either armour fell;
Fire flashes round, as steel contends with steel.
Young Alpin's sword on Haco's helmet broke,
And to the ground the staggering warrior took.
Leaning on his broad shield the hero bends;
Alpin aloft in air his sword suspends:
His arm up-raised, he downward bends his brow,
But scorned to take advantage of the foe.
Young Haco from his hand the weapon threw,
And from his flaming breast these accents drew:
“Bravest of men! who could through night come on;
Who durst attack, and foil an host alone!
I see the man high on the warrior placed,
Both mend each other in your noble breast.
Accept, brave man, the friendship of a Dane,
Who hates the Scot, but yet can love the man.”
He said; while thus the Scot: “With joy I find
The man so powerful in an en'my's mind;
Your forces fled, amidst night's dark alarms,
You both could stand, and use your gallant arms:
Such valiant deeds thy dauntless soul confess,
That I the warrior, though the Dane, embrace.”
His brawny arms he round the hero flung;
As they embrace the clashing corslets rung.
The Dane resumes: “With the sun's rising beam,
We may, in fields of death, contend for fame;
Receive this shield, that, midst to-morrow's storms,
Haco may grateful shun his well-known arms.”
He said; and gave the gold-enamelled round;
While, as he reached, the studded thongs resound.
The amicable colloquy they end;
And each, a foe, clasped in his arms a friend.
This to the camp his dusky journey bends;
While that to Albion's chiefs the hill ascends.
Th' exploring journey all with pleasure hear,
And own the valiant scout their noble care.

535

Dissolved the council; the attack declined;
Each with the gift of sleep indulged his mind:
And, 'midst his kindred-bands supinely laid,
Each softly slumbered on a mossy bed.
His mind to soft repose young Alpin bends,
And seeks the humble circle of his friends:
Reclining on a rock the hero lies,
And gradual slumbers steal upon his eyes.
Still to his mind the Danish camp arose,
Hung on his dreams, and hagg'd his calm repose:
Once more he mixed with Haco in the fight,
And urged, impending, on the Danish flight.

536

CANTO II.

Heaven's opening portals shot the beam of day;
Earth changed her sable robe to sprightly grey;
To west's dark goal the humid night is fled;
The sun o'er ocean rears his beamy head;
The splendid gleam from Scottish steel returns,
And all the light reflexive mountains burns.
Deep-sounding bag-pipes, gaining on the air,
With lofty voice awake the Scottish war.
The gallant chiefs, along the mountain's brow,
Stand 'cased in arms, and lower upon the foe;
Or awful through the forming squadrons shine,
Build up the ranks, and stretch the lengthened line.
Each clan their standards from the beam unbind;
They float along, and clap upon the wind:
The hieroglyphic honours of the brave
Acquire a double horror as they wave.
The southern warriors stretch the lines of war
Full on the right, obedient to Dumbar.

537

Hardened to manhood in the school of arms,
He moves along sedately as he forms:
Next deeply stretch their regular array,
To break the iron tempest of the day,
The sons of Lennox, and their gallant Grahame,
Oft honoured with the bloody spoils of fame.
He towers along with unaffected pride,
Whilst they display their blazing arms aside.
Great Somerled possest the middle space,
And ranged the kindred valour of his race;
The dauntless sons of Morchuan's rocky soil,
And the rough manhood of Mull's sea-girt isle.
The mountain-chiefs, in burning arms incased,
And carrying all their country in their breast,
Undaunted rear their useful arms on high,
Now fought for food, and now for liberty,
Now met the sport of hills, now of the main,
Here pierced a stag, and there transfixed a Dane.
Though nature's walls their homely huts inclose;
To guard their homely huts, though mountains rose;
Yet feeling Albion in their breasts, they dare
From rocks to rush, and meet the distant war.
The full-formed lines now crown the mountain's brow,
And wave a blazing forest o'er the foe.
The king commands: down in array they creep;
Their clanking arms beat time to every step;
As they descend, they stretch along the strand,
Restore the ranks, and make a solemn stand.
Before the camp the Danish columns rise,
And stretch the battle to the clarion's voice.
Majestic Sueno kept the higher place,
Great in the war, as in his noble race;
And, when the sword to milder peace shall yield,
In council great, as in the thundering field.
Behind their king, to either hand afar,
Rough Norway's sons extend the front of war.

538

He moves, incased in steel and majesty,
Along the ranks, and plans them with his eye;
Speaks his commands with unaffected ease,
And unconcerned the coming battle sees.
Bent on his purpose, obstinately brave,
To win a kingdom, or an honest grave,
He seemed to look tow'rds Norway's rocky shore,
And say,—I'll conquer, or return no more.
Far to the right fierce Magnus' fiery sway
Compels the troops, and rears the quick array:
Haughty he moves, and catching flame from far,
Looks tow'rds the Scots, anticipates the war;
Feels cruel joys in all his fibres rise,
And gathers all his fury to his eyes.
Young Haco on the left the battle rears,
And moves majestic through a wood of spears;
With martial skill the rising ranks he forms,
No novice in the iron-trade of arms.
Thus formed, the Danes, in unconfused array,
Stretch their long lines along the murmuring sea.
Their anchored ships, a sable wood, behind,
Nod on the wave, and whistle to the wind.
On either side thus stretched the manly line;
With darting gleam the steel-clad ridges shine:
On either side the gloomy lines incede,
Foot rose with foot, and head advanced with head.
Thus when two winds descend upon the main,
To fight their battles on the watery plain,
In two black lines the equal waters crowd,
On either side the white-topped ridges nod.
At length they break, and raise a bubbling sound,
While echo rumbles from the rocks around.
Thus march the Danes, with spreading wings afar;
Thus moves the horror of the Scottish war;
While drowsy silence droops her mournful head,
Whose calm repose the clanking arms invade.

539

The mountain-youth, with unaffected pride,
Twice thirty warriors rising by his side,
His native band, precedes the Scottish forms,
A shining column in the day of arms.
In act to throw, he holds the ponderous spear,
And views with awful smiles the face of war.
Nodding along, his polished helmet shines,
And looks superior o'er the subject lines.
On either side, devoured the narrow ground
The moving troops. The hostile ridges frowned.
From either host the herald's awful breath
Rung, in the trumpet's throat, the peal of death.
The martial sound foments their kindling rage;
Onward they rush, and in a shout engage.
The swords through air their gleaming journeys fly,
Crash on the helms, and tremble in the sky.
Groan follows groan, and wound succeeds on wound,
While dying bodies quiver on the ground.
Thus, when devouring hatchet-men invade,
With sounding steel, the forest's leavy head,
The mountains ring with their repeated strokes;
The tapering firs, the elms, the aged oaks,
Quake at each gash; then nod the head and yield,
Groan as they fall, and tremble on the field.
Thus fell the men; blood forms a lake around,
While groans and spears hoarse harmony resound.
The mountains hear, and thunder back the noise,
And echo stammers with unequal voice.
As yet the battle hung in doubtful scales;
Each bravely fought, in death or only fails.
All, all are bent on death or victory,
Resolved to conquer, or with glory die.
Fierce Denmark's honour kindles fire in these;
On these pale Albion bends her parent-eyes.
This sternly says, “Shall Denmark's children fly?”
But that, “Or save, or with your country die.”

540

The Scots, a stream, would sweep the Danes away,
The Danes, a rock, repelled the Scots array.
They fight alternate, and alternate fly,
Both wound, both conquer, both with glory die.
Thrice Haco strove to break Dumbar's array,
And thrice Dumbar impelled him to the sea.
The fiery Magnus, foaming on the right,
Pours on the mountain-chiefs his warrior might.
The mountain-youths the furious chief restrain,
And turn the battle back upon the Dane.
The ranks of Sueno stand in firm array,
As hoary rocks repel the raging sea.
The hero to the phalanx crowds his might,
And calmly manages the standing fight;
Not idly madd'ning in the bloody fray,
He wears delib'rately the foe away.
Straight on his spear the godlike Alpin stood,
His flaming armour 'smeared with Danish blood.
He casts behind an awe-commanding look,
And to his few, but valiant, followers spoke:
“The cautious Danes, O friends! in firm array,
With perseverance may secure the day;
Our people fall. Let us their force divide;
Invade with flame their transports on the tide.
They will defend, the Scots restore the day;
Follow, my friends, your Alpin leads the way!”
He said, and rushed upon the phalanxed Dane;
The bending ranks beneath his sword complain.
Arms, groans of men, beat time to every wound,
Nod at each blow, and thunder on the ground.
Behind his friends advance with martial care,
Move step for step, and spread the lane of war.
He lowers before, and clears the rugged road;
They rush behind, a rough and headlong flood.
Thus on some eminence the lab'ring swain
Unlocks his sluice to drench the thirsty plain;

541

With mattock armed, he shapes the water's course;
The liquid flows behind with rapid force.
Thus valiant Alpin hews his bloody way,
And thus his friends force through their firm array;
With great effort he seizes on the strand,
Turns to his friends, and issues his command:
“Thicken your lines, the battle's shock sustain,
And gall with vigour the recoiling Dane.
Brave Caledonians! face your country's foe;
Your lives are hers, her own on her bestow.”
He added not. The valiant youths obey;
The hero shaped along his rapid way;
Rushed to the camp, and seized a flaming brand,
Then took his lofty seat upon the strand.
Swift from his arm the crackling ember flies,
Whizzes along, and kindles in the skies:
The pitchy hull receives the sparkling fire;
The kindling ship the fanning winds inspire.
Black smoke ascends; at length the flames arise,
Hiss through the shrouds, and crackle in the skies.
The riding fleet is all in darkness lost,
Its canvas wings the flame spreads on the blast.
Red embers, falling from the burning shroud,
Hiss in the wave, and bubble in the flood.
Great Sueno turns, and sees the flame behind
Swell its huge columns on the driving wind;
Then thus to Eric: “Urge your speedy flight,
Recal the fiery Magnus from the right:
Quick let him come! th' endanger'd transports save,
And dash against the burning ship the wave.”
The youth obeys, and, flying o'er the sand,
Repeats in Magnus' ear the king's command.
The warrior starts, rage sparkling in his eyes,
He towers along, resounding as he flies.
He comes: from Sueno's army squadrons fall
Around the chief, and rear the manly wall;

542

Till in their front the stately chief appears,
They wave behind an iron wood of spears;
In all the gloomy pomp of battle lower,
And beat with sounding steps the fatal shore.
Bent to support the flame, his thin array
Young Alpin draws along the murmuring sea.
He holds the massy spear in act to throw,
And bends his fiery eyes upon the foe.
Advanced,—with awful din the fight began;
Steel speaks on steel, man urges upon man.
Groans, shouts, arms, men, a jarring discord sound,
Gain on the sky, and shake the mountains round.
Fierce Magnus here would rush into the main;
Young Alpin there would keep at bay the Dane.
One pushes the swift boat into the sea;
Through his bent back the faulchion cleaves its way:
Another dashes to the ship the wave,
And bends at once into a watery grave;
Spouts with departing breath the bubbling flood,
And dyes the water with his foaming blood.
Thus fought the men.—Behind the flame resounds,
Gains on the fleet, and spreads its wasteful bounds.
Great Magnus, burning at the dismal sight,
Advanced, with rage redoubled, to the fight.
“Degen'rate Danes!” the raging warrior cries,
“The day is lost,—your fame, your honour, dies!
Advance,—condense your ranks,—bear on your way,
And sweep these daring striplings to the sea.”
The men advance: proceeds their haughty lord,
And wounds the air with his impatient sword.
Bending where Alpin reapt the bloody plain,
“Turn! here's a man; turn, stripling, here's a Dane!”
He said.—The mountain-warrior turns his eyes,
Then sternly wheels, and with a blow replies.
Great Magnus falling on young Alpin's shield,
Adds to the dismal thunder of the field.

543

Revengeful Alpin, with descending blade,
Crashes the shining thunder on his head.
They aim, defend; their swords, at every stroke,
Talk on the way, and gleam along the smoke.
At length on Magnus fate deals home a wound;
He nods to death, and thunders on the ground.
Starting from the wide wound, the bubbling blood
Sinks through the sand, and rolls a smoking flood.
Prone on the strand, extended every way,
Clad o'er with steel, a shining trunk he lay.
Thus, on its lofty seat, should winds invade
The statue, keeps the mem'ry of the dead,
It quakes at every blast, and nods around,
Then falls, a shapeless ruin, to the ground.
The Danes beholding their commander die,
Start from their ranks, and in confusion fly.
The youth pursues: the flames behind him roar,
Catch all the fleet, and clothe with smoke the shore.
Mean time great Sueno, Denmark's valiant king,
Round royal Indulph bends the hostile ring.
Hemmed in a circle of invading men,
They face on every side the closing Dane;
Deal blow for blow, and wound return for wound,
And bring the staggering en'my to the ground.
Great Somerled, Argyle's majestic lord,
Through Harald's sounding helmet drives his sword:
Staggering he falls; his rattling arms resound,
And in the pangs of death he bites the ground.
Through Hilric's shield great Indulph urged the spear;
It pierced his breast, and smoked behind in air:
Groaning he sinks; as when repeated strokes
Bring headlong to the ground the slaughtered ox.
Brave Grahame through mighty Canute urged the spear,
Where, 'twixt the helm and mail, the neck was bare.
Pressed with the helm his ponderous head inclined,
He nodding falls, as trees o'erturned by wind.

544

While thus the en'my's front the chieftains wore,
And piled with hostile trunks the fatal shore,
By slow degrees their force declines away,
Surrounding Denmark gains upon the day.
Great Indulph stood amidst the warrior-ring;
All give attention to their valiant king:
“Hear me, ye chiefs,” the mournful monarch cries,
“We fall to-day, our state, our country dies.
Let us acquit ourselves of Albion's death,
And yield in her defence our latest breath.”
He said, and rushed from the surrounding ring,
And 'midst the battle sought the Danish king.
Ready to fight the royal warriors stood,
And longed to revel in each other's blood;
While Alpin, rushing from the flaming shore,
With wasteful path pursued the flying power,
Hewed through great Sueno's ring his bloody way,
And to the desp'rate chieftains gave the day,
Rushed 'twixt great Indulph and bold Sueno's sword,
And with his royal life preserved his lord.
Brave Sueno nods, falls to the strand, and cries,
“O honour! Denmark lost, undone!” and dies.
But still fierce Denmark made a broken stand;
Here stands a squadron, there a gloomy band
Rears a firm column on the smoky shore,
Makes the last efforts of a dying power.
Thus, after fire through lanes its way has took,
A prostrate village lies o'erwhelmed in smoke;
But here and there some sable turrets stand,
And look, a dismal ruin, o'er the land.
So stood the Danes; but, soon o'erpowered, they fly,
Stumble along, and in their flight they die.
Norvegia's sons, of Magnus' fire bereft,
Fell down before the chieftains of the left.
The great Dumbar, upon the right, repelled
Young Haco's force, and swept him off the field:

545

He winds his hasty march along the coast,
Fights as he flies, and shields his little host.
At length, within a wood o'ershades the sea,
With new-felled oaks he walls his thin array;
Bent on his fate, and obstinately brave,
There marked at once his battle-field and grave.

546

CANTO III.

As when, beneath the night's tempestuous cloud,
Embattled winds assail the leafy wood,
Tear on their sable way with awful sound,
And bring the groaning forest to the ground:
The trunks of elms, the shrub, the fir, the oak,
In one confusion sink beneath the shock:
So death's sad spoils the bloody field bestrowed;
The haughty chieftain, the ignoble crowd,
The coward, brave, partake the common wound,
Are friends in death, and mingle on the ground.
Dark night approachéd: the flaming lord of day
Had plunged his glowing circle in the sea;
On the blue sky the gath'ring clouds arise,
And tempests clap their wings along the skies;
The murm'ring voice of heaven, at distance, fails,
And eddying whirlwinds howl along the vales;
The sky inwrapt in awful darkness lowers,
And threatens to descend at once in showers.

547

The Caledonian chiefs, to shun the storm,
Beneath a leafy oak their council form.
An ancient trunk supports the weary king;
The nobles bend around the standing ring.
With swords unsheathed the awful forms appeared,
Their shining arms with Danish blood besmeared:
Their eyes shoot fire; their meins unsettled shew,
The battle frowns as yet upon their brow.
The monarch rose, and leaning on the oak,
Stretched out his hand, and to the nobles spoke:
“My lords! the Danes, for so just Heav'n decreed,
Even on that shore they thought to conquer, bleed.
In vain death wrapt our fathers in his gloom,
We raise them, in our actions, from the tomb.
Not infamous their aim, o'er lands afar
To spread destruction and the plague of war;
To meet the sons of battle as they roam,
Content to ward them from their native home;
To shew invaders that they dared to die,
For barren rocks, for fame, and liberty.
In you they live, fall'n Denmark's host may shew;
Accept my thanks; your country thanks you too.”
He added not; but turned his eyes around,
Till in the ring the valiant youth he found.
“Approach, brave youth!” the smiling monarch cried,
“Your country's soldier, and your country's pride.
Scotland shall thank thee for this gallant strife,
While grateful Indulph owes to thee his life.”
Thus he, advancing; and with ardour prest
The gallant warrior to his royal breast.
The unpresumptuous Alpin bends his eyes,
And, mixed with blushes, to the king replies:
“To save our king, our country's ancient throne,
Are debts incumbent on her every son;
O monarch! add it not to Alpin's praise,
That of this gen'ral debt his part he pays.”

548

Thus said the youth, and modestly retired,
While, as he moves, the king and chiefs admired:
Slow to his stand his easy steps he bears,
And hears his praises with unwilling ears.
The king resumes: “O chiefs, O valiant peers!
Glad Caledonia dries her running tears:
The warrior raised his faulchion o'er her head
Now sleeps forgotten on an earthen bed.
Fierce Scandinavia's fatal storms are o'er,
Her thunderbolts lie harmless on the shore.
But as when, after night has beat a storm,
On the mild morn some spots the sky deform,
The broken clouds from every quarter sail,
Join their black troops, and all the heavens veil;
The winds arise, descends the sluicy rain,
The storm, with force redoubled, beats the plain:
So, when the youthful Haco shall afar
Collect the broken fragments of the war,
The hero, armed with Sueno's death, may come,
And claim an expiation on his tomb.
Deep in that wood the gallant warrior lies:
Who shall to-night his little camp surprise,
Surround the martial Dane with nightly care,
And give the final stroke to dying war:
Hence Norway's ships shall shun our fatal sea,
And point the crooked beak another way;
If chance they spy where oft their armies fell,
Shall turn the prow, and crowd away the sail.”
He said no more: the gen'rous chiefs arise,
Bent on the glory of the enterprise.
Eager to climb through dang'rous paths to fame,
The nightly war they severally claim.
One chief observed where godlike Haco lay;
This knew the wood, and that the dusky way:
Another urged his more unwearied friends;
And every chieftain something recommends.

549

Thus for the arduous task the chiefs contest,
While each would grasp the danger to his breast.
Th' attentive monarch heard their brave debates,
And with a secret joy his soul dilates.
Young Alpin burns to urge the war of night,
To mix again with Haco in the fight.
Eager he stood, and thus the chiefs addressed,
The warrior lab'ring in his manly breast:
“King! gallant chiefs! this enterprise I claim;
Here let me fix my unestablished fame.
Already you have beat her arduous path,
Reaped glorious harvests in the fields of death:
Repeated feats fixed fame within your power,
But I gleam once, then sink, and am no more.
Nor am I wholly ign'rant of the fight,
I've urged the gloomy battles of the night:
Æbudæ's chief once touched on Abria's strand,
And swept our mountains with his pilf'ring band;
All day they drove our cattle to the sea,
I went at midnight, and rescued the prey;
With a poor handful, and a faithful sword,
Dispersed the robbers and their haughty lord.
'Twas I commanded—these the gallant men!
May we not act that midnight o'er again?”
The hero spoke: a murm'ring voice ensued
Of loud applause: each hero's mind subdued,
The glorious danger to the youth resigns:
He tow'rs along, and marshals up his lines.
Some gallant youths, to share his fame, arise,
And mingle in the glorious enterprise.
The warrior-band move on in firm array;
He tow'rs before along the sounding sea.
Through their tall spears the singing tempest raves,
And falling headlong on the spumy waves,
Pursues the ridgy sea with awful roar,
And throws the liquid mountains on the shore.

550

In each short pause, before the billow breaks,
The clanking Caledonian armour speaks.
Thus on some night when sable tempests roar,
The watchman wearying of his lonely hour,
Hears some rent branch to squeak 'twixt every blast,
But in each ruder gust the creak is lost.
The king and gallant chiefs, with wishful eyes,
Pursue the youthful warrior as he flies.
His praise through all the noble circle ran;
Approached the ghastly figure of a man:
His visage pale; his locks are bleached with years;
His tott'ring steps he onward scarcely bears:
His limbs are laced with blood, a hideous sight!
And his wet garments shed the tears of night.
With slow approach he lifts his fading eyes,
And raised the squeaking treble of his voice.
“O king! I feel the leaden hand of death,
To the dark tomb I tread the gen'ral path:
Hear me, O king! for this I left the field,
For this to thee my dying form revealed:
Norway in vain had interposed her flood,
I come, alas! to pay the debt of blood.
Possessed of crimes, which the good king pursued,
In fell conspiracy, unblest! I vowed
With fierce Dovalus; that I live to tell!
By us, by us, the great king Malcolm fell!
Touched with remorse, behind my shield I laid
His smiling child, and wrapt him in my plaid.
Now to the sea we urge our rapid flight,
Beneath the guilty mantle of the night.
Still in my arms I little Duffus bear;
Behind the voice of men and arms we hear.
My comrades fly.—I lay the infant down,
And with my guilty life from vengeance run.
They found him, sav'd him; for I knew the voice:
It was”—He said, and closed at once his eyes;

551

Slowly inclined, and tumbling headlong down,
His guilty life breathed in a feeble groan.
The mournful monarch stood in dumb surprise;
The fate of Malcolm filled afresh his eyes.
He folds his arms, and bends his silent look,
Then, starting from the gloom of sorrow, spoke:
“You see, my lords, though Denmark's hostile state
Long saved the traitors from the hand of fate;
Yet, heaven, who rules with equal sway beneath,
Snatched from her arms a victim due to death;
Dovalus shall not sink among the dead,
But with that vengeance hangs o'er treason's head.
Still, Malcolm, still, thou gen'rous, and thou best!
Thy fate hangs heavy on a brother's breast;
You left a young, you left a helpless son,
But lost to me, to Scotland, and his throne.
Perhaps, oppressed with hunger and with cold,
He tends some peasant's cattle to the fold;
Or fights a common soldier on the field,
And bows beneath the sceptre he should wield.”
No more he said: the noble circle sighed;
They droop the silent head, nor aught replied.
Now died apace the occidental light;
The subject world receives the flood of night.
The king from every side his troops recalls;
They fall around and rear their manly walls.
He issues to return the great command,
They move along, and leave the fatal strand.
The city gained, each soldier's weary breast
Forgets the day, and sooths his toil with rest.
The king receives, with hospitable care,
The gallant chiefs, and drowns in wine the war.
Within the royal hall the nobles sat;
The royal hall in simple nature great.
No pigmy art, with little mimicry,
Distracts the sense, or pains the weary eye:

552

Shields, spears, and helms, in beauteous order shone,
Along the walls of uncemented stone.
Here all the noble warriors crown the bowl,
And with the gen'rous nectar warm the soul;
With social talk steal lazy time away,
Recounting all the dangers of the day:
They turn to Alpin, and the gloomy fight,
And toast the gallant warrior of the night.
Meantime young Alpin 'girts the fatal wood,
And longs to mix again with Danish blood.
Already Haco had, with martial care,
With walls of oak embraced an ample square:
Himself beneath a tree the storm defends,
And keeps in arms around his watchful friends.
The fair Aurelia by the hero's side,
An awful warrior, and a blooming bride,
Who placed in martial deeds her virgin care,
Wields in her snowy hand the ashen spear.
A silver mail hung round her slender waist,
The corslet rises on her heaving breast.
On her white arm the brazen buckler shows,
The shining helm embraced her marble brows;
Her twining ringlets flowing down behind,
Sung grateful music to the nightly wind.
Fate was unkind: just as the lovers wed,
Nor yet had tasted of the nuptial bed;
Great Sueno's trumpet called the youth to war,
He sighed, embraced, and left the weeping fair.
With love emboldened, up the virgin rose,
From her soft breast the native woman throws;
And with the gallant warrior clothes the wife,
Following her Haco to the bloody strife.
She sought her love through war's destructive path,
And often turned from him the hand of death.
The chief, attentive, all the youth surveyed,
And in the warrior found the lovely maid.

553

She leans inclining on her martial spear,
And only for the youth employs her fear.
The valiant Scot assails the oaken wall:
The bulwark groans, the brave defenders fall.
With sounding steel the firm barrier he plied,
And poured his warriors in on every side.
The godlike Haco, rushing through the night,
Now here, now there, opposed th' invaders' might;
To every corner gave divided aid,
Still, still supported by the martial maid.
Thus when the ocean, swelling o'er the strand,
Invades with billowy troops the subject land,
The sed'lous swains the earthen weight oppose,
And fill the fissures where the tempest flows;
So valiant Haco flew to every side,
And stemmed with pointed steel the manly tide;
With great effort preserved the narrow field,
And 'twixt the fair and danger kept the shield.
She, only she, employs the hero's care;
Haco forgot, he only thinks on her.
He longs to sink with glory to the dead,
But can he leave in grief the captive maid?
Her dying image hags his fancy's eyes,
What should he do, if fair Aurelia dies?
Love, mighty love, arrested all his pow'r;
He wished for flight, who never fled before.
But as the lioness, to save her young,
Despises death, and meets the hunter-throng;
So, starting from the sable maze of care,
He faces death, and shields the lovely fair.
The martial maid, with equal love possessed,
Would dart 'twixt danger and her Haco's breast,
Oppose her buckler to the lifted spear,
And turn from him the iron hand of war.
Now godlike Alpin hewed his bloody path
Through Danish ranks, and marked his steps with death.

554

Th' inclosed square with desp'rate hand he shears,
And reaps a bloody field of men and spears.
Groans, crashing steel, and clangour of the fight,
Increase the stormy chorus of the night.
The Danes, diminished, meet the unequal war,
Where two fall'n oaks confine an inner square;
Join their broad shields, the close-wedged column rear,
And on the Scottish battle turn the spear.
On every side the Caledonians close,
Hemming the desp'rate phalanx of the foes,
To give the final stroke to battle crowd,
While Haco thus bespoke the Danes aloud:
“Ye sons of North, unfortunate, though brave!
Here fate has marked out our common grave,
Has doomed our bodies to enrich these plains:
Then die revenged—like warriors and like Danes!”
He spoke, and turning to the martial maid,
Embraced her softly, and thus sighing said:
“Shall then my spouse, my love, my only joy,
Shall fair Aurelia with her Haco die?
Thy death afflicts me.—I in vain complain;
I'll save Aurelia, or expire—a Dane!”
He said, and, gath'ring up his spacious shield,
Prepared to meet the battle in the field.
Young Alpin heard. It touched his feeling breast,
He stopped the war, and thus the Dane addressed:
“Our Caledonia, now relieved of fear,
Feels pity rising in the place of care,
Disdains to tyrannise o'er vanquished foes,
And for her steel on them her pity throws.
I now dismiss brave Haco from the field,
And own the gen'rous present of the shield.”
He said: his thanks returns the royal Dane,
Himself escorts them to the sounding main.
A ship escaped the flame, within a bay,
Where bending rocks exclude the rougher sea,

555

Secure from stormy winds in safety rides,
And slowly nods on the recoiling tides:
Thither they bend, and launching to the sea,
Plow with the crooked beak the wat'ry way;
Their sable journey to the North explore,
And leave their sleeping friends upon the shore.

556

CANTO IV.

The sprightly morn, with early blushes spread,
Rears o'er the eastern hills her rosy head:
The storm subsides; the breezes, as they pass,
Sigh on their way along the pearly grass.
Sweet carol all the songsters of the spray;
Calm and serene comes on the gentle day.
Amidst attendant fair Culena moves,
Culena, fruit of Indulph's nuptial loves!
Too soon to fate the beauteous queen resigned,
But left the image of herself behind.
To the calm main the lovely nymphs repair,
To breathe along the strand the morning air;
They brush with easy steps the dewy grass,
Observing beauteous nature as they pass.
Th' imperial maid moves with superior grace;
Awe mixed with mildness sat upon her face;
High inbred virtue all her bosom warms,
In beauty rises, and improves her charms.

557

Silent and slow she moves along the main,
Behind, her maids attend, a modest train!
Observe her as she moves with native state,
And gather all their motions from her gait.
Thus through Idalia's balm-distilling grove,
Majestic moves the smiling queen of love:
Her hair flows down her snowy neck behind,
Her purple mantle floats upon the wind;
The Graces move along, a blooming train!
And borrow all the gestures of their queen.
Thus steal the lovely maids their tardy way
Along the silent border of the sea.
Slow-curling waves advance upon the main,
And often threat the shore, and oft abstain.
A woody mound, which reared aloft its head,
Threw trembling shadows o'er a narrow mead:
From a black rock crystalline waters leap,
Arch as they fall, and through the valley creep,
Chide with the murmuring pebbles as they pass,
Or hum their purling journey through the grass.
Pleased with the scene the wand'ring virgins stood;
The main below, above the lofty wood.
Their eyes they sate with the transporting scene,
And, sitting, press the fair-enamel'd green;
Enjoy with innocence the growing day,
And steal with harmless talk the time away.
Meantime fierce Corbred, who preferred in vain
His suit to Agnes, fairest of the train,
Who fled from Tweed to shun his hated arms,
Entrusting fair Culena with her charms;
Saw the disdainful nymph remote from aid,
And bent his lustful eyes upon the maid.
He rushed with headlong ruffians from the wood,
And seized the fair: the virgins shriek aloud.
For help, for help, the struggling virgin cries,
And as she shrieks, aloud the wood replies.

558

Alpin alone, (his men were sent before),
Stalked on his thoughtful way along the shore.
The distant plaint assailed the hero's ear,
He drew his sword, and rushed to save the fair.
Before the chief the dastard Corbred fled,
And to her brave preserver left the maid.
Prostrate on earth the lovely virgin lay,
Her roses fade, and all her charms decay:
In humid rest her bending eye-lids close;
With slow returns her bosom fell and rose:
At length returning life her bosom warms,
Glows in her cheeks, and lights up all her charms.
Thus, when invading clouds the moon assail,
The landscape fails, and fades the shining vale;
But soon as Cynthia rushes on the sight,
Reviving fields are silvered o'er with light.
Th' affrighted fair the gallant warrior leads,
To join, upon the sand, the flying maids.
They crowd their cautious steps along the sea,
Quake at each breath, and tremble on their way;
Their tim'rous breasts unsettled from surprise,
To every side they dart their careful eyes.
Thus, on the heathy wild the hunted deer
Start at each blast, together crowd through fear,
Tremble and look about, before, behind,
Then stretch along, and leave the mountain-wind.
The gallant youth presents the rescued fair,
Confirms their trembling breasts, removes their care;
The gen'rous story from herself they hear,
And drink his praises with a greedy ear;
Steal on the youth their eyes, as Agnes spoke,
And pour their flutt'ring souls at every look.
But fair Culena feels a keener dart;
It pierced her breast, and sunk into her heart:
She hears attentive, views, admires, and loves,
Her eye o'er all the man with pleasure roves.

559

With painful joy she feels the flame increase,
Her pride denies it, but her eyes confess:
She starts, and blushing turns her eye aside,
But love steps in, and steals a look from pride.
Thus fair Culena struggles up the stream,
And 'tempts in vain to quench the rising flame.
At length, with blushing cheek and bending look,
Th' imperial maid the warrior thus bespoke:
“O gen'rous chief! for thus your deeds would say,
How shall our gratitude thy kindness pay?
Indulph shall hear, and Indulph shall reward;
Such gen'rous actions claim a king's regard.”
She said; and thus the chief: “Imperial maid,
More than the debt thy approbation paid.
In this I did not strive with gallant men,
Or drive disordered squadrons from the plain;
But frighted from his prey a sensual slave;
The gloomy sons of guilt are never brave.
Whoe'er would seize on a defenceless fair,
Would shun the sword, and fly amain from war.”
He said, and stalked away with manly state;
Grandeur, with awe commixed, informed his gait.
His pond'rous mail reflects the trembling day,
And all his armour rings along the way.
The royal maid observes him as he flies,
In silence stands, and from her bosom sighs,
Slowly moves on before the silent fair,
And in the palace shuts her secret care.
Meantime young Alpin seeks the king and peers;
But fair Culena in his bosom bears.
In vain against the rising flame he strove,
For all the man dissolved at once to love.
Within the high-arched hall the nobles sat,
And formed in council the reviving state;
For instant peace solicitous prepare,
And raise a bulwark 'gainst the future war.

560

No high-flown zeal the patriot hurled along,
No secret gold engaged the speaker's tongue;
No jarring seeds are by a tyrant sown,
Nor cunning senate undermines the throne.
To public good their public thoughts repair,
And Caledonia is the gen'ral care.
No orator in pompous phrases shines,
Or veils with public weal his base designs.
Truth stood conspicuous, undisguised by art;
They spoke the homely language of the heart.
Arrived the gallant warrior of the night;
They hear with eager joy the gloomy fight.
His conduct, courage, and compassion raise,
And every voice is forward in his praise.
The great Dumbar his awful stature rears,
His temples whitened with the snow of years.
On the brave youth he bends his solemn look,
Then, turning round, thus to the nobles spoke:
“Beneath the royal banner, Scots afar
Had urged on Humber's banks the foreign war;
My father dead, though young I took the shield,
And led my kindred warriors to the field.
The noble Caledonian camp was laid
Within the bosom of a spacious mead.
Green-rising hills encompassed it around,
And these king Malcolm with his archers crowned;
Full on the right a spacious wood arose,
And thither night conveyed a band of foes.
The king commands a chief to clear the wood,
And I the dang'rous service claim aloud.
I went, expelled the foes, and killed their lord,
And ever since have worn his shining sword.
I now retire from war, in age to rest;
Take it, brave youth, for you can wield it best.”
He said, and reached the sword. The youth replied,
Shooting the heavy blade athwart his side:

561

“My lord, with gratitude this sword I take,
Esteem the present for the giver's sake.
It still may find the way it oft explored,
And glut with hostile blood its second lord;
To bloody honour hew its wasteful path,
A faithful sickle in the fields of death.”
He thus. With placid mein great Indulph rose,
And spoke: “Thus always meet our Albion's foes;
With foreign blood your native arms adorn,
And boldly fight for ages yet unborn.
For us, my lords, fought all our godlike sires;
The debt we owe to them our race requires:
Though future arms our country should enslave,
She shall acquit our ashes in the grave;
Posterity degen'rate, as they groan,
Shall bless their sires, and call their woes their own.
Let us, my lords, each virtuous spark inspire,
And where we find it, blow it to a fire.
Thy service, gallant Alpin, in this war,
Shall both be Indulph's and the senate's care.
Meantime, with manly sports and exercise,
Let us from bus'ness turn the mental eyes:
The mind relaxed acquires a double force,
And with new vigour finishes the course.”
He added not: the godlike chiefs obey;
All rise at once; great Indulph leads the way.
The palace here, and there a virid mound,
Confine a flow'ry spot of grassy ground.
The under-rock, emerging through the green,
Chequers with hoary knobs the various scene.
Thither repair the chiefs and sceptered king,
And bend upon the plain the hollow ring.
Obedient servants from the palace bear
The horny bow, the helm, the shining spear,
The mail, the corslet, and the brazen shield;
And throw the ringing weight upon the field.

562

Imperial Indulph, tow'ring o'er the plain,
With placid words addressed the warrior train:
“Let those who bend the stubborn bow arise,
And with the feathered shaft dispute the prize;
An antique bow a Balearian wore,
When Romans thundered on our Albion's shore.
The skilful archer, dealing death afar,
Threw on our Scottish host the distant war;
Great Fergus springs, a king devoid of fear,
And through his body shoots the reeking spear;
The bloody spoil through striving cohorts brings,
And sends this relic down to after kings.”
Thus, grasping the long bow, the monarch said:
Rose valiant Grahame and youthful Somerled.
Next Gowal in the strife demands a part,
Famed on his native hills to wing the dart.
Full on the mound a helm, their aim, was placed;
And Gowal drew the nerve first to his breast;
The bow reluctant yields, then backward springs;
The nerve resounds, through air the arrow sings.
Close to the aim, the earth the arrow meets,
And, as it vibrates, the bright helmet beats.
Applause ensues. The shaft was sent by Grahame,
And cut its brazen journey through the aim.
The prize on him the murm'ring chiefs bestow,
Till Somerled assumes the ancient bow.
The dancing chord the leaping arrow left,
And, rushing, took on end Grahame's birchen shaft;
Tore on its way, around the shivers fly,
And Somerled brings off the prize with joy.
“Who,” cries the king, “this shield his prize shall bear,
And fling with skilful hand the martial spear?
Behind this buckler mighty Kenneth stood,
When Tay, impurpled, ran with Pictish blood.”
He said, and placed a mark, the knobby round,
And measured back with equal steps the ground.

563

The valiant Grahame, the mountain-youth, arose;
Gowal again his martial stature shows;
Bent on the knobby splendour of the prize,
First from his hand the singing weapon flies.
The steel-head marked a circle as it run,
Flamed with the splendour of the setting sun.
Thus when the night the weeping sky o'er-veils,
Athwart the gloom the streaming meteor sails,
Kindles a livid circle as it flies,
And with its glory dazzles human eyes.
Thus flew the spear, and sinking in the mound,
With quick vibrations beat the air around;
But missed the shield. Grahame's not unpractised art
Dismisses through the air the murm'ring dart:
Full on the middle boss it takes the shield;
The fighting metals clatter o'er the field:
From the firm knob the point obliquely flies,
And on the field the trembling weapon lies.
Next valiant Alpin takes the pond'rous spear,
And bending back dismisses it through air:
The long quick weapon flying o'er the field,
Falls on the boss, and perforates the shield;
The waving shaft is planted on the mound;
And with applause the neighbouring rocks resound.
Young Somerled wrenched from the rock a quoit,
A huge, enormous, sharp, unweildy weight;
Such now-a-days as many panting swains
A witness rear on long-contested plains:
Slow-bending down, at length the hero springs;
The rolling rock along the heavens sings;
Falling, it shakes at once the neighb'ring ground,
And on the face of earth indents a wound.
Thus when strong winds the aged tow'r invade,
And throw the shapeless ruin from its head;
It falls, and cleaves its bed into the ground;
The valley shakes, and rocks complain around.

564

All try the mark to reach, but try in vain;
All falling short, unequal wound the plain.
Alpin with diffidence assumes the stone,
For such a space had Somerled o'erthrown:
Th' unwieldy rock a while he weighs with care,
Then springing sends it whizzing through the air;
The wond'ring warriors view it as it rolls;
Far o'er the distant mark the discus falls;
It shakes the plain, and deals a gaping wound,
Such as when headlong torrents tear the ground.
Th' applauding chiefs own in the manly game
The hero great as in the fields of fame.
Culena, leaning on her snowy arms,
Observant from the window points her charms.
Th' imperial virgin saw with pleasant pain,
The fav'rite youth victorious on the plain:
Sadly she sighed, accusing cruel fate,
Which chained her in captivity of state.
The veil of night had now inwrapt the pole;
The feast renewed, goes round the sparkling bowl.
Great Indulph rose with favour-speaking mein;
Approaching Alpin thus the king began:
“Say, will the stranger tell from whence he came,
To reap this harvest of unrivalled fame?
Nobler the youth, who, though before unknown,
From merit mounts to virtue and renown,
Than he, set up by an illustrious race,
Totters aloft, and scarce can keep his place!”
The monarch spoke: attentive look the peers,
And long to drink his voice with greedy ears.

565

CANTO V.

The hero, rising from his lofty seat,
Thus unpresumptuously accosts the great:
“The fame of Denmark passed our mountains o'er,
And filled our ears on Abria's distant shore:
Brave Rynold starts: the aged chief alarms,
And kindles all his family to arms.
A hundred youths, who, from the sounding wood,
Or towering mountain, brought their living food,
Obey the bag-pipe's voice; for all in view
Of Rynold's seat, the friendly canton grew.
The hoary warrior leads the onward path,
No stranger to the road which led to death.
Behind advancing, I, with martial care,
Lead on the youthful thunder-bolts of war;
With arms anticipate the kindling fire,
And move to every motion of my sire.
“On Grampus night her mantle round us throws;
We slept on heath; the dappled morn arose:

566

Descending thence, pursue our headlong way,
And cross the silver errors of the Tay.
Groans, feeble shrieks, ascending from the vale,
Speak on the pinions of the southern gale.
A dismal scene breaks on our distant eyes;
Here one pursues, and there another flies.
This breathes his life through the impurpled wound,
While his proud villa smokes along the ground.
That with the foe maintains unequal strife,
While his dear offspring fly, and dearer wife.
“The senior saw it with indignant eyes,
And bid, at once, his kindred ranks arise.
With hasty steps we seize a virid brow,
And form a sable cloud above the foe.
Thus on the mountain's brow, I oft have seen
The mustering clouds brew torrents for the plain;
At length the blustering south begins to roar,
And heaven descends impetuous in a shower;
The bubbling floods foam down the hill, and spread
A swimming deluge on the subject mead.
“Thus Rynold formed on the mountain's brow,
And headlong rushed into the vale below,
While on the banks of Tay terrific shine
The steel-clad foe, and stretch the hostile line.
They form a wall along the flowing flood,
And awful gleam their arms, an iron wood.
We shout, and rush upon the hostile throng:
The echoing fields with iron clangour rung.
Firm stood the foe, nor made they flight their care,
But hand to hand returned the equal war:
Man close to man, and shield conjoined to shield,
They with the stable phalanx keep the field.
With pointed spear I marked the stoutest foe,
And Heaven directed home the happy blow:
He tumbles backward to the groaning flood:
Tay circles round, and mingles with his blood.

567

My kindred youth their useful weapons wield,
Fomenting the confusion of the field.
Dane fell on Dane, and man transfixed his man,
Till bloody torrents smoaked along the plain.
At length they fly along the banks of Tay;
Their guilty leader points th' inglorious way.
Eager we follow. Still the foe with art
Wound as they fly, and shoot th' inverted dart.
Rynold is wounded. Still he urged the foe;
While down his limbs the crimson torrents flow:
With eager voice he still foments the strife,
Preferring Albion's liberty to life.
“An ancient pile upreared its reverend head,
And from its lofty seat surveyed a mead:
The mouldering walls confessed their beauty past;
A fragment falls with each invading blast.
Old arms above the gate time's empire own;
The rampant lion moulders in the stone:
Tall elms around, an old and shattered band,
Their naked arms erect, like sentries stand.
“Within the ruined walls their fear inclose
The desp'rate squadrons of the flying foes.
An ancient plane, whose leaf-dismantled weight
Rude winds o'erturned, secures the shapeless gate.
On every side my quick array I form,
Prepared at once the muniment to storm.
Missing my sire, I fly to find the chief,
And give the wounded all a son's relief.
“Far on the plain the wounded warrior creeps,
And scarcely moves along his tottering steps;
But still, far as his feeble voice could bear,
He kindles with his words the distant war.
Quick I approached. He first the silence broke;
And leaning on his lance the warrior spoke:”
‘Say, why returns young Alpin from the fight?
Pursue the foe, and urge the Danish flight.

568

I sink, my son, I sink into the grave;
You cannot me, your country, Alpin, save.’
“No more he said. I mournful thus reply,
Compassion melting in my filial eye:
‘O sire, the Danes, within yon walls secured,
Will share our pity, or must feel our sword:
Of filial duty what his wants require,
I come to offer for a dying sire.’
“He thus returns: ‘Still good, still generous mind!
My wants are, Alpin, of no earthly kind:
The world, the fading world, retires from view;
Earth cloys me now, and all it has, but you.
Go, Alpin, go; within that lofty wood
A hermit lives, a holy man and good!
Relieve, my son, relieve me of my cares,
And for the dying Rynold raise his prayers.’
“This said, himself the wounded warrior laid
Within the coolness of a birchen shade:
Some youths around employ their friendly care,
And o'er the dying shed the mournful tear.
Around the ancient fastness guards I sent,
And to the lofty wood my journey bent.
Two rising hills, whose brows tall poplars grace,
With stretching arms a woody plain embrace;
Along the tree-set vale a riv'let flowed,
And murmured softly through the under-wood:
Along the purling stream my steps I bear,
And seek the lonely mansions of the seer.
Irreg'lar files of towering elms embrace,
In their calm bosom, an enamelled space.
Full at the end a rock, with sable arms
Stretched o'er a moss-grown cave, a grotto forms.
A silver stream, clear issuing from the stones,
In winding mazes through the meadow runs;
Depending flowers their varied colours bind,
Hang o'er the entrance, and defend the wind.

569

On a green bank the holy seer is laid,
Where weaving branches cloud the chequered shade;
In solemn thought his hoary head's inclined,
And his white locks wave in the fanning wind.
“With reverend steps approaching, I began:
‘O blest with all that dignifies the man!
Who, far from life, and all its noisy care,
Enjoy'st the aim of all that wander there:
Let, holy father, thy propitious aid
Guide dying Rynold through the deathful shade.’
“I said: the prophet heavenward lifts his eyes,
Long fixed in solemn thought, and thus replies:
‘Vain mortals! worms of earth! how can ye dare
To deem your deeds not Providence's care?
Heaven looks on all below with equal eye;
They long escape, but yet the wicked die.
With distant time, O youth! my soul's imprest;
Futurity is lab'ring in my breast:
Thy blood, which rolling down from Fergus came,
Passes through time, a pure untainted stream.
Albion shall in her pristine glory shine,
And, blessed herself, bless the Fergusian line.
‘But, ah! I see grim treason rear its head,
Pale Albion trembling, and her monarch dead;
The tyrant wield his sceptre 'smeared with blood—
O base return! but still great Heaven is good:
He falls, he falls; see how the tyrant lies!
And Scotland brightens up her weeping eyes:
The banished race again resume their own,
Nor Syria boasts her royal saint alone.
Its gloomy front the lowering season clears,
And gently rolls a happy round of years.
‘Again I see contending chiefs come on,
And, as they strive to mount, they tear the throne;
To civil arms the horrid trumpet calls,
And Caledonia by her children falls.

570

The storm subsides to the calm flood of peace;
The throne returns to Fergus' ancient race.
Glad Caledonia owns their lawful sway;
Happy in them, in her unhappy they!
See each inwrapped untimely in his shroud,
For ever sleeping in his generous blood!
Who on thy mournful tomb refrains the tear?
O regal charms, unfortunately fair!
Dark Faction grasps her in his sable arms,
And crushes down to death her struggling charms:
The rose, in all its gaudy livery drest,
Thus faintly struggles with the blust'ring west.
‘Why mention him in whom th' eternal fates
Shall bind in peace the long-discording states?
See Scot and Saxon, coalesced in one,
Support the glory of the common crown.
Britain no more shall shake with native storms,
But o'er the trembling nations lift her arms.’
“He spoke, and in the cave inclosed his age:
In wonder lost, I leave the hermitage,
Measure with thoughtful steps my backward way,
While to the womb of night retires the day.
Pale doubtful twilight broods along the ground;
The forest nods its sleeping head around.
“Before my eyes a ghastly vision stood;
A mangled man, his bosom stained with blood!
Silent and sad the phantom stood confest,
And shewed the streaming flood-gates of his breast.
Then pointing to the dome his tardy hand,
Thither his eyes my silent way command.
He hands my sword, emits a feeble groan,
And weakly says, ‘Revenge me, O my son!’
I to reply—he hissed his way along,
As breezes sing through reeds their shrilly song.
I stood aghast, then winged me to obey;
Across the field I sweep my hasty way.

571

The men I arm; the firm barrier we ply,
And those who dare dispute the passage die.
With dying groans the lonely walls resound:
I on the guilty leader deal a wound;
Through his bright helm the sword its journey takes,
He falls, and thus with dying accents speaks:
‘Just Heaven! in vain the wicked shun thy power;
Though late thy vengeance, yet the blow is sure.
This earth received the blood from off my hands;
A just return, my own, my own demands!
In night's dead hour, when all but treason slept,
With ruffian bands, a bloody train, I crept.
'Twas here, 'twas here, oh! long-deserved death!
'Twas here the godlike man resigned his breath:
The sleeping fam'ly we with blood surprise,
And send the palace flaming to the skies.
I fled, but fled, alas! pursued by fate:
'Tis now I find that I have sinned too late.
O Malcolm! O my king! before my eyes
He stands confessed;—accursed Dovalus dies.’
“His guilty soul in these dire accents fled;
I left with hasty steps the silent dead.
Beneath the birch my aged sire I found,
His life was ebbing through the purple wound.
On me the aged senior lifts his eyes,
And mixes feeble accents with his sighs:
‘Alpin, the commerce of this world I leave;
Convey my relicks to my father's grave.
Ten friendly youths the homely rites shall pay;
Lead thou the rest, my Alpin, to the fray:
Denmark invades: this was a pilfering band,
Who spread divided terror o'er the land.’
“He said: a qualm succeeds; tears fill my eyes,
And woe securely shuts the gates of voice;
Silent and sad I hang the dying o'er,
And with warm tears intenerate his gore.

572

“The chief resumes: ‘My brave, my only son!
Yes, Alpin, I may call thee all my own;
I shall not veil a secret in my death;
Take then this story of my latest breath:
The twentieth season liv'ries o'er the year,
Since on the Severn's banks I met the war;
In private feud, against a Saxon lord,
The great Dumbar had raised his kindred sword;
I on the foe my bow auxiliar bend,
And join afar our fam'ly's ancient friend:
Returning thence, I next the Tay divide,
That very night the great king Malcolm died.
My clan in arms might then preserve their king;
But fate withstood; along in arms we ring.
An infant's cries, at distance, took my ear,
I went, found thee a helpless orphan there.’
The king, who long infixed in dumb surprise,
Run o'er the speaking youth with searching eyes,
Here stopt him short, his arms around him flung,
And silent on th' astonished warrior hung;
My son, my son, at last, perplexed, he cries,
My Duffus! tears hung in his joyful eyes:
The crowding tide of joy his words suppressed;
He clasps the youth in silence to his breast.
Th' astonished chiefs, congealed in dumb amaze,
Stiffened to silence, on each other gaze.
Sudden their cheeks are varied with surprise,
And glad disorder darted from their eyes.
As when before the swains, with instant sound,
The forky bolt descending tears the ground;
They stand; with stupid gaze each other eye:
So stood the chiefs oppressed with sudden joy.
At length, relaxed from fetters of surprise,
“Welcome, brave youth!” the sceptered senior cries.
“Welcome to honours justly thine alone,
Triumphant mount, though late, thy father's throne.

573

To thee with joy the sceptre I resign;
And waft the kingdom to the coming line.”
He said: and thus the youth: “I only know
To shoot the spear, and bend the stubborn bow;
Unskilled to stretch o'er nations my command,
Or in the scales of judgment poise a land.
Wield still the sceptre which with grace you wear,
And guide with steadier hand the regal car;
While, looking up to thee, with humble eye,
I first transcribe my future rules of sway;
Till late enjoy the throne which you bequeath,
And only date dominion from thy death.”
Resolved he spoke: bursts of applause around
Break on the chiefs: with joy the halls resound.
As when some valiant youth returns from far,
And leaves the fields of death, and finished war;
Whom time and honest scars another made,
And friendly hope long placed among the dead;
At first his sire looks with indifference on,
But soon he knows, and hangs upon his son:
So all the chiefs the royal youth embrace;
While joys, tumultuous, rend the lofty place.
While thus the king and noble chiefs rejoice,
Harmonious bards exalt the tuneful voice:
A select band by Indulph's bounty fed,
To keep in song the mem'ry of the dead!
They handed down the ancient rounds of time,
In oral story and recorded rhyme.
The vocal quire in tuneful concert sings
Exploits of heroes, and of ancient kings:
How first in Fergus Caledonia rose;
What hosts she conquered, and repelled what foes.
Through time in reg'lar series they decline,
And touch each name of the Fergusian line;
Great Caractacus, Fergus' awful sword;
That bravely lost his country, this restored:

574

Hibernia's spoils, Gregorius' martial fire;
The stern avenger of his murdered sire:
Beneath his sword, as yet, whole armies groan,
And a whole nation paid the blood of one.
At length descend the rough impetuous strains
To valiant Duffus, and the slaughtered Danes:
The battle lives in verse; in song they wound;
And fallen squadrons thunder on the ground.
Thus in the strain the bards impetuous roll,
And quaff the generous spirit of the bowl,
At length from the elab'rate song respire;
The chiefs remove, and all to rest retire.

575

CANTO VI.

Now in the blushing east the morn arose;
Its lofty head in grey the palace shows.
Within, the king and valiant chiefs prepare
To urge the chace, and wage the mountain-war.
The busy menials through the palace go;
Some whet the shaft, and others try the bow;
This viewed the toils; that taught the horn to sound;
Another animates the sprightly hound.
For the fleet chace the fair Culena arms,
And from the gloom of sorrow 'wakes her charms:
The hero's royal birth had reached her ear,
And sprightly hope assumed the throne of care.
Around her slender waist the cincture slides;
Her mantle flows behind in crimson tides.

576

Bright rings of gold her braided ringlets bind;
The rattling quiver, laden, hangs behind.
She seized, with snowy hand, the polished bow,
And moved before, majestically slow.
The chiefs behind advance their sable forms,
And with dark contrast heighten all her charms.
Thus, on expanded plains of heavenly blue,
Thick-gathered clouds the queen of night pursue;
And as they crowd behind their sable lines,
The virgin light with double lustre shines.
The maid her glowing charms thus onward bears;
His manly height aside young Duffus rears.
Her beauty he, his manhood she admires;
Both moved along, and fed their silent fires.
The hunters to the lofty mountains came:
Their eager breasts anticipate the game:
The forest they divide, and sound the horn;
The generous hounds within their bondage burn,
Struggle for freedom, long to stretch away,
And in the breeze already find the prey.
At the approaching noise the starting deer
Croud on the heath, and stretch away in fear,
Wave, as they spring, their branchy heads on high,
Skim o'er the wild, and leave the aching eye.
The eager hounds, unchained, devour the heath;
They shoot along, and pant a living death:
Gaining upon their journey, as they dart,
Each from the herd selects a flying hart.
Some urged the bounding stag a different way,
And hung with open mouth upon the prey:
Now they traverse the heath, and now assail
The rising hill, now skim along the vale:
Now they appear, now leave the aching eyes;
The master follows with exulting cries,
Fits, as he flies, the arrow to the string;
The rest within the rattling quiver ring:

577

He, as they shoot the lofty mountains o'er,
Pursues in thought, and sends his soul before.
Thus they with supple joints the chase pursue,
Rise on the hills, and vanish on the brow.
On the blue heavens arose a night of clouds;
The radiant lord of day his glory shrouds:
The rushing whirlwind speaks with growling breath,
Roars through the hill, and scours along the heath;
Deep rolling thunder, rumbling from afar,
Proclaims with murmuring voice th' aerial war:
Fleet lightnings flash in awful streams of light,
Dart through the gloom, and vanish from the sight:
The blustering winds through heaven's black concave sound,
Rain batters earth, and smokes along the ground.
Down the steep hill the rushing torrents run,
And cleave with headlong rage their journey on;
The lofty mountains echo to the fall;
A muddy deluge stagnates on the vale.
Culena moved along the level ground;
A hart descends before the opening hound:
From the recoiling cord she twanged the dart,
And pierced the living vigour of the hart:
He starts, he springs; but falling as he flies,
Pours out his tim'rous soul with weeping eyes.
As o'er the dying prey the huntress sighed,
Before the wind heaven pours a sable tide,
And lowering threats a storm: a rocky cave,
Where monks successive hewed their house and grave,
Invites into its calm recess the fair:
The reverend father breathed abroad his prayer.
The valiant Duffus comes with panting breath,
Faces the storm and stalks across the heath.
His sleeky hounds, a faithful tribe, before,
Are bathed with blood, and varied o'er with gore.
Drenched with the rain, the noble youth descends,
And in the cave the growling storm defends.

578

Amazed, astonished, fixed in dumb surprise,
The lovers stood, but spoke with silent eyes:
At length the distant colloquy they rear,
Run o'er the chace, the mountain, and the deer.
Far from the soul th' evasive tongue departs,
Their eyes are only faithful to their hearts.
The winding volumes of discourse return
To hostile fields by gallant Duffus shorn.
Th' imperial maid must hear it o'er again,
How fell Dovalus was by Duffus slain,
How by the son the father's murderer fell.
The kindling virgin flames along the tale.
She turns, she quakes, and from her bosom sighs,
And all her soul comes melting in her eyes.
Flames, not unequal, all the youth possess,
He, for the first, hears willingly his praise.
Praise, harshly heard from warriors, kings, and lords,
Came down in balm on fair Culena's words.
The royal pair thus fed the mutual fire,
Now speak, now pause, when both alike admire.
He longs to vent the passion of his soul,
And she the tempests in her bosom roll.
Now he begun, but shame his voice opprest;
Loth to offend, his eyes must tell the rest.
At length, upon the headlong passion borne,
He spoke his love, and had a kind return;
She sighed, she owned, and bent her modest eyes,
While blushing roses on her cheeks arise.
Thus on the vale the poppy's blushing head,
Brim-full of summer-showers, to earth is weighed;
Fanned with the rising breeze, it slow inclines,
While o'er the mead the rosy lustre shines.
Indulph into his cave the hermit led,
Found erring through the mountain's stormy head.
Culena, starting as the king appears,
Looks every way, and trembles as she fears;

579

On her mild face the modest blushes rise,
And fair disorder darted from her eyes.
The parent king observed the virgin whole,
And read the harmless secret in her soul.
A while the maze of calm discourse they wind;
At length the king unveils his royal mind.
“Warded from Albion's head, the storm is o'er;
Her prince is found, her foes are now no more:
Through time 'tis ours her happiness to trace,
'Tis ours to bind the future bands of peace.
Posterity for Albion's crown may fight,
And couch ambition in the name of right,
With specious titles urge the civil war,
And to a crown their guilty journey tear:
I end these fears: the streams shall run in one,
Nor struggling kindred strive to mount the throne.
I shield my daughter with young Duffus' arms,
And bless the warrior with Culena's charms.”
Thus said the king. Their willing hands they join,
The rev'rend priest runs o'er the rites divine.
The solemn ceremony closed with pray'r,
And Duffus called his own the royal fair.
The storm is ceased; the clouds together fly,
And clear at once the azure fields of sky;
The mid-day sun pours down his sultry flame,
And the wet heath waves glist'ring in the beam.
The hunter-chiefs appear upon the brow,
Fall down the hill, and join the king below;
Slow through the narrow vale their steps they bear,
Behind advance the spoils of sylvan war.
Far on a head-land point condensed they stood,
And threw their eyes o'er ocean's sable flood;
Tall ships advance afar; their canvas sails
In their swoll'n bosom gather all the gales;
Floating along the sable back of sea,
Before the wind they cut their spumy way;

580

Bend in their course, majestically slow,
And to the land their lazy journey plow.
Thus spungy clouds on heav'n's blue vault arise,
And float, before the wind, along the skies;
Their wings opposed to the illustrious sun,
Shine, as they move, majestically on.
Thus godlike Harold brought his floating aid,
Unknowing Sueno's numbered with the dead.
From Anglia's coasts he called his troops afar,
To aid his brother in the foreign war.
Arrived, he in the wave the anchor throws,
Attempts to land, and Albion's chiefs oppose;
Wave on the fatal shore the pointed spear,
And send the arrow whizzing through the air.
The Danes return the flying death afar,
And, as they crowd away, maintain the war.
An arrow tore through air its murm'ring path,
Fell on the king, and weighed him down to death:
Quick, from the wound, the blood tumult'ous sprung,
And o'er the sand the reeking weapon flung:
Prone on the strand an awful trunk he lies,
While sleep eternal steals upon his eyes.
The mournful chiefs around the dying stood,
Some raise the body, others stem the blood:
In vain their care;—the soul for ever fled,
And fate had numbered Indulph with the dead.
Culena, whom young Duffus set apart,
With a green bank secured the hostile dart.
Her father's fate assailed her tender ear,
She beat her snowy breast, and tore her hair:
Frantic along the sand she run, she flew,
And on the corse distressful beauty threw:
She called her father's shade with filial cries,
And all the daughter streaming from her eyes.
Bent on revenge the furious Duffus strode,
And eyed, with angry look, the sable flood.

581

A ship, which near had took its nodding stand,
Fixed with the pitchy haulser to the strand,
Remains of Sueno's fleet, the hero viewed,
And to the mournful warriors spoke aloud:
“Let those whose actions are enchained by years
Honour the mighty dead with friendly tears;
While we of youth, descending to the main,
Exact severe atonement of the Dane.”
He thus: and rushing through the billowy roars,
With brawny arms his rapid journey oars;
Divides with rolling chest the ridgy sea,
Lashing the bubbling liquid in his way.
The boat he seized, and, meas'ring back the deep,
Wafted his brave companions to the ship;
The haulser broke, unfurled the swelling sail,
And caught the vig'rous spirit of the gale:
Before the sable prow the ocean parts,
And groans beneath the vessel as it darts.
Now on the foe the Scottish warriors gain;
Swells on the approaching eye the floating Dane.
Fierce Ulric's skill brought up the lazy rear,
Famed in the fields of main to urge the war.
Twice seven years, in base pursuit of gain,
He plowed the waves, the common foe of men;
At last to Harold aiding arms he joined;
Grasping the spoil with avaricious mind.
At first he shoots the leaping shaft afar,
And manages with skill the distant war.
The chiefs of Albion, with collected might,
Bear on the foe, and close the naval fight.
Deck joined to deck, and man engaged with man,
Sword spoke with sword, and Scot transfixed his Dane.
The smoking oak is covered o'er with gore,
Till the whole pirate crew are now no more.
The empty hull from wave to wave is tossed,
Nods as it floats, the sport of every blast.

582

The Caledonian chiefs again pursue:
The Scandinavian fleet o'er ocean flew.
T' elude the foe the Danes fly diff'rent ways;
And cut with sep'rate prows the hoary seas.
Some bear to sea, some rush upon the land,
And fly amain on earth, a trembling band.
As, in pursuit of doves, on rapid wings
The darting hawk through air his journey sings;
But when the parting flock divides the sky,
Hovers, in doubt this way or that to fly,—
So undetermined long young Duffus stood;
At length he sighed, and thus began aloud:
“While thus, O chiefs, we urge the flying Dane,
Unmourned, unhonoured lies the mighty slain;
'Tis ours to grace with woe great Indulph's bier,
And o'er his fallen virtue shed the tear.”
The warrior spoke: the Caledonians sighed,
And with returning prow the waves divide;
With swelling sail bring on the fatal shore,
Where o'er the dead the aged chiefs deplore.
The warriors bear their monarch as they come,
In sad procession to the silent tomb,
Forsake with lazy steps the sounding main,
And move a sad and lamentable train.
Behind the dead the tuneful bards appear,
And mingle with their elegies the tear;
From their sad hearts the mournful numbers flow
In all the tuneful melody of woe.
In grief's solemnity Culena leads
A mournful train of tear-distilling maids:
Above the rest the beauteous queen appears,
And heightens all her beauties with her tears.
Now in the tomb the godlike Indulph laid,
Shared the dark couch with the illustrious dead:
All o'er his grave the mournful warriors sigh,
And give his dust the tribute of the eye.

583

Removing, as the night inwrapt the sky,
They share the nuptial feast with solemn joy.
The royal Duffus, with a husband's care,
Soothed in his martial arms the sorrowing fair,
O'er Albion's rocks exerted his command,
And stretched his sceptre o'er a willing land.

585

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.


587

ON THE DEATH OF MARSHAL KEITH.

Keith then is fallen! What numbers can there flow,
What strains adequate to so great a woe!
Ev'n hostile kingdoms in dark pomp appear,
To strew promiscuous honours o'er his bier.
Hungaria gives the tribute of the eye,
And ruthless Russia melts into a sigh:
They mourn his fate, who felt his sword before;
And all the hero in the foe deplore.
What must they feel for whom the warrior stormed,
Whose fields he fought, whose every counsel formed!
Brave Prussia's sons depend the mournful head,
And with their tears bedew the mighty dead:
Sad round the corse, a stately ring they stand,
Their arms reflecting terror o'er the land;
With silent eyes they run the hero o'er,
And mourn the chief they shall obey no more;
A pearly drop hangs in each warrior's eye,
And through the army runs the gen'ral sigh.

588

Great Fred'ric comes to join the mighty woe;
Eternal laurels bind his awful brow;
Majestic in his arms he stands, and cries,
Is Keith no more? and as he speaks, he sighs;
In silence falls the sable show'r of woe;
He eyes the corse, and frowns upon the foe:
Then grasping his tried sword, the chief alarms,
And kindles all his warriors into arms.
Revenge, he cries, revenge the blood of Keith;
Let Austria pay a forfeit for his death.
They join, and move the shining columns on;
Germania trembles to Vienna's throne.
But Caledonia o'er the rest appears,
And claims pre-eminence to mother-tears:
In deeper gloom her tow'ring rocks arise,
And from her vallies issue doleful sighs.
Sadly she sits, and mourns her glory gone;
He's fallen, her bravest, and her greatest son!
While at her side her children all deplore
The godlike hero they exiled before.
Sad from his native home the chief withdrew;
But kindled Scotia's glory as he flew;
On far Iberia built his country's fame,
And distant Russia heard the Scottish name.
Turks stood aghast, as, o'er the fields of war,
He ruled the storm, and urged the martial car.
They asked their chiefs, what state the hero raised;
And Albion on the Hellespont was praised.
But chief, as relics of a dying race,
The Keiths command, in woe, the foremost place;

589

A name for ages through the world revered,
By Scotia loved, by all her en'mies feared;
Now falling, dying, lost to all but fame,
And only living in the hero's name.
See! the proud halls they once possessed, decayed,
The spiral tow'rs depend the lofty head;
Wild ivy creeps along the mould'ring walls,
And with each gust of wind a fragment falls;
While birds obscene at noon of night deplore,
Where mighty heroes kept the watch before.
On Mem'ry's tablet mankind soon decay,
On Time's swift stream their glory slides away;
But, present in the voice of deathless Fame,
Keith lives, eternal, in his glorious name:
While ages far remote his actions show;
And mark with them the way their chiefs should go;
While sires unto their wond'ring offspring tell,
Keith lived in glory, and in glory fell.

590

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY.

Lamented shade! thy fate demands a tear,
An offering due to thy untimely bier;
Accept then, early tenant of the skies,
The genuine drops that flow from friendship's eyes!
Those eyes which raptured hung on thee before,
Those eyes which never shall behold thee more:
So early hast thou to the tomb retired,
And left us mourning what we once admired.
For this did beauty's fairest hand arise
On all your shape, and kindle in your eyes?
For this did virtue form your infant mind,
And make thee best, as fairest of thy kind?
Did all the powers for this their gifts bestow,
And only charm us to increase our woe?
A moment bless us with celestial day,
Then envious snatch the sacred beam away?
Recall the beauteous prize they lately gave,
And bid our tears descend on Anna's grave?

591

How did the mother see her daughter rise,
A lovely plant to bless her aged eyes!
How oft in thought her future pleasure trace,
Appoint her husband, and enjoy her race!
But now no husband shall enjoy that bloom,
Nor offspring rise from the unfruitful tomb.
An unexpected gift the virgin came,
The last, but fairest, of a falling name;
A ray to light a father's eve she shone,
And healed the loss of many a buried son:
But soon invading darkness chased away
The beauteous setting of a glorious day;
Soon Heaven, which gave, again resumed its own;
And of his family he remains alone.
His thoughts in her refined no more he'll trace,
Or view his features softened in her face;
No more in secret on her beauty gaze,
Or hide his gladness when he hears her praise:
Mute is the tongue which pleased his soul before,
And beauty blushes in that cheek no more.
Peace, gentle shade, attend thy balmy rest,
And earth sit lightly on thy snowy breast;
Let guardian angels gently hover round,
And downy silence haunt the hallowed ground:
There let the Spring its sweetest offspring rear,
And sad Aurora shed her earliest tear.
Some future maid perhaps, as she goes by,
Shall view the place where her cold reliques lie:
Folly for once may sadden into care,
And pride, unconscious, shed one generous tear;
While this big truth is swelling in the breast,
That death nor spares the fairest nor the best;
That virtue feels the unalterable doom,
And beauty's self must moulder in the tomb.

592

TO THE MEMORY OF AN OFFICER KILLED BEFORE QUEBEC.

Ah me! what sorrow are we born to bear!
How many causes claim the falling tear!
In one sad tenor life's dark current flows,
And every moment has its load of woes:
In vain we toil for visionary ease,
Or hope for blessings in the vale of peace:
Coy happiness ne'er blesses human eyes,
Or but appears a moment, and she flies.
When peace itself can seldom dry the tear,
What floods demand the dreary wastes of war!
Where undistinguished ruin reigns o'er all,
At once the truant and the valiant fall;
Where timeless shrouds inwrap the great and brave,
And Daphnis sinks into a nameless grave.

593

Dear hapless youth, cut off in early bloom,
A fair, but mangled victim to the tomb!
No friendly hand to grace thy fall was near,
No parent's eye to shed one pious tear;
No favoured maid to close thy languid eyes,
And send thee mindful of her to the skies:
On some cold bank thy decent limbs were laid;
Oh! honoured living, but neglected dead!
So soon forsake us, dear lamented shade,
To mix obscurely with the nameless dead!
Thus baulk the rising glory of thy name,
And leave unfinished an increasing fame!
Thus sink for ever from a parent's eyes!
Wert thou not cruel? or ye partial, skies?
But what can bound, O thou by all approved!
The sad, sad sorrows of the friend you loved?
A friend who doted on thy worth before!
A friend who never shall behold thee more!
Who saw, combined, thy manly graces rise,
To please the mind and bless the ravished eyes;
A soul replete with all that's great and fair,
A form which cruel savages might spare.
If, in the midnight hour, lamented shade,
You view the place where thy remains are laid;
If pale you hover o'er your secret grave,
Or viewless flit o'er Hoshelega's wave;
O! when my troubled soul is sunk in rest,
And peaceful slumbers sooth my anxious breast,
To fancy's eyes in all thy bloom appear,
Once more thy own unsullied image wear;
Unfold the secrets of your world to me,
Tell what thou art, and what I soon shall be.
He comes! he comes! but O how changed of late!
How much deforms the leaden hand of fate!

594

Why do I see that generous bosom gored?
Why bathed in blood the visionary sword?
What rudeness ruffled that disordered hair?
Why, blameless shade, that mournful aspect wear?
For sure such virtues must rewarded be,
And Heaven itself approve of Wolfe and thee.
Yes, thou art blessed above the rolling sphere;
'Tis for myself, not thee, I shed the tear.
Where shall I now such blameless friendship find,
Thou last best comfort of a drooping mind?
To whom the pressures of my soul impart,
Transfer my sorrows, and divide my heart?
Remote is he who ruled my breast before,
And he shall sooth me into peace no more.
Men born to grief, an unrelenting kind,
Of breasts discordant, and of various mind,
Scarce, 'midst of thousands, find a single friend;
If Heaven at length the precious blessing send,
A sudden death recalls him from below;
A moment's bliss is paid with years of woe.
What boots the rising sigh? in vain we weep,
We, too, like him, anon must fall asleep;
Life, and its sorrows too, shall soon be o'er,
And the heart heave with bursting sighs no more;
Death shed oblivious rest on every head,
And one dull silence reign o'er all the dead.

595

THE EARL MARISCHAL'S WELCOME TO HIS NATIVE COUNTRY.

[_]

An Ode, attempted in the manner of Pindar.

'Twas when the full-eared harvest bow'd
Beneath the merry reaper's hand;
When here the plenteous sheafs were strew'd,
And there the corns nod o'er the land;
When on each side the loaden'd ground,
Breathing her ripen'd scents, the jovial season crown'd;
The villagers, all on the green,
The arrival of their lord attend:
The blythsome shepherds haste to join,
And whistling from the hills descend;
Nor orphan nor lone widow mourns;
Even hopeless lovers lose their pains;

596

To-day their banish'd lord returns,
Once more to bless his native plains.
Each hoary sire, with gladden'd face,
Repeats some ancient tale,
How he with Tyrcis, at the chace,
Hied o'er the hill and dale:
Their hoary heads with rapture glow,
While each to each repeats,
How well he knew where to bestow,
Was to oppression still a foe;
Still mixing with their praise his youthful feats.
Then from the grass Melanthus rose,
The arbitrator of the plains,
And silent all stood fixed to hear
The Tityrus of Mernia's swains;
For with the Muse's fire his bosom glow'd,
And easy from his lips the numbers flow'd.
“Now the wished-for day is come,
Our lord reviews his native home;
Now clear and strong ideas rise,
And wrap my soul in extasies:
Methinks I see that ruddy morn,
When, waken'd by the hunter's horn,
I rose, and, by yon mountain's side,
Saw Tyrcis and Achates ride;
While, floating by yon craggy brow,
The slowly-scattering mist withdrew;
I saw the roe-buck cross yon plain,
Yon heathy steep I saw him gain;
The hunters still fly o'er the ground,
Their shouts the distant hills resound;
Dunnotyr's towers resound the peal
That echoes o'er the hill and dale.
At length, what time the ploughman leads
Home from the field his weary steeds,

597

At yon old tree the roe-buck fell:
The huntsmen's jocund mingled shouts his downfall tell.
“The mem'ry of these happy days
Still in my breast must transport raise;
Those happy days, when oft were seen
The brothers marching o'er the green,
With dog and gun, while yet the night
Was blended with the dawning light,
When first the sheep begin to bleat,
And the early kine rise from their dewy seat.”
Thus as he spoke, each youthful breast
Glows with wild extasies;
In each eye rapture stands confest,
Each thinks he flies along the mead,
And manages the fiery steed,
And hears the beagles' cries.
The sage Melanthus now again
Stretch'd forth his hand, and thus resum'd the strain:
“Now my youthful heat returns,
My breast with youthful vigour burns:
Methinks I see that glorious day,
When, to hunt the fallow-deer,
Three thousand march'd in grand array:
Three thousand march'd with bow and spear,—
All in the light and healthy dress
Our brave forefathers wore,
In Kenneth's wars, and Bruce's days,
And when the Romans fled their dreadful wrath of yore.
O'er every hill, o'er every dale,
All by the winding banks of Tay,
Resounds the hunter's chearful peal,
Their armour glittering to the day.”

598

Big with his joys of youth the old man stood;
Dunnotyr's ruin'd towers then caught his eye;
He stopp'd, and hung his head in pensive mood,
And from his bosom burst the unbidden sigh.
Then turning, with a warrior look,
Shaking his hoary curls, the old man spoke:
“Virtue, O Fortune! scorns thy power,
Thou can'st not bind her for an hour;
Virtue shall ever shine;
And endless praise, her glorious dower,
Shall bless her sons divine.
The kings of th' earth, with open arms,
The illustrious exiles hail:
See warlike Cyrus, great and wise,
Demand, and follow their advice,
And all his breast unveil.
“See, pouring from their hills of snow,
Nations of savages in arms!
A desert lies where'er they go,
Before them march pale Terror and Alarms.
The Princes of the South prepare
Their thousand thousands for the war;
Against thee, Cyrus, they combine;
The North and South their forces join,
To crush thee in the dust:
But thou art safe; Achates draws
His sword with thine, and backs thy cause;
Yes, thou art doubly safe, thy cause is just.
“With dread the Turks have oft beheld
His sword wide waving o'er the field;
As oft these sons of carnage fled
O'er mountains of their kindred dead.

599

“When all the fury of the fight
With wrath redoubled rag'd;
When man to man, with giant-might,
For all that's dear engag'd;
When all was thunder, smoke, and fire;
When from their native rocks the frighted springs retire;
'Twas then, through streams of smoke and blood,
Achates mounts the city-wall:
Though wounded, like a god he stood,
And at his feet the foes submissive fall.
“Brave are the Goths, and fierce in fight,
Yet these he gave to rout and flight;
Proud when they were of victory,
He rushed on like a storm; dispersed and weak they fly.
Thus, from the Grampians old,
A torrent, deep and strong,
Down rushes on the fold,
And sweeps the shepherd and the flock along.
“When, through an aged wood,
The thunder roars amain,
His paths with oaks are strewed,
And ruin marks the plain:
So many a German field can tell,
How in his path the mighty heroes fell.
“When, with their numerous dogs, the swains
Surprise the aged lion's den,
The old warrior rushes to the charge,
And scorns the rage of dogs and men;
His whelps he guards on every side;
Safe they retreat. What though a mortal dart
Stands trembling in his breast, his dauntless heart
Glows with a victor's pride.

600

“So the old lion, brave Achates, fought,
And miracles of prowess wrought;
With a few piquets bore the force
Of eighty thousand, stopped their course,
Till off his friends had marched, and all was well.
Even he himself could ne'er do more,
Fate had no greater deed in store—
When all his host was safe, the godlike hero fell.”
Thus as he spoke, each hoary sire
Fights o'er again his ancient wars;
Each youth burns with a hero's fire,
And triumphs in his future scars;
O'er bloody fields each thinks he rides,
The thunder of the battle guides
(Beneath his lifted arm, struck pale,
The foes for mercy cry);
And hears applauding legions hail
Him with the shouts of victory.

601

HORACE,

Ode xvi. Book 2. imitated.

The weary sailor calls for ease,
When winds turmoil the angry seas,
And not a moon or star to guide
His dreary course along the tide;
When half the sky in showers descends,
And wind the gilded streamer rends;
Blessed he, within the hut, he cries,
Now bends in rest his peaceful eyes;

602

Or hears the tempest idly rave;
No av'rice tempts him to the wave.
Turn to the noisy camp your eye,
There care corrodes, and starts the sigh.
Shew me the man among them all,
Who drove o'er Minden's plains the Gaul;
When Broglio's ranks at distance rise,
And cannon murmur through the skies;
But would forego the breath of fame,
And live at ease without a name.
'Tis not the sash, the gown, the robe,
These gilded baits that catch the mob;
Or tides of flatt'rers at the door,
Can paint with bliss the passing hour;
Or half the cares within controul,
And calm the tumults of the soul.
Nor can the dome or lofty wall,
Or guards that crowd the tyrant's hall,
With all their instruments of wars,
Exclude the dark, invading cares:
Around the bed of state they fly,
And dash the guilty cup of joy.
More happy he! whose guiltless mind
Is to his native fields confined;
Blessed with his state; and craves no more
Than heaven allowed his sires before:

603

Who sees his frugal table spread,
Beneath the roof his fathers made;
No care, by day, disturbs his breast,
He sleeps, by night, his brows in rest.
Whence all these schemes, this wild uproar,
Since life itself shall soon be o'er?
Why do we, with advent'rous eyes,
See other suns in other skies?
Or pant where Indian billows roll?
Or freeze beneath the arctic pole?
In vain we fly destructive Care,
The monster in our breasts we bear.
Go, then; forsake your calm retreat,
Cringe at the portals of the great;
Attend the gaudy venal train,
Throw virtue off, to raise your gain;
Or spread your canvas to the gale;
Or court the muses in the vale;
If still in sorrow you repine,
Fly for relief to whores and wine.
In vain you fly from inbred woe:
Care climbs the vessel's painted prow:
Care haunts the palace of the great,
And hovers round the dark retreat:
Care clouds the fair one's lovely face,
And floats within the sparkling glass.

604

Even round the sprightly muse it flies,
And taints the numbers as they rise.
If life you want undashed with woe,
Serene enjoy the instant now;
Nor ills you left behind deplore,
Nor eye the giant grief before;
If Fortune shines, enjoy the ray,
And smile her very gloom away:
Let tempests sweep and billows roar,
The storm of life shall soon be o'er.
Some perish in their youthful bloom;
With age some wither to the tomb;
Heaven, as a curse, to some supplies
The years to others it denies;
What can the longest liver do,
But see a greater train of woe?
Be yours in public life to shine,
With all the glory of your line;
To rule the battle's noisy tide,
Or Britain's great concerns to guide;
Teach virtue to a venal throng,
While senates listen to your tongue,
To me my fortune more severe,
Has only given a mind sincere;
A spark of genius to pass o'er
The tedious dulness of the hour;
A soul that can a knave despise,
And eye the great with careless eyes.

605

HORACE,

Ode x. Book 2. imitated.

TO A FRIEND.

When tempests sweep and billows roll,
And winds contend along the pole;
When o'er the deck ascends the sea,
And half the sheet is torn away;
Shew me the man among the crew,
Who would not change his place with you;
Prefer the quiet of the plain
To all the riches of the main.
Thrice happy he! and he alone,
Who makes the golden mean his own;
Whose life is neither ebb nor flow,
Nor rises high nor sinks too low:
He prides not in the envied wall,
Nor pines in Want's deserted hall;
His careless eyes with ease behold
The star, the string, and hoarded gold.
Unlike the venal sons of power;
They rise, but rise to fall the more.
When faction rends the public air,
And Pitt shall tumble from his sphere,
In privacy secluded, you
Scarce feel which way the tempest blew.

606

Storms rend the lofty tower in twain,
And bow the poplar to the plain;
The hills are wrapt in clouds on high,
And feel th' artillery of the sky;
When not a breath the valley wakes,
Or curls the surface of the lakes.
When storms on Fortune's ocean lowr,
And rolling billows lash the shore;
When loved allies return to clay,
And paltry riches wing their way;
The faithless mobs, the perjured whore,
That hovered round thy pelf before,
Fall gradual down the ebbing tide;
Thy dog, the last, forsakes thy side:
Retire within; enjoy thy mind;
There, what they all denied thee, find.
When Fortune threats to fly, be gay,
And puff the fickle thing away.
Nor still it lowrs; the tempest flies,
The golden sun descends the skies;
The gale is living in the grass,
In gentler surges roll the seas.
But wisely thou contract the sail,
And catch but half the breathing gale;
Be cautious still of Fortune's wiles,
Avoid the siren when she smiles;
With prudence laugh her gloom away,
And trust her least when she looks gay.

607

THE CHOICE.

Did Fortune, what to few she'll give,
Allow me make my choice to live;
I would not seek an envied seat,
Or daily visits of the great;
Nor yet would my ambition fall
To meagre Want's deserted hall;
To each extreme alike a foe,
Too low for high, too high for low.
For use, not shew, my house would stand
Amid a spot of fertile land;
A lake below; around a wood;
Here bend a rock; there rush a flood.
A mountain would in prospect rise,
And bear the grey mist to the skies.
When in some dark retreat I sit,
Be near a friend, a man of wit,

608

Of heart sincere, and converse free,
The lover of mankind and me;
Who, should the world tumultuous roar,
Could calmly see the storm ashore,
Nor e'er admit a longing sigh
To vex my privacy and I.
Here would I pass my blameless days,
Beloved of virtue, and of ease;
Here die in peace, and lie unknown
Without a monument or stone.
My friend might shed one pious tear;
My image in his bosom bear;
Might breathe, in verse, his tender moan,
But breathe unto himself alone;
I envy to the world my name,
And puff away the strumpet Fame.

609

WRITTEN ON A BIRTH DAY.

Alas the years! how swift they roll,
How swift they fly to Death's dark goal!
And let them roll, and let them fly,
I die but once—and let me die.
Arrived at last at twenty-two,
What honours rise upon my brow?
What have I done to raise my name,
And send to future times my fame?
No matter what—for this consoles,
That fame is but the breath of fools.
And what, alas! a name can do,
When I am cold, when I am low?
Shall I come back to hear my lays
Excite the critic's after-praise?
Behold me quoted in reviews,
Or posted up to fame in news?
Let Fame deny or grant the bays,
No censure I shall feel, nor praise.

610

Why should I then destroy my peace,
Or purchase fame with loss of ease?
But still the soft Aönian maid
Invites me, smiling, to the shade:
“One song ere you lay by the lyre,
“Myself my poet will inspire.”
Away!—I own your power no more,
Away!—thou prostituted whore.
Your charming simpers, artful smiles,
Persuasive voice, and little wiles,
No more shall cause me hunt for fame,
Or seek that empty shade—a name.

THE MONUMENT.

In vain we toil for lasting fame,
Or give to other times our name;
The bust itself shall soon be gone,
The figure moulder from the stone;
The plaintive strain, the moving lay,
Like those they mourn, at last decay:
My name a surer way shall live,
A surer way, my fair can give:
In her dear mem'ry let me live alone;
When Nisa dies, I wish not to be known.

611

VERSES SENT TO A YOUNG LADY, WITH SOME TRANSLATIONS FROM THE ERSE.

Behold, fair maid, what Nature could inspire,
When Albion's lovely dames confessed their fire;
When love was stranger to the guise of art,
And virgins spoke the language of the heart;
When sweet simplicity, with charms displayed,
Confirmed the bands which beauty first had made.
On rocks they lived among the savage kind,
But little of the rock was in their mind;
They felt the call of nature in their heart,
And Pity wept when Beauty shot the dart:
Each maid, with sorrow, saw her conquests rise,
And drowned with tears the lightning of her eyes.
When the loved youth appeared with manly charms,
And called the blooming beauty to his arms;

612

To meet his generous flame the maid would fly,
Nor did the tongue, what eyes confessed, deny.
No toils could her from his dear side remove;
She shared his dangers, as she shared his love.
With him against the chace she bent the bow;
In fields of death with him she met the foe;
If pierced with wounds, a mournful sight he lay,
With tears she washed the gory tide away;
And decent in the tomb her hero laid,
And as she blessed him living, mourned him dead.
In thee, blest nymph, indulgent Nature joined
The face of beauty with the tender mind;
In thee the present virtues we behold,
With all the charms of Albion's dames of old:
But be their sorrow to themselves alone,
As thine their beauty, be their woes their own.
Too oft, in times of old, did war's alarms
Tear lovely Youth from Beauty's folding arms!
Too oft the early tears of spouses flow,
And blooming widows beat their breasts of snow.
But when the happy youth of form divine,
At once the fav'rite of the world and thine,
Enjoys unrivalled all that heaven of charms,
Death, late descend!—Avoid him, hostile arms!
Let growing pleasures crown each rising year,
Still be that cheek unsullied with a tear;
That heart no pang but of affection know;
That ear be stranger to the voice of woe.
When Time itself shall bid that beauty fly,
And lightning arm no more that lovely eye;
May the bright legacy successive fall,
And thy loved sons and daughters share it all;
Thy sons be every virgin's secret care,
Thy lovely daughters like the mother fair;
The first in prudence emulate their sire;
The last, like thee, set all the world on fire.

613

THE CAVE.

WRITTEN IN THE HIGHLANDS.

The wind is up, the field is bare;
Some hermit lead me to his cell,
Where Contemplation, lonely fair,
With blessed Content has chose to dwell.
Behold! it opens to my sight,
Dark in the rock; beside the flood;
Dry fern around obstructs the light;
The winds above it move the wood.
Reflected in the lake I see
The downward mountains and the skies,
The flying bird, the waving tree,
The goats that on the hills arise.
The grey-cloaked herd drives on the cow;
The slow-paced fowler walks the heath;
A freckled pointer scours the brow;
A musing shepherd stands beneath.

614

Curve o'er the ruin of an oak,
The woodman lifts his axe on high,
The hills re-echo to the stroke;
I see, I see the shivers fly.
Some rural maid, with apron full,
Brings fuel to the homely flame;
I see the smoky columns roll,
And through the chinky hut the beam.
Beside a stone o'ergrown with moss,
Two well-met hunters talk at ease;
Three panting dogs beside repose;
One bleeding deer is stretched on grass.
A lake, at distance, spreads to sight,
Skirted with shady forests round,
In midst an island's rocky height
Sustains a ruin once renowned.
One tree bends o'er the naked walls,
Two broad-winged eagles hover nigh,
By intervals a fragment falls,
As blows the blast along the sky.

615

Two rough-spun hinds the pinnace guide,
With lab'ring oars, along the flood;
An angler, bending o'er the tide,
Hangs from the boat th' insidious wood.
Beside the flood, beneath the rocks,
On grassy bank two lovers lean;
Bend on each other amorous looks,
And seem to laugh and kiss between.
The wind is rustling in the oak;
They seem to hear the tread of feet;
They start, they rise, look round the rock;
Again they smile, again they meet.
But see! the grey mist from the lake
Ascends upon the shady hills;
Dark storms the murmuring forests shake,
Rain beats,—resound a hundred rills.
To Damon's homely hut I fly;
I see it smoking o'er the plain:
When storms are past,—and fair the sky,
I'll often seek my cave again.

616

FRAGMENTS FROM TYRTÆUS.

FRAGMENT I.

I call the man unworthy of my praise,
Who wins the palm in wrestling or the race;
Should he excel in bulk and strength mankind,
Or in the course outstrip the Thracian wind;
Though Nature gave him Tithon's form divine,
And Asia poured him wealth from every mine;
Though Pelops' wide domains to him belong,
And more, Adrastus' eloquence of tongue;
Though fortune every other virtue gave,
And yet deny the greatest—to be brave.
And brave alone is he, who can sustain
The wild confusion of the bloody plain;
Can death and wounds behold with dire delight,
And shady legions moving to the fight.
For he alone a lasting name can raise,
And crown his early years with martial praise,

617

Who in the front of battle stands unmoved,
The bulwark of the country which he loved;
And loving, prodigal of life, to die,
Avoids no evil more than basely fly.
His great example shall the host inspire,
And thousands follow actions they admire.
He turns the phalanx of the foe to flight,
And rules, with martial art, the tide of fight:
And when he falls amid the field of fame,
He leaves behind a great and lasting name;
His sire, his country, shall with joy surround
His corse, and read their glory in his wound.
Both young and old shall sing his dirge of woe;
And his long fun'ral all the town pursue:
His tomb shall be revered: his children shine
Through every age, a long-extended line.
Ne'er shall his glory fade, or cease his fame;
Though laid in dust, immortal is his name,
Who never from the field of battle flies,
But for his children and his country dies.
But if the sable hand of death he shun,
Returning victor, with his glory won;
By young and old revered, his life he'll lead,
And full of honour sink among the dead:
Or with his growing years his fame shall grow,
And all shall reverence his head of snow.
The higher place from every youth he bears,
And age shall quit him all the claim of years.
Who then desires to rise to such a height,
Desires in vain, if he forget the fight.

618

FRAGMENT II.

Ye, then, who boast Alcides' race divine,
Be strong; great Jove shall ne'er forsake his line.
Aided by Heav'n, no human prowess fear;
Exalt the shady buckler to the war.
But, bent on fate, what danger need you fly,
Or shun a death so grateful to the sky?
Ye knew the horrid work of arms before,
The dismal shock of battle oft ye bore;
Or when you fled, or when the field you won,
In each reverse to you is fortune known.
For those who, in the front of battle, dare
Fight hand to hand, and bear the brunt of war,
But rarely fall.—Though dastards skulk behind,
The fate they shun still haunts the cow'rdly kind.
What mind can well conceive, or tongue relate,
The ills unnamed that on the truant wait?
To shun his fate when from the field he flies,
Pierced from behind, th' inglorious coward dies.
When prone he lies and gasping on the ground,
What shame, to see behind the gaping wound!
But, firm to earth, let every warrior grow,
Strain his large limbs, and low'ring eye the foe;
Let every shield, a mighty round, displayed,
From head to foot the gathered warrior shade;
Each vig'rous hand the spear portended hold,
When dreadful nods above the casque of gold.

619

To mighty deeds let each his arm extend,
Nor dread the darts his buckler may defend.
To distance let him not project the spear,
But manage hand to hand the work of war;
Shield closed to shield, advance th' imbattled line,
Crest reach to crest, and casque to helmet join;
When, breast to breast, are stretched the ranks of war,
Hew them with swords, or break them with the spear.
Ye, whom no heavy panoplies inclose,
Discharge, at distance, stones against the foes,
And hurl with martial force the missive spear;
But near the phalanx, shun the closer war.

FRAGMENT III.

How graceful lies the brave man on the plain,
Covered with wounds, and for his country slain!
But ah! expelled from home, how mean! how low!
Through foreign realms to lead a life of woe!
Strolling with parents sunk in wieldless years,
A helpless wife, and infants drowned in tears!
Condemned to want and shame, him all shall hate,
And drive the wand'rer from the closing gate.
His form he shall disgrace, his race, his blood,
By ills unnamed and infamy pursued.
Nor only is the dastard lost to fame,
But, what is worse, to all the sense of shame.
But let us fight for Sparta while we may,
Nor spare a life which soon must pass away.

620

Collect your bands, ye warriors, closely fight;
Forget your fear; forget inglorious flight.
Let glory every martial bosom fill,
Nor value life when foes remain to kill.
Leave not the hoary vet'rans numbed with age,
Where burns the combat, and the thickest rage:
What shame! an aged warrior prone should lie,
Transfixed with wounds, when younger men are by;
His beard transformed, his wrinkled temples gray,
And breathe, in dust, his dauntless soul away?
Who can his hands behold, with shameless eyes,
Cov'ring his naked carcase as he lies,
Decent in death?—But all things youth become,
Whom nature covers with her fairest bloom;
Graceful, in life, to men and women's eyes;
Graceful, in death, when on the field he lies.
Then, once engaged, let every warrior grow
Firm to the earth, and low'r upon the foe.

621

ANACREON, ODE IV. TRANSLATED.

On beds of tender myrtles laid,
Or melelot, supinely spread,
I'll quaff the bowl; and, neatly dressed,
Young Cupid shall direct the feast.
Come! fill the bumper to the brim,
And heave away this load of time.
This little wheel of vital day
Shall shortly roll itself away;
And when we to the dust return,
How small our portion in the urn!
Why should you then anoint my stone?
Or earth with rich libations drown?
No: rather let my sleeky hair
The fragrant oil and chaplet wear,
While yet I live; with all her charms
Call too my fair-one to my arms;
And Love, before from hence I go,
To mingle with the shades below;
Here let me dissipate my care,
And leave my grief in upper air.

622

ANACREON, ODE VIII.

By night, on purple carpets spread,
When Bacchus hovered in my head;
In dreams I seemed to stretch the race
With virgins of the fairest face;
While taunting youths at distance stood,
As fair as of immortal blood;
And ridiculed me for the fair,
But seemed to wish themselves were there.
Unheeding I pursue my bliss,
And try to snatch one balmy kiss,
When, all at once, the vision fled,
And left me hapless on the bed:
The promised bliss hung in my brain;
I turned, and wished to sleep again.

623

IN ANSWER TO A LETTER FROM DELIA.

Twice has the winter vexed the main,
And twice the summer parched the plain,
Since, absent from his Delia's eyes,
Remote the hapless poet sighs,
And sees the joyless seasons roll,
Far from the charmer of his soul.
In vain, to shroud thee from my eyes,
Or billows roll, or mountains rise,
When diving in the secret shade,
I see, in thought, my charming maid
In all the light of beauty move,
As when she warmed my heart to love:

624

Again her charms my soul surprise,
I feel the lightning of her eyes;
Her marble neck, her hair behold
Like winding tides of melted gold;
Still on her cheek the roses glow,
Still swells her breast of heaving snow.
The vision flies, delusive all!
From what a height poor mortals fall!
I wake to care—My fair no more
I see;—The winds around me roar;
Cold showers from sullen skies descend,
And storms the lofty forest rend;
I fly the tempest—leave the plain,
But oh! from love I fly in vain.
In crowds would I dissolve my care,
The peace I seek, I find not there.
My absent fair one prompts my sighs,
And calls the tears from both my eyes;
My heart beats thick against my side,
More swiftly rolls the crimson tide;
I sweat, I pant, my ears resound,
And vision dimly swims around.
I pine, I languish in my pain,
And scarce does half the man remain.
I eye the maids, the soft and gay,
And wish to look my soul away;
With other objects to supply
The fair, the adverse fates deny;
Ill were my fair by them supplied,—
Their form disgusts, but more their pride.
With haughty sneer they seem to say,
Away, dull impudence! away!

625

You look, you sigh, and weep in vain;
Go; woo some trull upon the plain.
With conscious shame I blush, I glow;
My Delia would not use me so—
A packet!—'tis my Delia's hand—
What would my lovely maid command?
Am I my fair-one's tender care?
Love me!—What would you love, my dear?
No fair domains of mine are spread,
No lofty villa rears its head;
No lowing herds are heard afar,
Nor neighs the courser at my car;
No pageantry of state is mine,
I boast no nobles in my line;
My numbers are admired by none,
Or by the partial maid alone;
No beauties on my limbs arise,
Nor armed with lightning are my eyes:
Love me! what would you love, my dear?
A gen'rous heart—a mind sincere;
A soul that fortune's frowns defies,
Nor flatters fools I must despise,
Is all I boast, my charming fair!
Love me!—what would you love, my dear!

626

A NIGHT-PIECE.

'Tis night: and storms the forest shake;
Dark roll the billows on the lake;
The whirlwind sweeps; descends the rain,
The torrents echo to the plain:
Through desert paths forlorn I stray,
And not a moon to light my way;
No friendly star with golden eye
Looks from the cieling of the sky.
Here sounds an oak;—there spreads a plane;
Above, the rock defends the rain;
The murm'ring rill o'er pebbles flies,
The wind along the bramble sighs:
A fox is howling on the rock,
A screech-owl on a blasted oak:
The passing meteor lights the vale;
A spirit whispers on the gale,
Or beck'ning longs to breathe its care;
And ghastly horror rides the air.
A ruin! 'Twas of old the seat
Of heroes now resigned to fate;
Where often mirth relaxed the soul,
And midnight crowned the rosy bowl;

627

Where sprightly music swelled the sound,
While blooming beauty tript around.
They vanished, as they ne'er had been,
No lyre is heard, no maid is seen,
No more the tuneful lyrist warms,
Death long since rifled beauty's charms;
No warrior's martial size is shown,
Time moulders down the very stone;
With every blast the fragments fall,
And winds are blust'ring in the hall.
Unhappy man! how short his date,
He springs to light, and sinks in fate;
Ev'n from the womb, the tomb is seen;
And sorrow fills the space between.
Bid paltry riches glut his eye,
Or empty glory raise him high;
Bid him in wrangling senates glow,
Or turn the batt'ry on the foe;
Yet, high or low, 'tis mankind's lot,
To live in grief, and die forgot.
Go, on the stone inscribe thy name,
And to the marble trust thy fame;
Bid half the mountain form thy tomb,
The wonder of the times to come;
The mound shall sink, the stone decay,
The sculptured figure wear away;
The bust that proudly speaks thy praise,
Some shepherd's future cot may raise;
While, smiling round, his infant son
Admires the figures on the stone.
A tomb its dreary honour shows!
Three stones exalt their heads of moss;
A bust, half-sunk in earth, appears,
The rude remains of former years;
Dry tufts of grass around it rise,
The wind along the brushwood sighs,

628

Now peeping from the cloudy pole,
The moon has silvered o'er the whole.
Here, hoar tradition tells, repose
Two youths the dread of Albion's foes,
Of other times the grace and pride,
Who saved their country when they died;
But rolling time has lost their name,
So faithless is the breath of fame.
That light! it issues from the cot,
Be grief suspended,—care forgot:
There Nisa for her lover sighs,
And rolls on night her wishful eyes:
Why has my ling'ring rover stayed?
I come, I come, my lovely maid,
To feast my eyes on all your charms,
And lose my sorrow in your arms.

629

VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY.

When half the nation round Almira sighs,
And sense secures the conquest of her eyes,
Why bids the nymph a muse unknown to fame
To grace her numbers with so fair a name?
Or would the maid add lustre to my lays?
Or shew the world how weakly I can praise?
The muse disclaimed, and all the powers of song,
The rapture vanished, and the lyre unstrung;
I left to other bards their groves of bays,
And sacrificed my hopes of fame to ease.
Nor Delia's charms could bid my numbers rise,
Nor caught my soul the fire of Chloe's eyes;
On Mira's cheek in vain did roses glow,
And Chloris heaved, unsung, her breast of snow;
Almira only could my breast inflame,
Were but my strength proportioned to my theme.
Grant then I sung, what honour could I pay,
Where every grace displayed prevents the lay?
Thee first in beauty, sighing thousands own;
And thou art stranger to thy worth alone:

630

Charms after charms in fair succession rise,
Thy wit pursues the progress of thine eyes;
Each love-sick youth, without the poet's art,
Beholds enough to rob him of his heart;
The muse despairs to make thee brighter shine,
Or give one beauty not already thine.
Permit me then, since useless are my lays,
To give my adoration for my praise;
With other youths, the pleasing pain to prove;
Though hope, alas! can never lodge with love:
Let me admire the charms I'll ne'er possess;
And eye, in rapture, what I can't express.

631

FRAGMENT OF A NORTHERN TALE.

Where Harold, with golden hair, spread o'er Lochlin

Where Harold, with golden hair, spread o'er Lochlin his high commands; where, with justice, he ruled the tribes, who sunk, subdued, beneath his sword; abrupt rises Gormal in snow! The tempests roll dark on his sides, but calm, above, his vast forehead appears. White-issuing from the skirt of his storms, the troubled torrents pour down his sides. Joining, as they roar along, they bear the Torno, in foam, to the main.

Grey on the bank and far from men, half-covered by ancient pines from the wind, a lonely pile exalts its head, long-shaken by the storms of the north. To this fled Sigurd, fierce in fight, from Harold the leader of armies, when fate had brightened his spear with renown: When he conquered in that rude field, where Lulan's warriors fell in blood, or rose, in terror, on the waves of the main. Darkly sat the grey-haired chief; yet sorrow dwelt not in his soul. But


632

when the warrior thought on the past, his proud heart heaved against his side: Forth flew his sword from its place, he wounded Harold in all the winds.

One daughter, and only one, but bright in form and mild of soul, the last beam of the setting line, remained to Sigurd of all his race. His son, in Lulan's battle slain, beheld not his father's flight from his foes. Nor finished seemed the ancient line! The splendid beauty of bright-eyed Fithon covered still the fallen king with renown. Her arm was white like Gormal's snow; her bosom whiter than the foam of the main, when roll the waves beneath the wrath of the winds. Like two stars were her radiant eyes, like two stars that rise on the deep, when dark tumult embroils the night. Pleasant are their beams aloft, as stately they ascend the skies.

Nor Odin forgot, in aught, the maid. Her form scarce equalled her lofty mind. Awe moved around her stately steps. Heroes loved—but shrunk away in their fears. Yet midst the pride of all her charms, her heart was soft, and her soul was kind. She saw the mournful with tearful eyes. Transient darkness arose in her breast. Her joy was in the chace. Each morning, when doubtful light wandered dimly on Lulan's waves, she rouzed the resounding woods, to Gormal's head of snow. Nor moved the maid alone, &c.

THE SAME VERSIFIED.

Where fair-haired Harold o'er Scandinia reigned,
And held, with justice, what his valour gained,
Sevo, in snow, his rugged forehead rears,
And, o'er the warfare of his storms, appears

633

Abrupt and vast. White-wandering down his side
A thousand torrents, gleaming as they glide,
Unite below; and pouring through the plain
Hurry the troubled Torno to the main.
Grey, on the bank, remote from human kind,
By aged pines half sheltered from the wind,
A homely mansion rose, of antique form,
For ages battered by the polar storm.
To this fierce Sigurd fled from Norway's lord,
When fortune settled on the warrior's sword,
In that rude field where Suecia's chiefs were slain;
Or forced to wander o'er the Bothnic main.
Dark was his life, yet undisturbed with woes;
But when the memory of defeat arose,
His proud heart struck his side; he graspt the spear,
And wounded Harold in the vacant air.
One daughter only, but of form divine,
The last fair beam of the departing line,
Remained of Sigurd's race. His warlike son
Fell in the shock which overturned the throne.
Nor desolate the house! Fionia's charms
Sustained the glory, which they lost in arms.
White was her arm, as Sevo's lofty snow,
Her bosom fairer than the waves below,
When heaving to the winds. Her radiant eyes
Like two bright stars, exulting as they rise,
O'er the dark tumult of a stormy night,
And gladdening heaven, with their majestic light.
In nought is Odin to the maid unkind,
Her form scarce equals her exalted mind;
Awe leads her sacred steps where'er they move,
And mankind worship where they dare not love.
But, mixed with softness, was the virgin's pride,
Her heart had feelings which her eyes denied.
Her bright tears started at another's woes,
While transient darkness on her soul arose.

634

The chace she loved; when morn, with doubtful beam,
Came dimly wandering o'er the Bothnic stream,
On Sevo's sounding sides she bent the bow,
And rouzed his forests to his head of snow.
Nor moved the maid alone, &c.
FINIS.