BOOK I.
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
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.
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
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
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
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
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
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
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,
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.
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
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,
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
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
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
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
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
steel pierced his forehead, and divided his red-hair
behind. He lay, like a shattered rock, which
Cromla shakes from its shaggy side,
when the
green-vallied Erin shakes its mountains, from
sea to sea!
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
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
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.
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,
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
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?
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
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
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
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.”
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.
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
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
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?”
“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
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
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
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,
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.
