BOOK II.
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.
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
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
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
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
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.
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:
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
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!”
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,
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
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
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
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
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
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.
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
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
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
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
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.”
“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?”
“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
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
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
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
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.”