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 |
I. |
II. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. | BOOK V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
The poems of Ossian | ||
BOOK V.
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.
Thou dweller between the shields, that hang on high in Ossian's hall! Descend from thy
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
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
“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
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?”
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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.
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
Foldath falls on his shield. The spear of
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
“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
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,
“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!
The poems of Ossian | ||