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