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. |
FINGAL, AN EPIC POEM;
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II. |
The poems of Ossian | ||
FINGAL, AN EPIC POEM;
IN SIX BOOKS.
Virg.
ARGUMENT TO BOOK I.
Cuthullin, (general of the Irish tribes, in the minority of Cormac, king of Ireland) sitting alone beneath a tree, at the gate of Tura, a castle of Ulster (the other chiefs having gone on a hunting party to Cromla, a neighbouring hill), is informed of the landing of Swaran, king of Lochlin, by Moran, the son of Fithil, one of his scouts. He convenes the chiefs; a council is held, and disputes run high, about giving battle to the enemy. Connal, the petty king of Togorma, and an intimate friend of Cuthullin, was for retreating till Fingal, king of those Caledonians who inhabited the north-west coast of Scotland, whose aid had been previously solicited, should arrive; but Calmar, the son of Matha, lord of Lara, a country in Connaught, was for engaging the enemy immediately. Cuthullin, of himself willing to fight, went into the opinion of Calmar. Marching towards the enemy, he missed three of his bravest heroes, Fergus, Duchomar, and Cathba. Fergus arriving, tells Cuthullin of the death of the other two chiefs; which introduces the affecting episode of Morna, the daughter of Cormac. The army of Cuthullin is descried at a distance by Swaran, who sent the son of Arno to observe the motions of the enemy, while he himself ranged his forces in order of battle. The son of Arno, returning to Swaran, describes to him Cuthullin's chariot, and the terrible appearance of that hero. The armies engage, but night coming on, leaves the victory undecided. Cuthullin, according to the hospitality of the times, sends to Swaran a formal invitation to a feast, by his bard Carril, the son of Kinfena. Swaran refuses to come. Carril relates to Cuthullin the story of Grudar and Brassolis. A party, by Connal's advice, is sent
The opening of Fingal adheres strictly to the Horatian precept;
Semper ad eventum festinat; et in medias res,Non secus ac notas, auditorem rapit:
which Blair, with an evasive simplicity, terms a most happy coincidence of thought. But the supposed translator maintains, that “there are certain general rules in the conduct of an epic poem, which, as they are natural, are therefore universal; and in these the two poets (Homer and Ossian) exactly correspond.” —Temora, viii. Note.
As a siege, or voyage, of ten years duration, was incompatible with an epic poem, intended for public recitation, Homer himself was reduced to the necessity of selecting the most important event for the Iliad, and the most important period of the voyage for the Odyssey; in which last alone, the narrative of preceding transactions is introduced, as an episode. Succeeding epic poets, from Virgil to Milton, have adopted the same rule from imitation, and begin invariably in the midst of things. That the rule itself is neither universal nor obviously natural, appears from the opposite conduct, not only of the Cyclic poets, and of every rhyming chronicler in the dark ages, but of Apollonius Rhodius, who adheres to the regular course of events, and of Ariosto and Spenser, who, neglecting Homer, pursue some fantastical plan of their own. Trissino and Tasso were the first moderns who revived the classical model of epic poetry, the chief excellence of which is, not that it is natural or obvious, and therefore universal, but that it is the best, and most artificial arrangement which it is possible to conceive. The arrangement most natural and obvious, perhaps, to the genuine Ossian, if not the origin of the war with Swaran, of which we are still ignorant, was Cuthullin's application to Fingal for aid; the voyage of the latter to
BOOK I.
Cuthullin sat by Tura's wallCuthullin sat by Tura's wall: by the tree of the rustling sound. His spear leaned against
“Arise,” says the youth,” “Cuthullin, arise, I see the ships of the north! Many, chief of men, are the foe. Many the heroes of the seaborne Swaran!” “Moran,” replied the blue-eyed chief, “thou ever tremblest, son of Fithil! Thy fears have increased the foe. It is Fingal, king of desarts, with aid to green Erin of streams.” “I beheld their chief,” says Moran, “tall as a glittering rock. His spear is a blasted
“He spoke, like a wave on a rock, Who in this land appears like me? Heroes stand not in my presence: they fall to earth from my hand. Who can meet Swaran in fight? Who but Fingal,
“No!” replied the blue-eyed chief, “I never yield to mortal man! Dark Cuthullin shall be great or dead! Go, son of Fithil, take my spear. Strike the sounding shield of Semo. It hangs at Tura's rustling gate. The sound of peace is not its voice! My heroes shall hear
Now I behold the chiefs, in the pride of their former deeds! Their souls are kindled at the battles of old; at the actions of other times. Their eyes are flames of fire. They roll in search of the foes of the land. Their mighty hands are on their swords. Lightning pours from their sides of steel. They come like streams from
“Hail,” said Cuthullin, “sons of the narrow
“Cuthullin!” calm the chief replied, “the spear of Connal is keen. It delights to shine in battle; to mix with the blood of thousands. But though my hand is bent on fight, my heart is for the peace of Erin. Behold, thou first in Cormac's war, the sable fleet of Swaran. His masts are many on our coast, like reeds in the lake of Lego. His ships are forests cloathed with mist, when the trees yield by turns to the squally wind. Many are his chiefs in battle. Connal is for peace! Fingal would shun his arm, the first of mortal men! Fingal, who scatters the mighty, as stormy winds the heath; when streams roar through echoing Cona; and night settles with all her clouds on the hill!”
“Fly, thou man of peace,” said Calmar, “fly,” said the son of Matha; “go, Connal, to thy silent hills, where the spear never brightens
“Calmar!” Connal slow replied, “I never fled, young son of Matha! I was swift with my friends in fight; but small is the fame of Connal! The battle was won in my presence; the valiant overcame! But, son of Semo, hear my voice, regard the antient throne of Cormac. Give wealth and half the land for peace, till Fingal shall arrive on our coast. Or, if war be thy choice, I lift the sword and spear. My joy shall be in the midst of thousands; my soul shall lighten through the gloom of the fight!”
“To me,” Cuthullin replies, “pleasant is the noise of arms! pleasant as the thunder of heaven, before the shower of spring! But gather all the shining tribes, that I may view the sons
“Four stones,” replied the chief, “rise on the grave of Cathba. These hands have laid in earth Duchomar, that cloud in war! Cathba, son of Torman! thou wert a sun-beam in Erin. And thou, O valiant Duchomar, a mist of the marshy Lano; when it moves on the plains of autumn, bearing the death of thousands along.
“Say,” said Semo's blue-eyed son, “say, how fell the chiefs of Erin? Fell they by the sons of Lochlin, striving in the battle of heroes? Or what confines the strong in arms to the dark and narrow house?”
“Cathba,” replied the hero, “fell by the sword of Duchomar, at the oak of the noisy streams. Duchomar came to Tura's cave; he spoke to the lovely Morna. Morna, fairest among women, lovely daughter of strong-armed Cormac! Why in the circle of stones? in the cave of the rock alone? The stream murmurs along. The old tree groans in the wind. The lake is troubled before thee; dark are the clouds of the sky! But thou art snow on the heath; thy hair is the mist of Cromla; when it curls on the hill; when it shines to the beam of
“From whence,” the fair-haired maid replied, “from whence, Duchomar, most gloomy of men? Dark are thy brows and terrible! Red are thy rolling eyes! Does Swaran appear on the sea? What of the foe, Duchomar?” “From the hill I return, O Morna, from the hill of the dark-brown hinds. Three have I slain with my bended yew. Three with my long bounding dogs of the chace. Lovely daughter of Cormac, I love thee as my soul! I have slain one stately deer for thee. High was his branchy head; and fleet his feet of wind.” “Duchomar!” calm
“Long shall Morna wait,” Duchomar said, “long shall Morna wait for Cathba! Behold this sword unsheathed! Here wanders the blood of Cathba. Long shall Morna wait. He fell by the stream of Branno! On Cromla I will raise his tomb, daughter of blue-shielded Cormac! Turn on Duchomar thine eyes; his arm is strong as a storm.” “Is the son of Torman fallen?” said the wildly-bursting voice of the
He gave the sword to her tears. She pierced his manly breast! He fell, like the bank of a mountain stream, and stretching forth his hand
“Peace,” said Cuthullin, “to the souls of the heroes! their deeds were great in fight. Let them ride around me on clouds. Let them shew their features of war. My soul shall then be firm in danger; mine arm, like the thunder of heaven! But be thou on a moon-beam, O Morna! near the window of my rest; when my
As rushes a stream of foam from the dark shady steep of Cromla; when the thunder is travelling above, and dark brown night sits on half the hill. Through the breaches of the tempest look forth the dim faces of ghosts. So
He went. He trembling, swift returned. His eyes rolled wildly round. His heart beat high against his side. His words were faultering, broken, slow. “Arise, son of ocean, arise, chief of the dark brown shields! I see the dark, the mountain-stream of battle! The deep-moving strength of the sons of Erin! The car, the car of war comes on, like the flame of death! the rapid car of Cuthullin, the noble son of Semo! It bends behind, like a wave near a rock; like the sun-streaked mist of the heath. Its
“Before the left side of the car is seen the snorting horse! The thin-maned, high-headed, strong-hoofed, fleet, bounding son of the hill: his name is Dusronnal, among the stormy sons of the sword! A thousand thongs bind the car
“Within the car is seen the chief; the strong-armed son of the sword. The hero's name is Cuthullin, son of Semo, king of shells. His red cheek is like my polished yew. The look of his blue-rolling eye is wide, beneath the dark arch of his brow. His hair flies from his head like a flame, as bending forward, he wields the spear. Fly, king of ocean, fly! He comes, like a storm, along the streamy vale!”
“When did I fly,” replied the king? “When fled Swaran from the battle of spears? When did I shrink from danger, chief of the little soul? I met the storm of Gormal, when the foam of my waves beat high. I met the storm of the clouds; shall Swaran fly from a hero? Were Fingal himself before me, my soul should not darken with fear. Arise to battle, my thousands! pour round me like the echoing main. Gather round the bright steel of your king;
Like autumn's dark storms, pouring from two echoing hills, toward each other approached the heroes. Like two deep streams from high rocks meeting, mixing, roaring, on the plain; loud, rough, and dark in battle, meet Lochlin and Innis-fail. Chief mixes his strokes with chief, and man with man; steel, clanging, sounds on
Mourn, ye sons of song, mourn the death of the noble Sithallin. Let the sighs of Fiona rise, on the lone plains of her lovely Ardan. They fell, like two hinds of the desart, by the hands
Weep on the rocks of roaring winds, O maid of Inistore! Bend thy fair head over the waves, thou lovelier than the ghost of the hills; when it moves, in a sun-beam, at noon, over the silence of Morven! He is fallen! thy youth is
As roll a thousand waves to the rocks, so Swaran's host came on. As meets a rock a thousand waves, so Erin met Swaran of spears. Death raises all his voices around, and mixes with the sounds of shields. Each hero is a pillar of darkness; the sword a beam of fire in his hand. The field echoes from wing to wing, as a hundred hammers that rise, by turns, on the red son of the furnace. Who are these on
It was on Cromla's shaggy side that Dorglas had placed the deer; the early fortune of the
Old Carril went, with softest voice. He called the king of dark-brown shields! “Rise from the skins of thy chace, rise, Swaran, king of groves! Cuthullin gives the joy of shells. Partake the feast of Erin's blue-eyed chief!” He answered like the sullen sound of Cromla before a storm. “Though all thy daughters, Inisfail! should stretch their arms of snow; should raise the heavings of their breasts, and softly roll their eyes of love; yet, fixed as Lochlin's thousand rocks, here Swaran should remain; till morn, with the young beams of the east,
“Sad is the sound of Swaran's voice,” said Carril of other times! “Sad to himself alone,” said the blue-eyed son of Semo. “But, Carril, raise the voice on high; tell the deeds of other times. Send thou the night away in song; and give the joy of grief. For many heroes and maids of love, have moved on Inis-fail: And lovely are the songs of woe, that are heard in Albion's rocks; when the noise of the chace is
“In other days,” Carril replies, “came the sons of Ossian to Erin! A thousand vessels bounded on waves to Ullin's lovely plains. The sons of Inis-fail arose, to meet the race of dark-brown shields. Cairbar, first of men, was there, and Grudar, stately youth! Long had they strove for the spotted bull, that lowed on Golbun's echoing heath. Each claimed him as his own. Death was often at the point of their steel! side by side the heroes fought; the strangers of Ocean fled. Whose name was fairer on the hill, than the name of Cairbar and Grudar! But ah! why ever lowed the bull, on Golbon's echoing heath! They saw him leaping like snow. The wrath of the chiefs returned!
“On Lubar's grassy banks they fought; Grudar fell in his blood. Fierce Cairbar came to the vale, where Brassolis, fairest of his sisters, all alone, raised the song of grief. She sung of the actions of Grudar, the youth of her secret
“Take, Brassolis,” Cairbar came and said, “take, Brassolis, this shield of blood. Fix it on high within my hall, the armour of my foe!” Her soft heart beat against her side. Distracted, pale, she flew. She found her youth in all his blood; she died on Cromla's heath. Here
“Pleasant is thy voice, O Carril,” said the blue-eyed chief of Erin. “Pleasant are the words of other times! They are like the calm shower of spring; when the sun looks on the
Connal, slow to speak, replied, “Guard against the race of Ocean. Send thy troop of night abroad, and watch the strength of Swaran.
BOOK II.
ARGUMENT TO BOOK II.
The ghost of Crugal, one of the Irish heroes who was killed in battle, appearing to Connal, foretells the defeat of Cuthullin in the next battle; and earnestly advises him to make peace with Swaran. Connal communicates the vision; but Cuthullin is inflexible; from a principle of honour, he would not be the first to sue for peace, and he resolved to continue the war. Morning comes; Swaran proposes dishonourable terms to Cuthullin, which are rejected. The battle begins, and is obstinately fought for some time, until, upon the flight of Grumal, the whole Irish army gave way. Cuthullin and Connal cover their retreat: Carril leads them to a neighbouring hill, whither they are soon followed by Cuthullin himself, who descries the fleet of Fingal making towards the coast; but night coming on, he lost sight of it again. Cuthullin, dejected after his defeat, attributes his ill success to the death of Ferda, his friend, whom he had killed some time before. Carril, to shew that ill success did not always attend those who innocently killed their friends, introduces the episode of Comal and Galvina. Macpherson.
Connal lay by the sound of the mountain stream, beneath the aged tree. A stone, with
“My spirit, Connal, is on my hills: my corse on the sands of Erin. Thou shalt never talk with Crugal, nor find his lone steps in the heath. I am light as the blast of Cromla. I move like the shadow of mist! Connal, son of
The soft-voiced Connal rose, in the midst of his sounding arms. He struck his shield above Cuthullin. The son of battle waked. “Why,” said the ruler of the car, “comes Connal through my night? My spear might turn against the sound; and Cuthullin mourn the
“He spoke to Connal,” replied the hero, “though stars dim-twinkled through his form! Son of Colgar, it was the wind that murmured across thy ear. Or if it was the form of Crugal,
“Then let them talk of mortal men; of every man but Erin's chief. Let me be forgot in their cave. I will not fly from Swaran! If fall I must, my tomb shall rise, amidst the fame of future times. The hunter shall shed a tear on my stone; sorrow shall dwell round the high-bosomed Bragèla. I fear not death, to fly I fear! Fingal has seen me victorious! Thou dim phantom of the hill, shew thyself to me! come on thy beam of heaven, shew me my death in thine hand; yet I will not fly, thou feeble son
The sound spreads wide. The heroes rise, like the breaking of a blue-rolling wave. They stood on the heath, like oaks, with all their branches round them; when they echo to the stream of frost, and their withered leaves are rustling to the wind! High Cromla's head of clouds is grey. Morning trembles on the half-enlightened ocean. The blue mist swims slowly by, and hides the sons of Inis-fail!
“Rise ye,” said the king of the dark-brown shields, “ye that came from Lochlin's waves.
As the dark shades of autumn fly over the hills of grass, so gloomy, dark, successive came the chiefs of Lochlin's echoing woods. Tall as the stag of Morven, moved stately before them,
“Go, Morla, go,” said the king of Lochlin, “offer peace to these! Offer the terms we give to kings, when nations bow down to our swords. When the valiant are dead in war; when virgins weep on the field!” Tall Morla came, the son of Swarth, and stately strode the youth along! He spoke to Erin's blue-eyed chief, among the lesser heroes. “Take Swaran's peace,” the warrior spoke, “the peace he gives to kings, when nations bow to his sword. Leave Erin's streamy plains to us, and give thy spouse and dog. Thy spouse high-bosomed, heaving fair! Thy dog that overtakes the wind! Give these to prove the weakness of thine arm; live then beneath our power!”
“Tell Swaran, tell that heart of pride, Cuthullin never yields. I give him the dark-rolling sea; I give his people graves in Erin. But never shall a stranger have the pleasing sunbeam of my love. No deer shall fly on Lochlin's hills, before swift-footed Luath.” “Vain ruler of the car,” said Morla, “wilt thou then fight the king? The king, whose ships of many groves could carry off thine isle? So little is thy greenhilled Erin to him who rules the stormy waves!” “In words I yield to many, Morla. My sword shall yield to none. Erin shall own the sway of Cormac, while Connal and Cuthullin live! O Connal, first of mighty men, thou hearest the words of Morla. Shall thy thoughts then be of peace, thou breaker of the shields? Spirit of fallen Crugal! why didst thou threaten us
Then dismal, roaring, fierce, and deep, the gloom of battle poured along; as mist that is rolled on a valley, when storms invade the silent sun-shine of heaven! Cuthullin moves before, in arms, like an angry ghost before a cloud;
“Where,” said the mouth of the song, “where is the fallen Crugal? He lies forgot on earth; the hall of shells is silent. Sad is the spouse of Crugal! She is a stranger in the hall of her grief. But who is she, that, like a sun-beam, flies before the ranks of the foe? It is Degrena, lovely fair, the spouse of fallen Crugal. Her hair is on the wind behind. Her eye is red; her voice is shrill. Pale, empty is thy Crugal now! His form is in the cave of the hill. He comes to the ear of rest; he raises his feeble voice; like the humming of the mountain-bee; like the collected flies of the eve! But Degrena falls like a
Fierce Cairbar heard the mournful sound. He rushed along like ocean's whale. He saw the death of his daughter: He roared in the midst
Still Swaran advanced, as a stream, that bursts from the desart. The little hills are rolled in its course; the rocks are half sunk by its side! But Cuthullin stood before him, like a hill that catches the clouds of heaven. The winds contend on its head of pines; the hail rattles
“O sons of Erin,” said Grumal, “Lochlin conquers on the field. Why strive we as reeds against the wind? Fly to the hill of dark-brown hinds.” He fled like the stag of Morven; his spear is a trembling beam of light behind him. Few fled with Grumal, chief of the little soul: they fell in the battle of heroes, on Lena's echoing
Connal mounts the car of gems. They stretch their shields, like the darkened moon, the daughter of the starry skies, when she moves, a dun circle, through heaven; and dreadful change is expected by men. Sithfadda panted up the
Cuthullin stood beside an oak. He rolled his red eye in silence, and heard the wind in his bushy hair; the scout of ocean came, Moran, the son of Fithil. “The ships,” he cried, “the ships of the lonely isles. Fingal comes, the first of men, the breaker of the shields! The waves foam before his black prows! His masts with sails are like groves in clouds!” “Blow,” said Cuthullin, “blow, ye winds, that rush along my isle of mist! Come to the death of thousands, O king of resounding Selma! Thy sails, my friend, are to me the clouds of the morning; thy ships the light of heaven; and thou thyself a pillar of fire, that beams on the world by night. O Connal, first of men, how pleasing, in grief, are our friends! But the night is gathering around! Where now are the ships of
The winds come down on the woods. The torrents rush from the rocks. Rain gathers round the head of Cromla. The red stars tremble between the flying clouds. Sad, by the side of a stream, whose sound is echoed by a tree, sad by the side of a stream the chief of Erin sits. Connal, son of Colgar, is there, and Carril of other times. “Unhappy is the hand of Cuthullin,” said the son of Semo, “unhappy is the hand of Cuthullin, since he slew his friend! Ferda, son of Damman, I loved thee as myself!”
“How, Cuthullin, son of Semo! how fell the breaker of the shields? Well I remember,” said Connal, “the son of the noble Damman. Tall
“Deugala was the spouse of Cairbar, chief of the plains of Ullin. She was covered with the light of beauty, but her heart was the house of pride. She loved that sun-beam of youth, the son of noble Damman. “Cairbar,” said the white-armed Deugala, “give me half of the herd. No more will I remain in your halls. Divide the herd, dark Cairbar!” “Let Cuthullin,” said Cairbar, “divide my herd on the hill. His
“Son of Damman,” begun the fair, “Cuthullin hath pained my soul. I must hear of his death, or Lubar's stream shall roll over me. My pale ghost shall wander near thee, and mourn the wound of my pride. Pour out the blood of Cuthullin, or pierce this heaving breast.” “Deugala,” said the fair-haired youth, “how shall I slay the son of Semo? He is the friend of my secret thoughts. Shall I then lift the sword?” She wept three days before the chief, on the fourth he said he would fight. “I will fight my friend, Deugala! but may I fall by his sword! Could I wander on the hill alone? Could I behold the grave of Cuthullin?” We fought on the plain of Muri. Our swords avoid a wound. They slide on the helmets of steel; or sound on the slippery shields. Deugala was near with a smile, and said to the son of Damman: “Thine
The tear is in the eye of youth. He faultering said to me: “Cuthullin, raise thy bossy shield. Defend thee from the hand of thy friend. My soul is laden with grief: for I must slay the chief of men!” I sighed as the wind in the cleft of a rock. I lifted high the edge of my steel. The sun-beam of battle fell: the first of Cuthullin's friends! Unhappy is the hand of Cuthullin since the hero fell!
“Mournful is thy tale, son of the car,” said Carril of other times. “It sends my soul back to the ages of old, to the days of other years. Often have I heard of Comal, who slew the friend he loved; yet victory attended his steel: the battle was consumed in his presence!
Comal was a son of Albion; the chief of an hundred hills! His deer drunk of a thousand streams. A thousand rocks replied to the voice of his dogs. His face was the mildness
One day, tired of the chace, when the mist had concealed their friends, Comal and the daughter of Conloch met, in the cave of Ronan. It was the wonted haunt of Comal. Its sides were hung with his arms. A hundred shields of thongs were there; a hundred helms of sounding steel. “Rest here,” he said, “my love, Galbina: thou light of the cave of Ronan! A deer
He went to the deer of Mora. The daughter of Conloch would try his love. She cloathed her fair sides with his armour; she strode from the cave of Ronan! He thought it was his foe. His heart beat high. His colour changed, and darkness dimmed his eyes. He drew the bow. The arrow flew. Galbina fell in blood! He run with wildness in his steps: he called the daughter of Conloch. No answer in the lonely rock. “Where art thou, O my love?” He saw, at length, her heaving heart, beating around the arrow he threw. “O Conloch's daughter, is it thou?” He sunk upon her breast! The hunters found the
BOOK III.
ARGUMENT TO BOOK III.
Cuthullin, pleased with the story of Carril, insists with that bard for more of his songs. He relates the actions of Fingal in Lochlin, and death of Agandecca, the beautiful sister of Swaran. He had scarce finished, when Calmar, the son of Matha, who had advised the first battle, came wounded from the field, and told them of Swaran's design to surprise the remains of the Irish army. He himself proposes to withstand singly the whole force of the enemy, in a narrow pass, till the Irish should make good their retreat. Cuthullin touched with the gallant proposal of Calmar, resolves to accompany him, and orders Carril to carry off the few that remained of the Irish. Morning comes, Calmar dies of his wounds; and, the ships of the Caledonians appearing, Swaran gives over the pursuit of the Irish, and returns to oppose Fingal's landing. Cuthullin ashamed, after his defeat, to appear before Fingal, retires to the cave of Tura. Fingal engages the enemy, puts them to flight; but the coming on of night makes the victory not decisive. The king, who had observed the gallant behaviour of his grandson Oscar, gives him advices concerning his conduct in peace and war. He recommends to him to place the example of his fathers before his eyes, as the best model for his conduct; which introduces the episode concerning Fainasollis, the daughter of the king of Craca, whom Fingal had taken under his protection, in his youth. Fillan and Oscar are dispatched to observe the motions of the enemy by night; Gaul, the son of Morni, desires the command of the army, in the next battle; which Fingal promises to give him. Some general reflections of the poet close the third day. Macpherson.
“Pleasant are the words of the song,” said Cuthullin! “lovely the tales of other times! They are like the calm dew of the morning on the hill of roes, when the sun is faint on its side, and the lake is settled and blue in the vale. O Carril, raise again thy voice; let me hear the song of Selma: which was sung in my halls of joy, when Fingal, king of shields, was there, and glowed at the deeds of his fathers.”
“Fingal! thou dweller of battle,” said Carril, “early were thy deeds in arms. Lochlin was consumed in thy wrath, when thy youth strove with the beauty of maids. They smiled at the fair-blooming face of the hero; but death was in his hands. He was strong as the waters of Lora. His followers were the roar of a thousand streams. They took the king of Lochlin in war; they restored him to his ships. His big heart swelled with pride; the death of the youth was dark in his soul. For none ever, but Fingal, had overcome the strength of the mighty Starno. He sat in the hall of his shells in Lochlin's woody land. He called the grey-haired Snivan, that often sung round the circle of Loda: when the stone of power heard his voice, and battle turned in the field of the valiant!
“Go, grey-haired Snivan,” Starno said, “go to Ardven's sea-surrounded rocks. Tell to the king of Selma; he, the fairest among his thousands, tell him I give him my daughter, the loveliest maid that ever heaved a breast of snow. Her arms are white as the foam of my waves. Her soul is generous and mild. Let him come with his bravest heroes to the daughter of the secret hall!” Snivan came to Selma's hall: Fair-haired
Starno designed their death. He gave the feast of shells. Fingal, who doubted the foe, kept on his arms of steel. The sons of death were afraid: They fled from the eyes of the king. The voice of sprightly mirth arose. The trembling harps of joy were strung. Bards sung the battle of heroes: They sung the heaving
The third day, with all its beams, shone bright on the wood of boars. Forth moved the dark-browed Starno; and Fingal, king of shields. Half the day they spent in the chace; the spear of Selma was red in blood. It was then the daughter of Starno, with blue eyes rolling in tears; it was then she came with her voice of love, and spoke to the king of Morven. “Fingal, high-descended chief, trust not Starno's heart of pride. Within that wood he has placed his chiefs. Beware of the wood of death. But, remember, son of the isle, remember Agandecca: save me from the wrath of my father, king of the windy Morven!”
The youth, with unconcern, went on; his heroes
“Blessed be her soul;” said Cuthullin, “blessed be the mouth of the song! Strong was the youth of Fingal; strong is his arm of age. Lochlin shall fall again before the king of echoing Morven. Shew thy face from a cloud, O moon; light his white sails on the wave: And if any strong spirit of heaven sits on that low-hung
Such were the words of Cuthullin at the sound of the mountain-stream, when Calmar ascended the hill, the wounded son of Matha. From the field he came in his blood. He leaned on his bending spear. Feeble is the arm of battle! but strong the soul of the hero! “Welcome! O son of Matha,” said Connal, “welcome art thou to thy friends! Why bursts that broken sigh, from the breast of him who never feared before?” “And never, Connal, will he fear, chief of the pointed steel! My soul brightens in danger: in the noise of arms. I am of the race of battle. My fathers never feared.
“Cormar was the first of my race. He sported through the storms of waves. His black skiff bounded on ocean; he travelled on the wings of the wind. A spirit once embroiled the night. Seas swell, and rocks resound. Winds drive along the clouds. The lightning flies on wings
“But now, ye sons of green Erin, retire from Lena's bloody heath. Collect the sad remnant of our friends, and join the sword of Fingal. I heard the sound of Lochlin's advancing arms! Calmar will remain and fight. My voice shall be such, my friends, as if thousands were behind
“No: son of Matha,” said Cuthullin, “I will never leave thee here. My joy is in unequal fight: my soul increases in danger. Connal, and Carril of other times, carry off the sad sons of Erin. When the battle is over, search for us in this narrow way. For near this oak we shall fall, in the stream of the battle of thousands!” “O Fithil's son, with flying speed rush over the heath of Lena. Tell to Fingal that Erin is fallen. Bid the king of Morven come. O let him come, like the sun in a storm, to lighten, to restore the isle!”
Morning is grey on Cromla. The sons of the sea ascend. Calmar stood forth to meet them in the pride of his kindling soul. But pale was the face of the chief. He leaned on his father's spear. That spear which he brought from Lara,
Now from the grey mist of the ocean, the white-sailed ships of Fingal appear. High is the grove of their masts, as they nod, by turns, on
“How many lie there of my heroes! the chiefs of Erin's race! they that were chearful in the hall, when the sound of the shells arose! No more shall I find their steps in the heath. No more shall I hear their voice in the chace. Pale,
Fingal, tall in his ship, stretched his bright lance before him. Terrible was the gleam of the steel: it was like the green meteor of death, setting in the heath of Malmor, when the traveller
“The battle is past,” said the king. “I behold the blood of my friends. Sad is the heath of Lena! mournful the oaks of Cromla. The hunters have fallen in their strength: the son of Semo is no more. Ryno and Fillan, my sons, sound the horn of Fingal. Ascend that hill on the shore; call the children of the foe. Call them from the grave of Lamdarg, the chief of other times. Be your voice like that of your father, when he enters the battles of his strength.
Fair Ryno as lightning gleamed along: Dark Fillan rushed like the shade of autumn. On Lena's heath their voice is heard. The sons of ocean heard the horn of Fingal. As the roaring eddy of ocean returning from the kingdom of snows; so strong, so dark, so sudden came down the sons of Lochlin. The king in their front appears, in the dismal pride of his arms! Wrath burns on his dark-brown face: his eyes roll in the fire of his valour. Fingal beheld the son of Starno: he remembered Agandecca. For Swaran with the tears of youth had mourned his white-bosomed sister. He sent Ullin of songs to bid him to the feast of shells: For pleasant on Fingal's soul returned the memory of the first of his loves!
Ullin came with aged steps, and spoke to Starno's son. “O thou that dwellest afar, surrounded, like a rock, with thy waves! come to the feast of the king, and pass the day in rest. To-morrow let us fight, O Swaran, and break the echoing shields.” “To-day,” said Starno's wrathful son, “we break the echoing shields: to-morrow my feast shall be spread; but Fingal shall lie on earth.” “To-morrow let his feast be spread,” said Fingal with a smile. “To-day, O my sons, we shall break the echoing shields. Ossian, stand thou near my arm. Gaul, lift thy terrible sword. Fergus, bend thy crooked yew. Throw, Fillan, thy lance through heaven. Lift your shields, like the darkened moon. Be your spears the meteors of death. Follow me in the path of my fame. Equal my deeds in battle.”
As a hundred winds on Morven; as the streams
Ryno went on like a pillar of fire. Dark is the brow of Gaul. Fergus rushed forward with
Who can relate the deaths of the people? Who the deeds of mighty heroes? when Fingal, burning in his wrath, consumed the sons of Lochlin? groans swelled on groans from hill to
“Son of my son,” begun the king, “O Oscar, pride of youth! I saw the shining of thy sword. I gloried in my race. Pursue the fame of our fathers; be thou what they have been, when Trenmor lived, the first of men, and Trathal, the father of heroes! They fought the battle in their youth. They are the song of bards. O
“Oscar! I was young like thee, when lovely Fainasóllis came: that sun-beam! that mild light of love! the daughter of Craca's king!
“To thee I fly,” with sighs she said, “O prince of mighty men! To thee I fly, chief of the generous shells, supporter of the feeble hand! The king of Craca's echoing isle owned me the sun-beam of his race. Cromla's hills have heard the sighs of love for unhappy Fainasóllis! Sora's chief beheld me fair; he loved the daughter of Craca. His sword is a beam of light upon the warrior's side. But dark is his brow; and tempests are in his soul. I shun him, on the roaring sea; but Sora's chief pursues.”
“Rest thou,” I said, “behind my shield; rest in peace, thou beam of light! the gloomy chief of Sora will fly, if Fingal's arm is like his soul. In some lone cave I might conceal thee, daughter of the sea! but Fingal never flies. Where the danger threatens, I rejoice in the storm of spears.” I saw the tears upon her cheek. I pitied Craca's fair. Now, like a
“The maid stood trembling by my side. He drew the bow. She fell. “Unerring is thy hand,” I said, “but feeble was the foe!” We fought, nor weak the strife of death! He sunk beneath my sword. We laid them in two tombs of stone; the hapless lovers of youth! Such have I been in my youth, O Oscar; be thou like the age of Fingal. Never search thou for battle, nor shun it when it comes.
“Fillan and Oscar of the dark-brown hair! ye, that are swift in the race! fly over the heath in my presence. View the sons of Lochlin. Far off I hear the noise of their fear, like distant sounds in woods. Go: that they may not fly from my sword, along the waves of the north. For many chiefs of Erin's race, lie here on the dark bed of death. The children of war are low; the sons of echoing Cromla.”
The heroes flew like two dark clouds: two dark clouds that are the chariots of ghosts; when air's dark children come forth to frighten hapless men. It was then that Gaul, the son
“Son of battle,” cried the chief, “O Fingal, king of shells! let the bards of many songs sooth Erin's friends to rest. Fingal, sheath thou thy sword of death; and let thy people fight. We wither away without our fame; our king is the only breaker of shields! When morning rises on our hills, behold, at a distance, our deeds. Let Lochlin feel the sword of Morni's son; that bards may sing of me. Such was the custom heretofore of Fingal's noble race. Such was thine own, thou king of swords, in battles of the spear.”
“O son of Morni,” Fingal replied, “I glory in thy fame. Fight; but my spear shall be near,
Many a voice and many a harp, in tuneful sounds arose. Of Fingal's noble deeds they sung; of Fingal's noble race: And sometimes, on the lovely sound, was heard the name of Ossian. I often fought, and often won, in battles of the spear. But blind, and tearful, and forlorn I walk with little men! O Fingal, with thy race of war I now behold thee not! The wild roes feed on the green tomb of the mighty king of Morven! Blest be thy soul, thou king of
BOOK IV.
ARGUMENT TO BOOK IV.
The action of the poem being suspended by night, Ossian takes that opportunity to relate his own actions at the lake of Lego, and his courtship of Evirallin, who was the mother of Oscar, and had died some time before the expedition of Fingal into Ireland. Her ghost appears to him, and tells him that Oscar, who had been sent, the beginning of the night, to observe the enemy, was engaged with an advanced party, and almost overpowered. Ossian relieves his son, and an alarm is given to Fingal of the approach of Swaran. The king rises, calls his army together, and, as he had promised the preceding night, devolves the command on Gaul, the son of Morni, while he himself, after charging his sons to behave gallantly, and defend his people, retires to a hill, from whence he could have a view of the battle. The battle joins; the poet relates Oscar's great actions. But when Oscar, in conjunction with his father, conquered in one wing, Gaul, who was attacked by Swaran in person, was on the point of retreating in the other. Fingal sends Ullin his bard to encourage him with a war song, but notwithstanding Swaran prevails; and Gaul and his army are obliged to give way. Fingal, descending from the hill, rallies them again: Swaran desists from the pursuit, possesses himself of a rising ground, restores the ranks, and waits the approach of Fingal. The king, having encouraged his men, gives the necessary orders, and renews
Who comes with her songs from the hill, like the bow of the showery Lena? It is the maid
Daughter of the hand of snow! I was not so mournful and blind. I was not so dark and
He opened the hall of the maid, the dark-haired Evirallin. Joy kindled in our manly breasts. We blest the maid of Branno. Above us on the hill appeared the people of stately Cormac. Eight were the heroes of the chief. The heath flamed wide with their arms. There Colla; there Durra of wounds, there mighty Toscar,
Ogar met Dala the strong, face to face, on the field of heroes. The battle of the chiefs was, like wind, on ocean's foamy waves. The dagger is remembered by Ogar; the weapon which he loved. Nine times he drowned it in Dala's side. The stormy battle turned. Three times I broke on Cormac's shield: three times he broke his spear. But, unhappy youth of love! I cut his head away. Five times I shook it by the lock. The friends of Cormac fled. Whoever would have told me, lovely maid, when
“On Lena's gloomy heath, the voice of music died away. The unconstant blast blew hard. The high oak shook its leaves around. Of Evirallin were my thoughts, when in all the light of beauty she came. Her blue eyes rolling in tears. She stood on a cloud before my sight, and spoke with feeble voice! “Rise, Ossian, rise and save my son; save Oscar, prince of men. Near the red oak of Luba's stream, he fights with Lochlin's sons.” She sunk into her cloud again. I covered me with steel. My spear supported my steps; my rattling armour rung. I hummed, as I was wont in danger,
I called him like a distant stream. “Oscar, return over Lena! No further pursue the foe,” I said, “though Ossian is behind thee.” He came; and pleasant to my ear was Oscar's sounding steel. “Why didst thou stop my hand,” he said, “till death had covered all? For dark and dreadful by the stream they met thy son and Fillan! They watched the terrors of the night. Our swords have conquered some. But as the winds of night pour the ocean, over the white sands of Mora, so dark advance the sons of Lochlin, over Lena's rustling heath! The ghosts of night shriek afar: I have seen the meteors of death. Let me awake the king
Fingal had started from a dream, and leaned on Trenmor's shield; the dark brown shield of his fathers, which they had lifted of old in war. The hero had seen, in his rest, the mournful form of Agandecca. She came from the way of the ocean. She slowly, lonely, moved over Lena. Her face was pale like the mist of Cromla. Dark were the tears of her cheek. She often raised her dim hand from her robe: her robe, which was of the clouds of the desart:
The hero started from rest. Still he beheld her in his soul. The sound of Oscar's steps approached. The king saw the grey shield on his side: For the faint beam of the morning came over the
The king stood by the stone of Lubar. Thrice
“Come to battle,” said the king, “ye children of echoing Selma! Come to the death of thousands. Comhal's son will see the fight. My sword shall wave on the hill, the defence of my people in war. But never may you need it, warriors: while the son of Morni fights, the chief of mighty men! He shall lead my battle; that his fame may rise in song! O ye ghosts of heroes dead! ye riders of the storm of Cromla! receive my falling people with joy, and bear
Now, like a dark and stormy cloud, edged round with the red lightning of heaven; flying westward from the morning's beam, the king
Joy rises in Oscar's face. His cheek is red. His eye sheds tears. The sword is a beam of fire in his hand. He came, and smiling, spoke to Ossian. “O ruler of the fight of steel! my father, hear thy son! Retire with Morven's mighty chief. Give me the fame of Ossian. If here I fall: O chief, remember that breast of snow, the lonely sun-beam of my love, the white-handed daughter of Toscar! For, with red cheek from the rock, bending over the stream, her soft hair flies about her bosom, as she pours the sigh for Oscar. Tell her I am on my hills, a lightly-bounding son of the wind; tell her, that in a cloud, I may meet the lovely
Such were our words, when Gaul's loud voice came growing on the wind. He waved on high the sword of his father. We rushed to death and wounds. As waves, white-bubbling over the deep, come swelling, roaring on; as rocks of ooze meet roaring waves: so foes attacked and fought. Man met with man, and steel with
Gaul rushed on, like a whirlwind in Ardven. The destruction of heroes is on his sword. Swaran was like the fire of the desart in the echoing heath of Gormal! How can I give to the song the death of many spears? My sword rose high, and flamed in the strife of blood. Oscar, terrible wert thou, my best, my greatest son! I rejoiced in my secret soul, when his sword flamed over the slain. They fled amain through Lena's heath. We pursued and slew.
But Swaran closed round Morni's son, as the strength of the tide of Inistore. The king half-rose
Fingal at once arose in arms. Thrice he reared his dreadful voice. Cromla answered around. The sons of the desart stood still. They bent their blushing faces to earth, ashamed at the presence of the king. He came, like a cloud of rain in the day of the sun, when slow
Fingal, like a beam from heaven, shone in the midst of his people. His heroes gather around him. He sends forth the voice of his power. “Raise my standards on high; spread them on Lena's wind, like the flames of an hundred hills! Let them sound on the winds of Erin, and remind
“Behold,” said the king of generous shells,
“Mine,” said Gaul, “be the seven chiefs, that came from Lano's lake.” “Let Inistore's dark king,” said Oscar, “come to the sword of Ossian's son.” To mine the king of Iniscon,” said Connal, “heart of steel!” “Or Mudan's chief or I,” said brown-haired Dermid, “shall sleep on clay-cold earth.” My choice, though now so weak and dark, was Terman's battling king; I promised with my hand to win the hero's dark-brown shield. “Blest and victorious
Now, like a hundred different winds, that pour through many vales; divided, dark the sons of Selma advanced. Cromla echoed around! How can I relate the deaths, when we closed in the strife of arms! O daughter of Toscar! bloody were our hands! The gloomy ranks of Lochlin fell, like the banks of the roaring Cona! Our arms were victorious on Lena: each chief fulfilled his promise! Beside the murmur of Branno thou didst often sit, O maid! thy white bosom rose frequent like the down of
It was then, by Fingal's hand, a hero fell, to his grief! Grey-haired he rolled in the dust. He lifted his faint eyes to the king. “And is it by me thou hast fallen,” said the son of Comhal, “thou friend of Agandecca! I have seen thy tears for the maid of my love in the halls of the bloody Starno! Thou hast been the foe of the foes of my love, and hast thou fallen by my
Cuthullin, from the cave of Cromla, heard the noise of the troubled war. He called to Connal, chief of swords; to Carril of other times. The grey-haired heroes heard his voice. They took their pointed spears. They came, and saw the tide of battle, like ocean's crowded waves: when the dark wind blows from the deep, and rolls the billows through the sandy vale! Cuthullin kindled at the sight. Darkness gathered on his brow. His hand is on the sword of his fathers: his red-rolling eyes on the foe.
“Then, Carril, go,” replied the chief, “go, greet the king of Morven. When Lochlin falls away like a stream after rain: when the noise of the battle is past. Then be thy voice sweet in his ear to praise the king of Selma! Give him the sword of Caithbat. Cuthullin is not worthy to lift the arms of his fathers! Come, O ye ghosts of the lonely Cromla! ye souls of chiefs that are no more! be near the steps of Cuthullin; talk to him in the cave of his grief. Never more shall I be renowned, among the mighty in the land. I am a beam that has shone; a mist that has fled away: when the blast of the morning came, and brightened the shaggy side of the hill! Connal! talk of arms
BOOK V.
ARGUMENT TO BOOK V.
Cuthullin and Connal still remain on the hill. Fingal and Swaran meet; the combat is described. Swaran is overcome, bound and delivered over as a prisoner to the care of Ossian, and Gaul the son of Morni; Fingal, his younger sons, and Oscar, still pursue the enemy. The episode of Orla, a chief of Lochlin, who was mortally wounded in the battle, is introduced. Fingal, touched with the death of Orla, orders the pursuit to be discontinued; and, calling his sons together, he is informed that Ryno, the youngest of them, was slain. He laments his death, hears the story of Lamdarg and Gelchossa, and returns towards the place where he had left Swaran. Carril, who had been sent by Cuthullin to congratulate Fingal on his victory, comes in the mean time to Ossian. The conversation of the two poets closes the action of the fourth day. Macpherson.
On Cromla's resounding side, Connal spoke to the chief of the noble car. Why that gloom, son of Semo? Our friends are the mighty in fight. Renowned art thou, O warrior! many were the deaths of thy steel. Often has Bragela met, with blue-rolling eyes of joy: often has she met her hero, returning in the midst of the valiant; when his sword was red with slaughter; when his foes were silent in the fields of the tomb. Pleasant to her ears were thy bards, when thy deeds arose in song.
But behold the king of Morven! He moves, below, like a pillar of fire. His strength is like
Such were the words of Connal, when the heroes met, in fight. There was the clang of arms! there every blow, like the hundred hammers of
“Sons of distant Morven.” said Fingal: “guard the king of Lochlin. He is strong as his thousand waves. His hand is taught to war. His race is of the times of old. Gaul, thou first of my heroes: Ossian, king of songs, attend. He is the friend of Agandecca; raise to joy his grief. But, Oscar, Fillan, and Ryno, ye children of the race! pursue Lochlin over Lena; that no vessel may hereafter bound, on the dark-rolling waves of Inistore!”
They flew sudden across the heath. He slowly moved, like a cloud of thunder, when the sultry plain of summer is silent, and dark! His sword is before him as a sun-beam; terrible as the streaming meteor of night. He came toward a chief of Lochlin. He spoke to the son of the wave. “Who is that so dark and sad, at the rock of the roaring stream? He cannot bound over its course: How stately is the chief! His bossy shield is on his side; his spear, like the tree of the desart! Youth of the dark-red hair, art thou of the foes of Fingal?”
“I am a son of Lochlin,” he cries, “strong is my arm in war. My spouse is weeping at home. Orla shall never return!” “Or fights or
“Does then the king refuse the fight,” said Orla of the dark-brown shield! “Fingal is a match for Orla: and he alone of all his race! But, king of Morven, if I shall fall; as one time the warrior must die; raise my tomb in the midst: let it be the greatest on Lena. Send, over the dark-blue wave, the sword of Orla to the spouse of his love; that she may shew it to
They fought on the heath of Lena. Feeble was the arm of Orla. The sword of Fingal descended, and cleft his shield in twain. It fell and glittered on the ground, as the moon on the ruffled stream. “King of Morven,” said the hero, “lift thy sword and pierce my breast. Wounded and faint from battle, my friends have left me here. The mournful tale shall come to my love, on the banks of the streamy Lota;
“No;” said the king of Morven, “I will never wound thee, Orla. On the banks of Lota let her see thee, escaped from the hands of war. Let thy grey-haired father, who, perhaps, is blind with age. Let him hear the sound of thy voice, and brighten within his hall. With joy let the hero rise, and search for his son with his hands!” “But never will he find him, Fingal;” said the youth of the streamy Lota. “On Lena's heath I must die: foreign bards shall talk of me. My broad belt covers my wound of death. I give it to the wind!”
The dark blood poured from his side, he fell pale on the heath of Lena. Fingal bent over him as he dies, and called his younger chiefs. “Oscar and Fillan, my sons, raise high the memory of Orla. Here let the dark-haired hero rest, far from the spouse of his love. Here let him rest in his narrow house far from the sound of Lota. The feeble will find his bow at home;
“Ryno,” said Ullin, first of bards, “is with the awful forms of his fathers. With Trathal, king of shields; with Trenmor of mighty deeds. The youth is low, the youth is pale, he lies on Lena's heath!” “Fell the swiftest in the race,” said the king, “the first to bend the bow? Thou scarce hast been known to me! why did young Ryno fall? But sleep thou softly on Lena, Fingal shall soon behold thee. Soon shall my voice be heard no more, and my footsteps cease to be seen. The bards will tell of Fingal's name. The stones will talk of me. But, Ryno,
“Whose fame is in that dark-green tomb,” begun the king of generous shells? “Four stones with their heads of moss stand there! They mark the narrow house of death. Near it let Ryno rest. A neighbour to the brave let him lie. Some chief of fame is here, to fly, with my son, on clouds. O Ullin, raise the songs of old. Awake their memory in their tomb. If in the field, they never fled, my son shall rest by their side. He shall rest, far distant from Morven, on Lena's resounding plains!”
“Here,” said the bard of song, “here rest
“Lamderg!” says Ferchios son of Aidon, “Gelchossa moves stately on Cromla. She and the maids of the bow pursue the flying deer!” “Ferchios!” replied the chief of Cromla, “no noise meets the ear of Lamderg! No sound is in the woods of Lena. No deer fly in my sight. No panting dog pursues. I see not Gelchossa, my love, fair as the full moon setting on the hills. Go, Ferchios, go to Allad, the grey-haired son of the rock. His dwelling is in the
The son of Aidon went. He spoke to the ear of age. “Allad! dweller of rocks: thou that tremblest alone! what saw thine eyes of age?” “I saw,” answered Allad the old, “Ullin the son of Cairbar. He came, in darkness, from Cromla. He hummed a surly song, like a blast in a leafless wood. He entered the hall of Tura. “Lamderg,” he said, “most dreadful of men, fight or yield to Ullin.” “Lamderg,” replied Gelchossa, “the son of battle, is not here. He fights Ulfada, mighty chief. He is not here, thou first of men! but Lamderg never yields. He will fight the son of Cairbar!” “Lovely art thou,” said terrible Ullin, “daughter of the generous Tuathal. I carry thee to Cairbar's halls. The valiant shall have Gelchossa. Three days I remain on Cromla, to wait that son of battle, Lamderg. On the fourth Gelchossa is mine; if the mighty Lamderg flies.”
“Allad!” said the chief of Cromla, “peace to thy dreams in the cave. Ferchios, sound the horn of Lamderg, that Ullin may hear in his halls.” Lamderg, like a roaring storm, ascended
Gelchossa saw the silent chief, as a wreath of mist ascending the hill. She struck her white and heaving breast; and silent, tearful, feared for Lamderg. “Cairbar, hoary chief of shells,” said the maid of the tender hand, “I must bend the bow on Cromla. I see the dark-brown hinds!” She hasted up the hill. In vain! the gloomy heroes fought. Why should I tell to Selma's king, how wrathful heroes fight? Fierce Ullin fell. Young Lamderg came, all pale to the daughter of the generous Tuathal! “What blood, my love, she trembling said? What blood runs down my warrior's side?” “It is Ullin's
“And here my son shall rest,” said Fingal. “The voice of their fame is in mine ears. Fillan and Fergus! bring hither Orla; the pale youth of the stream of Lota! Not unequalled shall Ryno lie in earth, when Orla is by his side. Weep, ye daughters of Morven! ye maids of the streamy Lota weep! Like a tree they grew on the hills. They have fallen like the oak of the desart; when it lies across a stream, and withers in the wind. Oscar! chief of every
Such was thy grief, thou king of swords, when Ryno lay on earth. What must the grief of Ossian be, for thou thyself art gone! I hear not thy distant voice on Cona. My eyes perceive thee not. Often forlorn and dark I sit at thy tomb; and feel it with my hands. When I think I hear thy voice, it is but the passing blast. Fingal has long since fallen asleep, the ruler of the war!
Then Gaul and Ossian sat with Swaran, on the soft green banks of Lubar. I touched the
Who comes with the locks of age? It is the son of songs. “Hail, Carril of other times! Thy voice is like the harp in the halls of Tura. Thy words are pleasant as the shower, which falls on the sunny field. Carril of the times of old, why comest thou from the son of the generous Semo?”
“Ossian, king of swords,” replied the bard, “Thou best can raise the song. Long hast thou been known to Carril, thou ruler of war! Often have I touched the harp to lovely Evirallin. Thou too hast often joined my voice, in Branno's hall of generous shells. And often, amidst our voices, was heard the mildest Evirallin.
“Bring not, Carril,” I replied, “bring not her memory to my mind. My soul must melt at the remembrance. My eyes must have their tears. Pale in the earth is she, the softly-blushing fair of my love! But sit thou on the heath, O bard, and let us hear thy voice. It is pleasant as the gale of spring, that sighs on the hunter's ear; when he awakens from dreams of
BOOK VI.
ARGUMENT TO BOOK VI.
Night comes on. Fingal gives a feast to his army, at which Swaran is present. The king commands Ullin, his bard, to give the song of peace; a custom always observed at the end of a war. Ullin relates the actions of Trenmor, great grandfather to Fingal, in Scandinavia, and his marriage with Inibaca, the daughter of a king of Lochlin, who was ancestor to Swaran; which consideration, together with his being brother to Agandecca, with whom Fingal was in love in his youth, induced the king to release him, and permit him to return, with the remains of his army, into Lochlin, upon his promise of never returning to Ireland, in a hostile manner. The night is spent in settling Swaran's departure, in songs of bards, and in a conversation, in which the story of Grumal is introduced by Fingal. Morning comes. Swaran departs; Fingal goes on a hunting party, and finding Cuthullin in the cave of Tura, comforts him, and sets sail, the next day, for Scotland; which concludes the poem. Macpherson.
The clouds of night come rolling down. Darkness rests on the steeps of Cromla. The stars of the north arise over the rolling of Erin's waves: they shew their heads of fire, through the flying mist of heaven. A distant wind roars in the
Be thy soul blest, O Carril, in the midst of thy eddying winds. O that thou wouldst come to my hall, when I am alone by night! And thou dost come, my friend. I hear often thy light hand on my harp; when it hangs, on the distant wall, and the feeble sound touches my ear. Why dost thou not speak to me in my grief, and tell when I shall behold my friends? But thou passest away in thy murmuring blast; the wind whistles through the grey hair of Ossian!
Now, on the side of Mora, the heroes gathered to the feast. A thousand aged oaks are burning to the wind. The strength of the shells goes round. The souls of warriors brighten with joy. But the king of Lochlin is silent.
“Raise, Ullin, raise the song of peace. O sooth my soul from war. Let mine ear forget, in the sound, the dismal noise of arms. Let a hundred harps be near to gladden the king of Lochlin. He must depart from us with joy. None ever went sad from Fingal. Oscar! the
“Trenmor,” said the mouth of songs, “lived in the days of other years. He bounded over the waves of the north: companion of the storm! The high rocks of the land of Lochlin; its groves of murmuring sounds appeared to the hero through mist: he bound his white-bosomed sails. Trenmor pursued the boar, that roared through the woods of Gormal. Many had fled from its presence: but it rolled in death on the spear of Trenmor. Three chiefs, who beheld the deed, told of the mighty stranger. They told that he stood, like a pillar of fire, in the bright arms of his valour. The king of Lochlin prepared the feast. He called the blooming Trenmor. Three days he feasted at Gormal's windy towers; and received his choice in the combat. The land of Lochlin had no
Now when the fourth grey morn arose, the hero launched his ship. He walked along the silent shore, and called for the rushing wind: For loud and distant he heard the blast murmuring behind the groves. Covered over with arms of steel, a son of the woody Gormal appeared. Red was his cheek and fair his hair. His skin like the snow of Morven. Mild rolled his blue and smiling eye, when he spoke to the king of swords.
“Stay, Trenmor, stay thou first of men, thou hast not conquered Lonval's son. My sword has often met the brave. The wise shun the strength of my bow.” “Thou fair-haired youth,” Trenmor replied, “I will not fight with
“Thou shalt never carry my spear,” said the angry king of Morven. “Thy mother shall find thee pale on the shore; and, looking over the dark-blue deep, see the sails of him that slew her son!” “I will not lift the spear,” replied the youth, “my arm is not strong with years. But, with the feathered dart, I have learned to pierce a distant foe. Throw down that heavy mail of steel. Trenmor is covered from death. I first, will lay my mail on earth. Throw now thy dart, thou king of Morven!” He saw the heaving of her breast. It was the sister of the king. She had seen him in the hall; and loved his face of youth. The spear dropt from the hand of Trenmor: he bent his red cheek to the
“Chief of the windy Morven,” begun the
“King of Lochlin,” said Fingal, “thy blood flows in the veins of thy foe. Our fathers met in battle, because they loved the strife of spears. But often did they feast in the hall: and send round the joy of the shell. Let thy face brighten with gladness, and thine ear delight in the harp.
“King of the race of Morven,” said the chief of resounding Lochlin! “never will Swaran fight with thee, first of a thousand heroes! I have seen thee in the halls of Starno: few were thy years beyond my own. When shall I, I said to my soul, lift the spear like the noble Fingal? We have fought heretofore, O warrior, on the side of the shaggy Malmor; after my waves had carried me to thy halls, and the feast of a thousand shells was spread. Let the bards send his name who overcame to future years, for noble was the strife of Malmor! But many of the ships of Lochlin have lost their youths on Lena. Take these, thou king of Morven, and be the friend of Swaran! When thy sons shall come to Gormal, the feast of shells shall be spread, and the combat offered on the vale.”
“Nor ship,” replied the king, “shall Fingal take, nor land of many hills. The desart is
“Swaran,” said the king of hills, “to-day our fame is greatest. We shall pass away like a dream. No sound will remain in our fields of war. Our tombs will be lost in the heath. The hunter shall not know the place of our rest. Our names may be heard in song. What avails it, when our strength hath ceased? O Ossian, Carril, and Ullin, you know of heroes that are
We gave the song to the kings. An hundred harps mixed their sound with our voice. The face of Swaran brightened, like the full moon of heaven, when the clouds vanish away, and leave her calm and broad, in the midst of the sky!
“Where, Carril,” said the great Fingal, “Carril of other times! Where is the son of Semo? the king of the isle of mist? has he retired, like the meteor of death, to the dreary cave of Tura?” “Cuthullin,” said Carril of other times, “lies in the dreary cave of Tura. His hand is on the sword of his strength. His thoughts on the battles he lost. Mournful is the king of spears; till now unconquered in war. He sends his sword to rest on the side of Fingal: For, like the storm of the desert, thou hast scattered all his foes. Take, O Fingal, the sword of the hero. His fame is departed like mist, when it flies, before the rustling wind, along the brightening vale.”
“No:” replied the king, “Fingal shall never take his sword. His arm is mighty in war; his fame shall never fail. Many have been overcome in battle; whose renown arose from their fall. O Swaran, king of resounding woods, give all thy grief away. The vanquished, if brave, are
“Grumal was a chief of Cona. He sought the battle on every coast. His soul rejoiced in blood. His ear in the din of arms. He poured his warriors on Craca; Craca's king met him from his grove: for then, within the circle of Brumo, he spoke to the stone of power. Fierce was the battle of the heroes, for the maid of the breast of snow. The fame of the daughter of
“Raise, ye bards of other times,” continued the great Fingal, “raise high the praise of heroes: that my soul may settle on their fame; that the mind of Swaran may cease to be sad.” They lay in the heath of Mora. The dark
Morning trembles with the beam of the east; it glimmers on Cromla's side. Over Lena is heard the horn of Swaran. The sons of the ocean gather around. Silent and sad they rise on the wave. The blast of Erin is behind their sails. White, as the mist of Morven, they float along the sea. “Call,” said Fingal, “call my dogs, the long-bounding sons of the chace. Call white-breasted
The shrill sound spreads along the wood. The sons of heathy Cromla arise. A thousand dogs fly off at once, grey bounding through the heath. A deer fell by every dog; three by the white-breasted Bran. He brought them, in their flight, to Fingal, that the joy of the king might be
“Ossian and Fillan, sons of my strength. Gaul, chief of the blue steel of war! let us ascend the hill to the cave of Tura. Let us find the chief of the battles of Erin. Are these the walls of Tura? grey and lonely they rise on the heath. The chief of shells is sad, and the halls are silent and lonely. Come, let us find Cuthullin, and give him all our joy. But is that Cuthullin, O Fillan, or a pillar of smoke on the heath. The wind of Cromla is on my eyes. I distinguish not my friend.”
“Fingal!” replied the youth, “it is the son
“Youth of the feeble arm,” said Fingal, “Connan, cease thy words! Cuthullin is renowned in battle; terrible over the world. Often have I heard thy fame, thou stormy chief of Inis-fail. Spread now thy white sails for the isle of mist. See Bragela leaning on her rock. Her tender eye is in tears; the winds lift her long hair from her heaving breast. She listens to the breeze of night, to hear the voice of thy rowers; to hear the song of the sea! the sound of thy distant harp!”
“Long shall she listen in vain. Cuthullin shall never return! How can I behold Bragela, to raise the sigh of her breast? Fingal, I was always victorious in battles of other spears!” “And hereafter thou shalt be victorious,” said Fingal of generous shells. “The fame of Cuthullin shall grow, like the branchy tree of Cromla. Many battles await thee, O chief! Many shall be the wounds of thy hand! Bring hither, Oscar, the deer! Prepare the feast of shells. Let our souls rejoice after danger, and our friends delight in our presence!”
We sat. We feasted. We sung. The soul of Cuthullin rose. The strength of his arm returned. Gladness brightened along his face. Ullin gave the song; Carril raised the voice. I joined the bards, and sung of battles of the spear. Battles! where I often fought. Now I fight no more! The fame of my former deeds is ceased. I sit forlorn at the tombs of my friends!
Thus the night passed away in song. We brought back the morning with joy. Fingal arose on the heath, and shook his glittering spear. He moved first toward the plains of Lena. We followed in all our arms.
“Spread the sail,” said the king, “seize the winds as they pour from Lena.” We rose on the wave with songs. We rushed, with joy, through the foam of the deep.
The poems of Ossian | ||