BOOK I.
Cuthullin sat by Tura's wall
Cuthullin sat by Tura's wall: by the tree
of the rustling sound. His spear leaned against
a rock. His shield lay on grass, by his side.
Amid his thoughts of mighty Carbar, a hero
slain by the chief in war; the scout of ocean
comes, Moran, the son of Fithil!
“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
pine. His shield the rising moon! He sat
on the shore! like a cloud of mist on the silent
hill! Many, chief of heroes! I said, many are
our hands of war. Well art thou named, the
Mighty Man: but many mighty men are seen
from Tura's windy walls.
“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,
king of Selma of storms? Once we wrestled
on Malmor; our heels overturned the woods.
Rocks fell from their place; rivulets, changing
their course, fled murmuring from our side.
Three days we renewed our strife; heroes stood
at a distance and trembled. On the fourth, Fingal
says, that the king of the ocean fell! but
Swaran says, he stood! Let dark Cuthullin yield
to him, that is strong as the storms of his
land!”
“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
and obey.” He went. He struck the bossy
shield. The hills, the rocks reply. The sound
spreads along the wood: deer start by the
lake of roes. Curach leaps from the sounding
rock; and Connal of the bloody spear! Crugal's
breast of snow beats high. The son of
Favi leaves the dark-brown hind. It is the shield
of war, said Ronnar! the spear of Cuthullin,
said Lugar! Son of the sea, put on thy arms!
Calmer, lift thy sounding steel! Puno! dreadful
hero, arise! Cairbar, from thy red tree of Cromla!
Bend thy knee, O Eth; descend from the
streams of Lena. Ca-olt, stretch thy side as thou
movest along the whistling heath of Mora: thy
side that is white as the foam of the troubled sea,
when the dark winds pour it on rocky Cuthon.
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
the mountains; each rushes roaring from his
hill. Bright are the chiefs of battle, in the armour
of their fathers. Gloomy and dark their
heroes follow, like the gathering of the rainy
clouds behind the red meteors of heaven. The
sounds of crashing arms ascend. The grey dogs
howl between. Unequal bursts the song of
battle. Rocking Cromla echoes round. On
Lena's dusky heath they stand, like mist that
shades the hills of autumn; when broken and
dark it settles high, and lifts its head to
heaven.
“Hail,” said Cuthullin, “sons of the narrow
vales! hail, hunters of the deer! Another sport
is drawing near: It is like the dark rolling of
that wave on the coast! Or shall we fight, ye
sons of war! or yield green Erin to Lochlin!
O Connal, speak, thou first of men! thou
breaker of the shields! thou hast often fought
with Lochlin: wilt thou lift thy father's spear?”
“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
in war! Pursue the dark-brown deer of Cromla:
stop with thine arrows the bounding roes of
Lena. But, blue-eyed son of Semo, Cuthullin,
ruler of the field, scatter thou the sons of Lochlin;
roar through the ranks of their pride.
Let no vessel of the kingdom of Snow, bound
on the dark-rolling waves of Inistore. Rise,
ye dark winds of Erin, rise! roar, whirlwinds of
Lara of hinds! Amid the tempest let me die,
torn, in a cloud, by angry ghosts of men: amid
the tempest let Calmar die, if ever chace
was sport to him, so much as the battle of
shields!”
“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
of war! Let them pass along the heath, bright
as the sun-shine before a storm; when the west
wind collects the clouds, and Morven echoes
over all her oaks! But where are my friends in
battle? The supporters of my arm in danger?
Where art thou, white-bosom'd Cathbar? Where
is that cloud in war Duchomar? Hast thou
left me, O Fergus! in the day of the storm?
Fergus, first in our joy at the feast! son of Rossa!
arm of death! comest thou like a roe from
Malmor? like a hart from thy echoing hills?
Hail thou son of Rossa! what shades the soul
of war?”
“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.
Morna! fairest of maids! calm is thy sleep in
the cave of the rock! Thou hast fallen in darkness,
like a star, that shoots across the desart;
when the traveller is alone, and mourns the
transient beam!”
“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
the west! Thy breasts are two smooth rocks
seen from Branno of streams. Thy arms like
two white pillars, in the halls of the great Fingal.
“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
the maid replied, “I love thee not, thou gloomy
man! hard is thy heart of rock; dark is thy
terrible brow. But Cathba, young son of Torman,
thou art the love of Morna. Thou art a
sun-beam, in the day of the gloomy storm.
Sawest thou the son of Torman, lovely on the
hill of his hinds? Here the daughter of Cormac
waits the coming of Cathba!”
“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
maid. “Is he fallen on his echoing hills, the
youth with the breast of snow? The first in the
chace of hinds? The foe of the strangers of
ocean? Thou art dark to me, Duchomar, cruel
is thine arm to Morna! Give me that sword,
my foe! I love the wandering blood of Cathba!”
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
he spoke. “Daughter of blue-shielded Cormac!
Thou hast slain me in youth! The sword
is cold in my breast: Morna, I feel it cold.
Give me to Moina, the maid. Duchomar was
the dream of her night! She will raise my tomb;
the hunter shall raise my fame. But draw the
sword from my breast. Morna, the steel is cold!”
She came, in all her tears, she came; she drew
the sword from his breast. He pierced her
white side! He spread her fair locks on the
ground! Her bursting blood sounds from her
side: her white arm is stained with red. Rolling
in death she lay. The cave re-echoed to
her sighs.”
“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
thoughts are of peace; when the din of arms is
past. Gather the strength of the tribes! Move
to the wars of Erin! Attend the car of my battles!
Rejoice in the noise of my course! Place
three spears by my side: follow the bounding
of my steeds! That my soul may be strong in
my friends, when battle darkens round the
beams of my steel!”
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
fierce, so vast, so terrible, rushed on the sons of
Erin. The chief, like a whale of ocean, whom
all his billows pursue, poured valour forth, as a
stream, rolling his might along the shore.
The sons of Lochlin heard the noise, as the
sound of a winter storm. Swaran struck his bossy
shield: he called the son of Arno. “What
murmur rolls along the hill, like the gathered
flies of the eve? The sons of Erin descend, or
rustling winds roar in the distant wood! Such
is the noise of Gormal, before the white tops of
my waves arise. O son of Arno, ascend the
hill; view the dark face of the heath!”
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
sides are embossed with stones, and sparkle like
the sea round the boat of night. Of polished
yew is its beam; its seat of the smoothest bone.
The sides are replenished with spears; the bottom
is the foot-stool of heroes! Before the
right side of the car is seen the snorting horse!
The high-maned, broad-breasted, proud, wide-leaping,
strong steed of the hill. Loud and resounding
is his hoof; the spreading of his
mane above, is like a stream of smoke on a ridge
of rocks. Bright are the sides of the steed!
his name is Sulin-Sifadda!
“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
on high. Hard polished bits shine in a wreath
of foam. Thin thongs bright-studded with gems,
bend on the stately necks of the steeds. The
steeds, that like wreaths of mist fly over the
streamy vales! The wildness of deer is in their
course, the strength of eagles descending on the
prey. Their noise is like the blast of winter,
on the sides of the snow-headed Gormal.
“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;
strong as the rocks of my land; that meet the
storm, with joy, and stretch their dark pines to
the wind!”
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
steel. Helmets are cleft on high. Blood bursts
and smokes around. Strings murmur on the
polished yews. Darts rush along the sky.
Spears fall like the circles of light, which gild
the face of night. As the noise of the troubled
ocean, when roll the waves on high. As the
last peal of thunder in heaven, such is the din
of war! Though Cormac's hundred bards were
there, to give the fight to song; feeble was the
voice of a hundred bards, to send the deaths to
future times! For many were the deaths of
heroes; wide poured the blood of the brave!
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
of the mighty Swaran; when, in the midst of
thousands, he roared; like the shrill spirit of a
storm. He sits dim, on the clouds of the
north, and enjoys the death of the mariner.
Nor slept thy hand by thy side, chief of the
isle of mist! Many were the deaths of thine
arm, Cuthullin, thou son of Semo! His sword
was like the beam of heaven when it pierces the
sons of the vale; when the people are blasted
and fall, and all the hills are burning around.
Dusronnel snorted over the bodies of heroes.
Sifadda bathed his hoof in blood. The battle
lay behind him, as groves overturned on the
desart of Cromla; when the blast has passed the
heath, laden with the spirits of night!
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
low! pale beneath the sword of Cuthullin!
No more shall valour raise thy love to match the
lood of kings. Trenar, graceful Trenar died,
O maid of Inistore! His grey dogs are howling
at home; they see his passing ghost. His bow
is in the hall unstrung. No sound is in the hill
of his hinds!
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
Lena's heath, these so gloomy and dark? Who
are these like two clouds, and their swords like
lightening above them! The little hills are
troubled around; the rocks tremble with all
their moss. Who is it but Ocean's son and the
car-borne chief of Erin? Many are the anxious
eyes of their friends, as they see them dim on
the heath. But night conceals the chiefs in
clouds, and ends the dreadful fight!
It was on Cromla's shaggy side that Dorglas
had placed the deer; the early fortune of the
chace, before the heroes left the hill. A hundred
youths collect the heath; ten warriors wake
the fire; three hundred chuse the polish'd stones.
The feast is smoking wide! Cuthullin, chief of
Erin's war, resumed his mighty soul. He stood
upon his beamy spear, and spoke to the son of
songs; to Carril of other times, the grey-haired
son of Kinfena. “Is this feast spread for me alone,
and the king of Lochlin on Erin's shore;
far from the deer of his hills, and sounding halls
of his feasts? Rise, Carril of other times; carry
my words to Swaran. Tell him from the roaring
of waters, that Cuthullin gives his feast.
Here let him listen to the sound of my groves,
amidst the clouds of night. For cold and bleak
the blustering winds rush over the foam of his
seas. Here let him praise the trembling harp,
and hear the songs of heroes!”
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,
shall light me to the death of Cuthullin. Pleasant
to my ear is Lochlin's wind! It rushes over
my seas! It speaks aloft in all my shrouds,
and brings my green forests to my mind: The
green forests of Gormal, which often echoed to
my winds, when my spear was red in the chace of
the boar. Let dark Cuthullin yield to me the ancient
throne of Cormac; or Erin's torrents shall
shew from their hills, the red foam of the blood
of his pride!”
“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
past, and the streams of Cona answer to the
voice of Ossian.”
“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
soul! She mourned him in the field of blood;
but still she hoped for his return. Her white
bosom is seen from her robe, as the moon from
the clouds of night,
when its edge heaves
white on the view, from the darkness, which covers
its orb. Her voice was softer than the harp
to raise the song of grief. Her soul was fixed
on Grudar. The secret look of her eye was his.
“When shalt thou come in thine arms, thou
mighty in the war?”
“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
rests their dust, Cuthullin, these lonely yews
sprung from their tombs, and
shade them from
the storm. Fair was Brassolis on the plain!
Stately was Grudar on the hill! The bard shall
preserve their names, and send them down to
future times!”
“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
field, and the light cloud flies over the hills.
O strike the harp in praise of my love! the
lonely sun-beam of Dunscaith. Strike the harp
in the praise of Bragela; she that I left in the
Isle of Mist, the spouse of Semo's son! Dost
thou raise thy fair face from the rock, to find
the sails of Cuthullin? The sea is rolling distant
far; its white foam deceives thee for my sails.
Retire, for it is night, my love; the dark
winds sing in thy hair. Retire to the halls of
my feasts; think of the times that are past. I
will not return till the storm of war is ceased.
O Connal! speak of war and arms, and send
her from my mind. Lovely, with her flowing
hair, is the white-bosomed daughter of Sorglan.”
Connal, slow to speak, replied, “Guard against
the race of Ocean. Send thy troop of
night abroad, and watch the strength of Swaran.
Cuthullin! I am for peace, till the race of Selma
come; till Fingal come, the first of men,
and beam, like the sun, on our fields!” The hero
struck the shield of alarms, the warriors of
the night moved on! The rest lay in the heath
of the deer, and slept beneath the dusky wind.
The ghosts of the lately dead were near, and
swam on the gloomy clouds: and far distant, in
the dark silence of Lena, the feeble voices of
death were faintly heard.