THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA.
AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSON'S “OSSIAN.”
Dear are the days of youth!
Dear are the days of youth! Age dwells on their
remembrance through the mist of time. In the twilight
he recalls the sunny hours of morn. He lifts his spear
with trembling hand. “Not thus feebly did I raise the
steel before my fathers!” Past is the race of heroes!
But their fame rises on the harp; their souls ride on the
wings of the wind; they hear the sound through the sighs
of the storm, and rejoice in their hall of clouds. Such
is Calmar. The grey stone marks his narrow house.
He looks down from eddying tempests: he rolls his
form in the whirlwind, and hovers on the blast of the
mountain.
In Morven dwelt the Chief; a beam of war to Fingal.
His steps in the field were marked in blood. Lochlin's
sons had fled before his angry spear; but mild was the
eye of Calmar; soft was the flow of his yellow locks:
they streamed like the meteor of the night. No maid
was the sigh of his soul: his thoughts were given to
friendship,—to dark-haired Orla, destroyer of heroes!
Equal were their swords in battle; but fierce was the
pride of Orla:—gentle alone to Calmar. Together they
dwelt in the cave of Oithona.
From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue waves.
Erin's sons fell beneath his might. Fingal roused his
chiefs to combat. Their ships cover the ocean! Their
hosts throng on the green hills. They come to the aid
of Erin.
Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies. But
the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. The sons
of Lochlin slept: their dreams were of blood. They
lift the spear in thought, and Fingal flies. Not so the
Host of Morven. To watch was the post of Orla.
Calmar stood by his side. Their spears were in their
hands. Fingal called his chiefs: they stood around.
The king was in the midst. Grey were his locks, but
strong was the arm of the king. Age withered not his
powers. “Sons of Morven,” said the hero, “to-morrow
we meet the foe. But where is Cuthullin, the shield of
Erin? He rests in the halls of Tura; he knows not
of our coming. Who will speed through Lochlin, to the
hero, and call the chief to arms? The path is by the
swords of foes; but many are my heroes. They are
thunderbolts of war. Speak, ye chiefs! Who will arise?”
“Son of Trenmor! mine be the deed,” said darkhaired
Orla, “and mine alone. What is death to me?
I love the sleep of the mighty, but little is the danger.
The sons of Lochlin dream. I will seek car-borne
Cuthullin. If I fall, raise the song of bards; and lay me
by the stream of Lubar.”—“And shalt thou fall alone?”
said fair-haired Calmar. “Wilt thou leave thy friend
afar? Chief of Oithona! not feeble is my arm in fight.
Could I see thee die, and not lift the spear? No, Orla!
ours has been the chase of the roebuck, and the feast of
shells; ours be the path of danger: ours has been the
cave of Oithona; ours be the narrow dwelling on the
banks of Lubar.”—“Calmar,” said the chief of Oithona,
“why should thy yellow locks be darkened in the dust
of Erin? Let me fall alone. My father dwells in his
hall of air: he will rejoice in his boy; but the blue-eyed
Mora spreads the feast for her Son in Morven. She
listens to the steps of the hunter on the heath, and thinks
it is the tread of Calmar. Let her not say, ‘Calmar has
fallen by the steel of Lochlin: he died with gloomy Orla,
the chief of the dark brow.’ Why should tears dim the
azure eye of Mora? Why should her voice curse Orla,
the destroyer of Calmar? Live Calmar! Live to raise
my stone of moss; live to revenge me in the blood of
Lochlin. Join the song of bards above my grave.
Sweet will be the song of Death to Orla, from the voice
of Calmar. My ghost shall smile on the notes of Praise.”
“Orla,” said the son of Mora, “could I raise the song
of Death to my friend? Could I give his fame to the
winds? No, my heart would speak in sighs: faint and
broken are the sounds of sorrow. Orla! our souls shall
hear the song together. One cloud shall be ours on
high: the bards will mingle the names of Orla and
Calmar.”
They quit the circle of the Chiefs. Their steps are
to the Host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak dimtwinkles
through the night. The northern star points the
path to Tura. Swaran, the King, rests on his lonely hill.
Here the troops are mixed: they frown in sleep; their
shields beneath their heads. Their swords gleam, at
distance in heaps. The fires are faint; their embers fail
in smoke. All is hushed; but the gale sighs on the
rocks above. Lightly wheel the Heroes through the
slumbering band. Half the journey is past, when
Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the eye of Orla.
It rolls in flame, and glistens through the shade. His
spear is raised on high. “Why dost thou bend thy
brow, chief of Oithona?” said fair-haired Calmar: “we
are in the midst of foes. Is this a time for delay?”
“It is a time for vengeance,” said Orla of the gloomy
brow. “Mathon of Lochlin sleeps: seest thou his
spear? Its point is dim with the gore of my father.
The blood of Mathon shall reek on mine: but shall I
slay him sleeping, Son of Mora? No! he shall feel his
wound: my fame shall not soar on the blood of slumber.
Rise, Mathon, rise! The Son of Conna calls; thy life
is his; rise to combat.” Mathon starts from sleep: but
did he rise alone? No: the gathering Chiefs bound on
the plain. “Fly! Calmar, fly!” said dark-haired Orla.
“Mathon is mine. I shall die in joy: but Lochlin
crowds around. Fly through the shade of night.” Orla
turns. The helm of Mathon is cleft; his shield falls
from his arm: he shudders in his blood. He rolls by
the side of the blazing oak. Strumon sees him fall: his
wrath rises: his weapon glitters on the head of Orla:
but a spear pierced his eye. His brain gushes through
the wound, and foams on the spear of Calmar. As roll
the waves of the Ocean on two mighty barks of the
North, so pour the men of Lochlin on the Chiefs. As,
breaking the surge in foam, proudly steer the barks of
the North, so rise the Chiefs of Morven on the scattered
crests of Lochlin. The din of arms came to the ear of
Fingal. He strikes his shield; his sons throng around;
the people pour along the heath. Ryno bounds in joy.
Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes the spear. The
eagle wing of Fillan floats on the wind. Dreadful is
the clang of death! many are the Widows of Lochlin.
Morven prevails in its strength.
Morn glimmers on the hills: no living foe is seen;
but the sleepers are many; grim they lie on Erin. The
breeze of Ocean lifts their locks; yet they do not awake.
The hawks scream above their prey.
Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief?
Bright as the gold of the stranger, they mingle with the
dark hair of his friend. 'Tis Calmar: he lies on the
bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood. Fierce
is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not; but
his eye is still a flame. It glares in death unclosed.
His hand is grasped in Calmar's; but Calmar lives! he
lives, though low. “Rise,” said the king, “rise, son of
Mora: 'tis mine to heal the wounds of Heroes. Calmar
may yet bound on the hills of Morven.”
“Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven
with Orla,” said the Hero. “What were the chase to
me alone? Who would share the spoils of battle with
Calmar? Orla is at rest! Rough was thy soul, Orla!
yet soft to me as the dew of morn. It glared on others
in lightning: to me a silver beam of night. Bear my
sword to blue-eyed Mora; let it hang in my empty hall.
It is not pure from blood: but it could not save Orla.
Lay me with my friend: raise the song when I am
dark!”
They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four grey
stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar. When
Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the blue waves.
The winds gave our barks to Morven:—the bards
raised the song.
“What Form rises on the roar of clouds? Whose
dark Ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests?
His voice rolls on the thunder. 'Tis Orla, the brown
Chief of Oithona. He was unmatched in war. Peace
to thy soul, Orla! thy fame will not perish. Nor thine,
Calmar! Lovely wast thou, son of blue-eyed Mora;
but not harmless was thy sword. It hangs in thy cave.
The Ghosts of Lochlin shriek around its steel. Hear
thy praise, Calmar! It dwells on the voice of the
mighty. Thy name shakes on the echoes of Morven.
Then raise thy fair locks, son of Mora. Spread them on
the arch of the rainbow, and smile through the tears of
the storm.