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THE DEATH OF CUTHULLIN,
A POEM OF OSSIAN VERSIFIED.
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ARGUMENT.
Cuthullin, after the arms of Fingal had expelled Swaran from Ireland, continued to manage the affairs of that kingdom, as the guardian of Cormac the young King. In the third year of Cuthullin's administration, Torlath, the son of Cartela, rebelled in Connaught; and advanced to Temora to dethrone Cormac. Cuthullin marched against him, came up with him at the lake of Lego, and totally defeated his forces. Torlath fell in the battle by Cuthullin's hand; but as he too eagerly pressed on the enemy, he was mortally wounded. The affairs of Cormac, though for some time supported by Nathos as mentioned in another poem, fell in confusion at the death of Cuthullin. Cormac himself was slain by the rebel Cairbar.
It may not be improper that the reader may fully understand the poem, to give some information respecting Cuthullin.
Cuthullin the son of Semo, and grandson to Caithbat, a celebrated Druid in tradition for his wisdom and valour, married when very young
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Is this the sighing wind on Fingal's shield?
Or do past times their solemn accents yield?
Sing on sweet voice, my pleasing thought employ,
Thro' midnight glooms, you whisper peace and joy—
Sing on O Bragela in night's dell shade!
Cuthullin's love, and Sorglan's beauteous maid.
Or do past times their solemn accents yield?
Sing on sweet voice, my pleasing thought employ,
Thro' midnight glooms, you whisper peace and joy—
Sing on O Bragela in night's dell shade!
Cuthullin's love, and Sorglan's beauteous maid.
“'Tis the white wave which o'er the rock prevails,
And not Cuthullin's gladly swelling sails—
Oft do the gloomy mists deceitful prove,
And paint the ship of my returning love!
When round some stalking ghost they rising shed,
And to the wind, their greyish mantle spread,
Why thy wish'd coming, chief! dost thou delay?
What, generous Semo's son, detains thy stay?
Four times has Autumn sought us with its breeze,
And rais'd Togorma's loudly foaming seas;
Since thou hast been where roars the strife of war,
And from her chief, Bragela, distant far!
When misty isles will you with clam'rous sounds?
Re-echo to the mighty warrior's hounds?
But ah! your clouds are dark and hung in gloom,
And sad foretell my hero's hapless doom.
Weeping Bragela sorrowing calls in vain!
Night's awful shadows hover o'er the plain,
The face of ocean's with damp mourning spread,
Beneath his wing the heath cock hides his head,
In the drear desart by the rising steep,
The hind and hart in thoughtless slumbers sleep,
When the fair morn sheds her bright silver beam,
They rise and wander by the mossy stream—
But when the sun with majesty appears,
Continued flow Bragela's sorrowing tears;
When pensive night salutes my languid eyes,
My breast awakens to its tender signs—
When in thy arms will Erin's warrior come
And seek Bragela, and thy peaceful home.”
And not Cuthullin's gladly swelling sails—
Oft do the gloomy mists deceitful prove,
And paint the ship of my returning love!
When round some stalking ghost they rising shed,
And to the wind, their greyish mantle spread,
Why thy wish'd coming, chief! dost thou delay?
What, generous Semo's son, detains thy stay?
Four times has Autumn sought us with its breeze,
And rais'd Togorma's loudly foaming seas;
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And from her chief, Bragela, distant far!
When misty isles will you with clam'rous sounds?
Re-echo to the mighty warrior's hounds?
But ah! your clouds are dark and hung in gloom,
And sad foretell my hero's hapless doom.
Weeping Bragela sorrowing calls in vain!
Night's awful shadows hover o'er the plain,
The face of ocean's with damp mourning spread,
Beneath his wing the heath cock hides his head,
In the drear desart by the rising steep,
The hind and hart in thoughtless slumbers sleep,
When the fair morn sheds her bright silver beam,
They rise and wander by the mossy stream—
But when the sun with majesty appears,
Continued flow Bragela's sorrowing tears;
When pensive night salutes my languid eyes,
My breast awakens to its tender signs—
When in thy arms will Erin's warrior come
And seek Bragela, and thy peaceful home.”
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Thy mournful voice O Sorglan's maid I hear,
Pleasant's thy strain in Ossian's list'ning ear!
But to the hall of shells, fair maid retire;
To the oak's beam, which lights the pleasing fire,
List to the murmur of the passing wave,
Which Dunscai's walls with foaming fury lave,
Let sleep's soft influence visit thy blue eyes—
Let the brave hero in thy dreams arise!
Pleasant's thy strain in Ossian's list'ning ear!
But to the hall of shells, fair maid retire;
To the oak's beam, which lights the pleasing fire,
List to the murmur of the passing wave,
Which Dunscai's walls with foaming fury lave,
Let sleep's soft influence visit thy blue eyes—
Let the brave hero in thy dreams arise!
At Lego's lake the great Cuthullin stays,
Where the dark waters roll their furious ways,
The shades of night the generous chief surround,
His num'rous warriors spread the fertile ground.
A hundred oaks a kindred warmth supplies
The feast of shells in smoaking fragrance rise;
Beneath a tree old Carril strikes the lay,
His grey locks glitter in fair Luna's ray;
The rustling blast of dark brown night is near,
And lifts before the breeze his aged hair—
He sings Togorma and its gallant chief!
Where the dark waters roll their furious ways,
The shades of night the generous chief surround,
His num'rous warriors spread the fertile ground.
A hundred oaks a kindred warmth supplies
The feast of shells in smoaking fragrance rise;
Beneath a tree old Carril strikes the lay,
His grey locks glitter in fair Luna's ray;
The rustling blast of dark brown night is near,
And lifts before the breeze his aged hair—
He sings Togorma and its gallant chief!
“Cuthullin's friend in disappointed grief—
Why art thou absent, Cormal, in the day,
When glooms and storms prohibit thy delay?
The southern chiefs have rais'd the pointed lance,
'Gainst car-borne Cormac dreadful they advance.
Thy blue waves roll the winds, thy sails detain,
But not alone does Cormac now remain—
The son of Semo fights his hated foe!
The son of Semo, bends the deadly bow!
The son of Semo leads the dreadful war!
The terror of the stranger from afar—
He that is like the frightful mist of death
Borne by the sultry winds destroying breath,
In its dread presence the great sun grows red,
The people fall when its thick vapours shed.”
Why art thou absent, Cormal, in the day,
When glooms and storms prohibit thy delay?
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'Gainst car-borne Cormac dreadful they advance.
Thy blue waves roll the winds, thy sails detain,
But not alone does Cormac now remain—
The son of Semo fights his hated foe!
The son of Semo, bends the deadly bow!
The son of Semo leads the dreadful war!
The terror of the stranger from afar—
He that is like the frightful mist of death
Borne by the sultry winds destroying breath,
In its dread presence the great sun grows red,
The people fall when its thick vapours shed.”
Such was old Carril's thrilling song, when lo!
Appear'd a son of th' approaching foe;
He threw upon the ground the pointless spear,
He spoke the words of Torlath to the ear!
Torlath the chief from Lego's sable wave!
The Prince of Heroes, “bravest of the brave,”
He that to battle his brave thousands led,
To pour his vengeance on young Cormac's head;
The car-borne Cormac who far hence remains,
At Temora's halls and solitary plains,
His warlike father's bow he learnt to bend,
To lift the spear, and swift the weapon send;
Nor long didst thou, youth's mildly shining beam,
Lift the bright spear, and taste life's flowing stream;
Behind thee Death stands dim in blacken'd night,
Like the dark moon behind its growing light.
Before the bard the great Cuthullin rose,
That came from Torlath, and his num'rous foes—
The son of songs, whom glory's strains employ
Honoring he gave the flowing shell of joy.
Appear'd a son of th' approaching foe;
He threw upon the ground the pointless spear,
He spoke the words of Torlath to the ear!
Torlath the chief from Lego's sable wave!
The Prince of Heroes, “bravest of the brave,”
He that to battle his brave thousands led,
To pour his vengeance on young Cormac's head;
The car-borne Cormac who far hence remains,
At Temora's halls and solitary plains,
His warlike father's bow he learnt to bend,
To lift the spear, and swift the weapon send;
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Lift the bright spear, and taste life's flowing stream;
Behind thee Death stands dim in blacken'd night,
Like the dark moon behind its growing light.
Before the bard the great Cuthullin rose,
That came from Torlath, and his num'rous foes—
The son of songs, whom glory's strains employ
Honoring he gave the flowing shell of joy.
“Sweet voice of Lego,” great Cuthullin said,
“What's Torlath's words the chief of Connaught's shade?
Comes he to feast with generous Semo's son?
Or to dread battle with the rising sun?”
“What's Torlath's words the chief of Connaught's shade?
Comes he to feast with generous Semo's son?
Or to dread battle with the rising sun?”
“He comes to battle,” the stern bard replied,
“The bright sword glitters by great Torlath's side!
The hero comes to sounding strife of spears,
Which warble music to the warrior's ears!
When the grey worm reflects on Lego's main,
Torlath will seek you on the extended plain—
King of the misty isle wilt thou in arms,
Meet this great foe and join in war's alarms?
Awful is Torlath's bloody spear in fight!
'Tis like a meteor of the gloomy night.
Its dreadful point he lifts, the people fall!
And terror freezes the fierce souls of all—
Upon the light'ning of his dreadful blade,
Death sits terrific, cloth'd in crimson shade!”
“The bright sword glitters by great Torlath's side!
The hero comes to sounding strife of spears,
Which warble music to the warrior's ears!
When the grey worm reflects on Lego's main,
Torlath will seek you on the extended plain—
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Meet this great foe and join in war's alarms?
Awful is Torlath's bloody spear in fight!
'Tis like a meteor of the gloomy night.
Its dreadful point he lifts, the people fall!
And terror freezes the fierce souls of all—
Upon the light'ning of his dreadful blade,
Death sits terrific, cloth'd in crimson shade!”
Cuthullin fierce replied, “Bard do I fear?
The car-borne Torlath's sword and threat'ning spear!
Brave as heroic thousands Torlath fights:
But know Cuthullin's soul in war delights.
Bard of the times of old the warrior's pride,
The sword rests neither by Cuthullin's side!
Upon the plain the rising morn shall beam;
And on the arms of Semo's champion gleam.
But on the heath do thou O bard remain,
And let us hear thy sweet and flowing strain,
Partake the shell, and hear steal soft along
The warbling accents of Temora's song.”
“This is no time,” the gentle bard replied,
“To hear the song in joyful music glide;
When in dread war approach the great and brave,
Like the loud strength of Lego's rolling wave.
Why sunk in sorrow dark Slimora's still!
With all thy silent woods and pensive glades;
No star now trembles on thy dusky hill;
No moon-beam glimmers thro' thy awful shades;
But the sad meteors of death are near,
The watery form of greyish ghosts are seen;
Why cloth'd in darkness do thy haunts appear?
And silent horrors hover o'er thy green.”
The car-borne Torlath's sword and threat'ning spear!
Brave as heroic thousands Torlath fights:
But know Cuthullin's soul in war delights.
Bard of the times of old the warrior's pride,
The sword rests neither by Cuthullin's side!
Upon the plain the rising morn shall beam;
And on the arms of Semo's champion gleam.
But on the heath do thou O bard remain,
And let us hear thy sweet and flowing strain,
Partake the shell, and hear steal soft along
The warbling accents of Temora's song.”
“This is no time,” the gentle bard replied,
“To hear the song in joyful music glide;
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Like the loud strength of Lego's rolling wave.
Why sunk in sorrow dark Slimora's still!
With all thy silent woods and pensive glades;
No star now trembles on thy dusky hill;
No moon-beam glimmers thro' thy awful shades;
But the sad meteors of death are near,
The watery form of greyish ghosts are seen;
Why cloth'd in darkness do thy haunts appear?
And silent horrors hover o'er thy green.”
Now murm'ring dies, the bard's slow plaintive songs,
Old Carril joins and pours the strain along;
The soothing notes in gloomy music roll,
And sweet instill soft sorrow to the soul—
Joys that are past are call'd to pleasing view
And tender themes the thoughtful breast renew.
Along Slimora's dark and sorrowing plains,
The ghosts of bards are heard in woeful strains,
Thro' whisp'ring woods soft sounds flow sad along
Night's verdant vallies the fond note prolong.
Old Carril joins and pours the strain along;
The soothing notes in gloomy music roll,
And sweet instill soft sorrow to the soul—
Joys that are past are call'd to pleasing view
And tender themes the thoughtful breast renew.
Along Slimora's dark and sorrowing plains,
The ghosts of bards are heard in woeful strains,
Thro' whisp'ring woods soft sounds flow sad along
Night's verdant vallies the fond note prolong.
So when the day is lull'd in silent ease,
And in the valley steals the cooling breeze;
The mountain bee's sweet hum strikes Ossian's ear,
And claims the tribute of a tender tear.
In their swift course the gales the murmur drown,
But soon again returns the pleasing sound.
And in the valley steals the cooling breeze;
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And claims the tribute of a tender tear.
In their swift course the gales the murmur drown,
But soon again returns the pleasing sound.
Slant looks the sun upon the dreary field!
Gradual the hills to low'ring shadow's yield!
“Cuthullin bid his hundred bards to raise
The lofty song in noble Fingal's praise:
The song he hears when night's dark shadows blend,
When pleasing dreams upon the chief descend!
When distant far the floating music calls,
And the faint light gleams on fair Selma's walls;
Or let the grief of flowing Loira rise,
Brave Calmar's mother's solitary sighs;
When from the hills he answer'd not her call;
And his strong bow hung in his spacious hall.
Place on that branch the shield of Caithbat near,
Bring near Cuthullin's dreadful aspen spear.
That battle's sound may from the valley rise,
When the grey beam shall gild the eastern skies.”
Gradual the hills to low'ring shadow's yield!
“Cuthullin bid his hundred bards to raise
The lofty song in noble Fingal's praise:
The song he hears when night's dark shadows blend,
When pleasing dreams upon the chief descend!
When distant far the floating music calls,
And the faint light gleams on fair Selma's walls;
Or let the grief of flowing Loira rise,
Brave Calmar's mother's solitary sighs;
When from the hills he answer'd not her call;
And his strong bow hung in his spacious hall.
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Bring near Cuthullin's dreadful aspen spear.
That battle's sound may from the valley rise,
When the grey beam shall gild the eastern skies.”
The hero lean'd upon his father's shield:
The song of Lara echo'd o'er the field!
The hundred bards were distant on the plains,
Carril alone beside the chief remains—
The words old Carril in loud accents sung,
Around his harp a mournful warbling hung.
The song of Lara echo'd o'er the field!
The hundred bards were distant on the plains,
Carril alone beside the chief remains—
The words old Carril in loud accents sung,
Around his harp a mournful warbling hung.
“Gentle Alcletha with the aged locks!
Why dost thou look toward the desart's rocks!
Whose tender feelings with affection burn,
And anxious wish your gallant son's return.
That's not his troop which on the heath rejoice,
Nor is that Calmar's loud commanding voice;
'Tis but Alcletha, the far distant seas!
The hollow roaring of the mountain breeze!”
Why dost thou look toward the desart's rocks!
Whose tender feelings with affection burn,
And anxious wish your gallant son's return.
That's not his troop which on the heath rejoice,
Nor is that Calmar's loud commanding voice;
'Tis but Alcletha, the far distant seas!
The hollow roaring of the mountain breeze!”
“Who
bounds o'er Lara's loud meandring stream,
Thou lovely sister of my noble son?
Do not my eyes behold the warrior's beam?
But ah! my eyes are dim and light they shun—
Is not that Calmar which appears to move?
Gentle Alona, daughter of my love?”—
Thou lovely sister of my noble son?
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But ah! my eyes are dim and light they shun—
Is not that Calmar which appears to move?
Gentle Alona, daughter of my love?”—
“'Tis but a distant and an aged oak,
Weeping Alona, sorrowfully spoke;
'Tis but an aged oak's deceiving beam,
Bent o'er fair Lara's hoarse resounding stream—
But who with swiftness o'er the plain draws near?
Sorrow and grief in his quick steps appear;
High he lifts up brave Calmar's bloody spear.”
Weeping Alona, sorrowfully spoke;
'Tis but an aged oak's deceiving beam,
Bent o'er fair Lara's hoarse resounding stream—
But who with swiftness o'er the plain draws near?
Sorrow and grief in his quick steps appear;
High he lifts up brave Calmar's bloody spear.”
“But
with the blood of his sad foes 'tis spread,
Which he Alona, in his wrath has shed!
Ne'er did his spear return, without blood's stain!
Nor his bow dreadful on the hostile plain—
His awful presence the fierce fight consumes,
The flame of death sits on his waving plumes.
Thou mournful youth, where is my son, O where?
Ease my fond bosom of its anxious care?
Does he return with his increasing name?
While echoing shields resound the conqueror's fame,
Darkness and silence in thy bosom dwell,
Calmar's no more, my noble hero's fell!
Tell me not warrior of the blood—stain'd ground!
O tell me not my Calmar's bleeding wound.
Which he Alona, in his wrath has shed!
Ne'er did his spear return, without blood's stain!
Nor his bow dreadful on the hostile plain—
His awful presence the fierce fight consumes,
The flame of death sits on his waving plumes.
Thou mournful youth, where is my son, O where?
Ease my fond bosom of its anxious care?
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While echoing shields resound the conqueror's fame,
Darkness and silence in thy bosom dwell,
Calmar's no more, my noble hero's fell!
Tell me not warrior of the blood—stain'd ground!
O tell me not my Calmar's bleeding wound.
Why dost thou look toward the desart shade?
Thou sorrowing mother of the chief low-laid.”
Thou sorrowing mother of the chief low-laid.”
Such melancholy notes flow'd sweet along,
The chief lean'd on his shield and heard the song;
The music of their harps the hundred cease,
Sleep softly fell and lull'd them into peace.
The son of Semo was awake alone,
His soul was fix'd, the beams of battle shone;
Gradual the hundred burning oaks decay,
Faint red light glimmers on the distant way;
A mournful silence wraps the gloomy fields,
The voice of woe its feeble accents yields.
The dead pale ghost of warlike Calmar's seen,
Dimly he stalk'd along the silent green.
Dark is the wound of the sharp pointed spear,
Pale on his face joys clouded rays appear;
Before the wind his locks disorder'd wave,
He calls Cuthullin to his chilly cave.
The godlike hero rising from the ground,
Threw his blue eyes in awful terror round.
“Son of the cloudy night he fiercely said
Why dost thou leave the grave's dark silent shade,
Why, ghost of noble Calmar, Erin's friend,
Dost thou on me thy frightful aspect bend?
Would'st thou persuade me Matha's gallant son,
The wars of Cormac, and the foe, to shun.
Thy arm in war O Calmar ne'er did cease,
Nor was thy manly voice for silent peace.
How art thou chang'd O chief of Lara's wave,
If thou would bid Cuthullin fly the brave,
Oft has the battle its loud roaring spread,
But from the foe Cuthullin never fled.
I never fear'd the hideous ghosts of night;
Thro' the bleak wind they take their dolesome flight;
Small is their knowledge, weak their slender arm,
In courage cloth'd the hero fears no harm;
But in war's danger glows Cuthullin's soul,
Joyful he hears the warrior's chariot roll,
The trump's shrill blast, the noisy clang of steel,
The hoarse resounding of the bossy shield—
Thou ghost retire to thy sad darksome cave,
Thou art not Calmar, he was great and brave!
War his delight, the hero fear'd no harm,
Like heaven's thunder was his mighty arm.”
The chief lean'd on his shield and heard the song;
The music of their harps the hundred cease,
Sleep softly fell and lull'd them into peace.
The son of Semo was awake alone,
His soul was fix'd, the beams of battle shone;
Gradual the hundred burning oaks decay,
Faint red light glimmers on the distant way;
A mournful silence wraps the gloomy fields,
The voice of woe its feeble accents yields.
The dead pale ghost of warlike Calmar's seen,
Dimly he stalk'd along the silent green.
Dark is the wound of the sharp pointed spear,
Pale on his face joys clouded rays appear;
Before the wind his locks disorder'd wave,
He calls Cuthullin to his chilly cave.
The godlike hero rising from the ground,
Threw his blue eyes in awful terror round.
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Why dost thou leave the grave's dark silent shade,
Why, ghost of noble Calmar, Erin's friend,
Dost thou on me thy frightful aspect bend?
Would'st thou persuade me Matha's gallant son,
The wars of Cormac, and the foe, to shun.
Thy arm in war O Calmar ne'er did cease,
Nor was thy manly voice for silent peace.
How art thou chang'd O chief of Lara's wave,
If thou would bid Cuthullin fly the brave,
Oft has the battle its loud roaring spread,
But from the foe Cuthullin never fled.
I never fear'd the hideous ghosts of night;
Thro' the bleak wind they take their dolesome flight;
Small is their knowledge, weak their slender arm,
In courage cloth'd the hero fears no harm;
But in war's danger glows Cuthullin's soul,
Joyful he hears the warrior's chariot roll,
The trump's shrill blast, the noisy clang of steel,
The hoarse resounding of the bossy shield—
Thou ghost retire to thy sad darksome cave,
Thou art not Calmar, he was great and brave!
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Like heaven's thunder was his mighty arm.”
The ghost swift wing'd his melancholy ways,
He heard sweet flow the soothing voice of praise.
He heard sweet flow the soothing voice of praise.
Faintly the beam of dawning morn arose,
The silent warriors reus'd from their repose,
Great Caithbat's buckler dreadful spread around,
The soldier started at the solemn sound—
Wak'd from soft slumbers and from peaceful dreams,
Green Erin's warriors flock like roaring streams,
O'er Lego's plain and distinct sounding far,
The pausing horn proclaims the approach of war.
Dreadful in war, and great his deathless name,
The mighty Torlath with his warriors came,
“Why dost thou hero with thy thousands come,
Great Erin's chief and car-borne Semo's son?
The chief of Lego to Cuthullin said,
While mimic light'ning flam'd upon his blade;
I know the strength which thy fierce arm inspires,
Thy soul in fight is unextinguish'd fires;
Why, on the plain, do we not hero fight?
And let our hosts behold the warlike sight.
Let them behold us like the roaring waves,
Which loud hoarse tumble from the rocky caves,
When their sad murmurs, thund'ring spread around,
The seamen startle at the threat'ning sound.”
The silent warriors reus'd from their repose,
Great Caithbat's buckler dreadful spread around,
The soldier started at the solemn sound—
Wak'd from soft slumbers and from peaceful dreams,
Green Erin's warriors flock like roaring streams,
O'er Lego's plain and distinct sounding far,
The pausing horn proclaims the approach of war.
Dreadful in war, and great his deathless name,
The mighty Torlath with his warriors came,
“Why dost thou hero with thy thousands come,
Great Erin's chief and car-borne Semo's son?
The chief of Lego to Cuthullin said,
While mimic light'ning flam'd upon his blade;
I know the strength which thy fierce arm inspires,
Thy soul in fight is unextinguish'd fires;
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And let our hosts behold the warlike sight.
Let them behold us like the roaring waves,
Which loud hoarse tumble from the rocky caves,
When their sad murmurs, thund'ring spread around,
The seamen startle at the threat'ning sound.”
The son of Semo joyfully return'd,
While valor in his panting bosom burn'd,
While valor in his panting bosom burn'd,
“Like the bright sun your words inspire my soul,
Thine arm is mighty, great in war's controul,
Worthy to meet Cuthullin on the plain,
And the fierce battles of the brave sustain.
Ye men of Ullin seek Slimora's side,
Behold Cuthullin in his fame and pride!—
Carril, to mighty Connal tell the tale,
If in the strife brave Torlath should prevail:
Tell him I blam'd the winds which whistling blow,
Where broad Togormac's rolling waters flow.
Ne'er when the trumpet sounded from afar,
Did Semo's hero fly th' approaching war—
In Cormac's cause let his bright sword be drawn,
Like the bright beams which gild the morning's dawn.
In Temora's plains, let his wise counsel sound,
When threat'ning danger spreads its gloom around.”
Thine arm is mighty, great in war's controul,
Worthy to meet Cuthullin on the plain,
And the fierce battles of the brave sustain.
Ye men of Ullin seek Slimora's side,
Behold Cuthullin in his fame and pride!—
Carril, to mighty Connal tell the tale,
If in the strife brave Torlath should prevail:
Tell him I blam'd the winds which whistling blow,
Where broad Togormac's rolling waters flow.
Ne'er when the trumpet sounded from afar,
Did Semo's hero fly th' approaching war—
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Like the bright beams which gild the morning's dawn.
In Temora's plains, let his wise counsel sound,
When threat'ning danger spreads its gloom around.”
Dreadful as
Loda rush'd the chief to fight,
The warriors trembled at the solemn sight.
When the fierce spirit comes in low'ring skies,
And scatters battles from his frightful eyes:
In roaring storms when Loda sad appears,
And chills the soldier with terrific fears,—
He sits on clouds, o'er Lochlins roaring seas,
His mighty hand, the glitt'ring sword unsheaths,
Winds howling from their close and hollow rocks,
Lift the dread spirits long and flaming locks!—
The waining moon halflights his dreadful face,
His features blended in dark gloom we trace.
So terrible Cuthullin in his fame,
Such beaming terrors from the warrior came,
Great Torlath fell by his all con'qring hand;
His weeping warriors sorrowfully stand.
They gather round their fallen hero's shade,
Like misty clouds which desart glooms pervade.
Fir'd by revenge their thousand swords they drew,
Thick through the air the whirring arrows flew;
Firm as a rock the great Cuthullin stood,
Lash'd by the billow of the roaring flood;
The bleeding warriors fall in numbers round,
He strode in blood, which flow'd the awful ground.
The warriors trembled at the solemn sight.
When the fierce spirit comes in low'ring skies,
And scatters battles from his frightful eyes:
In roaring storms when Loda sad appears,
And chills the soldier with terrific fears,—
He sits on clouds, o'er Lochlins roaring seas,
His mighty hand, the glitt'ring sword unsheaths,
Winds howling from their close and hollow rocks,
Lift the dread spirits long and flaming locks!—
The waining moon halflights his dreadful face,
His features blended in dark gloom we trace.
So terrible Cuthullin in his fame,
Such beaming terrors from the warrior came,
Great Torlath fell by his all con'qring hand;
His weeping warriors sorrowfully stand.
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Like misty clouds which desart glooms pervade.
Fir'd by revenge their thousand swords they drew,
Thick through the air the whirring arrows flew;
Firm as a rock the great Cuthullin stood,
Lash'd by the billow of the roaring flood;
The bleeding warriors fall in numbers round,
He strode in blood, which flow'd the awful ground.
Slimora echo'd thro' its shades afar,
Cuthullin's warriors dreadful rush'd to war;
On Lego's dreary plains the battle spread,
Before Cuthullin, Torlath's heroes fled—
The chief of Erin's mighty arm o'ercame,
The fields re-echo'd his immortal name.
Cuthullin's warriors dreadful rush'd to war;
On Lego's dreary plains the battle spread,
Before Cuthullin, Torlath's heroes fled—
The chief of Erin's mighty arm o'ercame,
The fields re-echo'd his immortal name.
Pale he return'd with slow and solemn tread,
Dark clouded joys his pensive face o'erspread;
His languid eye in musing silence rolls,
Within his hand his unsheath'd sword he holds:
At every step his spear of aspen bends,
Death's low'ring cloud in dolesome shades descends.
“Carril, the dying chief in secret said,
Cuthullin's strength, and warlike ardour fade,
No scenes of war shall visit more my eyes,
No more to me shall morn in grandeur rise;
At dark Temora I shall not be found,
No more in counsel will they hear my sound.
Cormac will weep within his sighing hall,
Where is great Erin's chief? he'll starting call:
But far renown'd is fall'n—Cuthullin's fame,
The bards in songs will spread my warlike name.
The youth will say, fir'd by a martial pride,
O let me die as great Cuthullin died!
Renown the warrior cloathed like a robe,
His fame triumphant o'er the oceans rode—
Draw the sharp arrow, Carril, from my wound,
Lay your fall'n chief beneath that spreading tree,
Place my bright arms and Caithbat's shield around,
That they Cuthullin with his arms may see.”
Dark clouded joys his pensive face o'erspread;
His languid eye in musing silence rolls,
Within his hand his unsheath'd sword he holds:
At every step his spear of aspen bends,
Death's low'ring cloud in dolesome shades descends.
“Carril, the dying chief in secret said,
Cuthullin's strength, and warlike ardour fade,
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No more to me shall morn in grandeur rise;
At dark Temora I shall not be found,
No more in counsel will they hear my sound.
Cormac will weep within his sighing hall,
Where is great Erin's chief? he'll starting call:
But far renown'd is fall'n—Cuthullin's fame,
The bards in songs will spread my warlike name.
The youth will say, fir'd by a martial pride,
O let me die as great Cuthullin died!
Renown the warrior cloathed like a robe,
His fame triumphant o'er the oceans rode—
Draw the sharp arrow, Carril, from my wound,
Lay your fall'n chief beneath that spreading tree,
Place my bright arms and Caithbat's shield around,
That they Cuthullin with his arms may see.”
“And does the son of grey-hair'd Semo fall?
Said gentle Carril with a rising sigh,
In mournful glooms is hung fair Tura's wall,
To murm'ring sorrow Dunscai's waves reply.
Thy spouse in lovely youth is left alone;
Thy little son his father's fate will moan!
He'll come to Bragela, and ask her why
She sheds that tear, and heaves that sorrowing sigh?
To the wide wall he'll lift his searching eyes,
And see his father's sword with sad surprise.
Whose sword is that, the little youth will say?
Whose sword is that my mournful mother pray?”
Said gentle Carril with a rising sigh,
In mournful glooms is hung fair Tura's wall,
To murm'ring sorrow Dunscai's waves reply.
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Thy little son his father's fate will moan!
He'll come to Bragela, and ask her why
She sheds that tear, and heaves that sorrowing sigh?
To the wide wall he'll lift his searching eyes,
And see his father's sword with sad surprise.
Whose sword is that, the little youth will say?
Whose sword is that my mournful mother pray?”
Who like the hart comes o'er the sadden'd field,
His wand'ring eyes an eager wildness yield?
The rolling tears from his pale face descend,
He searches for his fallen, fallen friend—
Connal, thou son of Colgar, weeping tell,
Where hast thou been when great Cuthullin fell?
Did stormy, unpropitious winds prevail?
Did the south gale swell thy wide spreading sail?
In battle has the mighty hero died!
And Connal absent, fought not by his side.
Let none the tale in tow'ring Selma, spread,
Nor where cool Morven waves its woody head?
Fingal is sad, the desart warriors weep,
And sorrow murmurs on the flowing deep.
His wand'ring eyes an eager wildness yield?
The rolling tears from his pale face descend,
He searches for his fallen, fallen friend—
Connal, thou son of Colgar, weeping tell,
Where hast thou been when great Cuthullin fell?
Did stormy, unpropitious winds prevail?
Did the south gale swell thy wide spreading sail?
In battle has the mighty hero died!
And Connal absent, fought not by his side.
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Nor where cool Morven waves its woody head?
Fingal is sad, the desart warriors weep,
And sorrow murmurs on the flowing deep.
By Lego's rolling wave they rais'd his tomb,
His mournful warriors wept their leader's doom:
At distance from his master Luath lies,
The song of bards rose soaring to the skies?”
His mournful warriors wept their leader's doom:
At distance from his master Luath lies,
The song of bards rose soaring to the skies?”
“Blest
son of Semo be thy mighty soul!
Awful in battle did thy terrors roll;
Thy strength was like the furious rolling stream,
Like to the eagle's wing thy speed did seem!
Thy path in “war, was spread with terror's shade,
The steps of death were swift behind thy blade.
Awful in battle did thy terrors roll;
Thy strength was like the furious rolling stream,
Like to the eagle's wing thy speed did seem!
Thy path in “war, was spread with terror's shade,
The steps of death were swift behind thy blade.
Blest, son of Semo, be thy mighty soul!
Thou car-borne chief where Dunscai's waters roll!
Thou hast not, by the great and warlike, died,
Nor hast thy blood the spear of heroes dyed—
The shaft that laid Cuthullin low,
Came whizzing from a stranger's bow,
Nor whom he flew, did the weak bowman know;
The arrow came like the dread sting of death,
And piercing stole the chief of Erin's breath.
Thou car-borne chief where Dunscai's waters roll!
Thou hast not, by the great and warlike, died,
Nor hast thy blood the spear of heroes dyed—
The shaft that laid Cuthullin low,
Came whizzing from a stranger's bow,
Nor whom he flew, did the weak bowman know;
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And piercing stole the chief of Erin's breath.
Peace to thy soul, within thy silent cave,
Chief of the misty isle and foaming wave.
The mighty are dispers'd at Temora's wall,
There's none in Cormac's sadly echoing hall;
The thoughtful king mourns in his youth for thee,
No more thy presence hero, shall he see:
Ceas'd is thy shield which struck an awful sound,
His foes again in numbers pour around.
Soft chief of Erin be thy quiet rest,
No more shall dangers animate thy breast;
No more Bragela hails thee to thy home,
Or sees thy sails approach thro' ocean's foam;
No more she wanders on the lonely shores,
And thinks she hears the distant—striking oars.
She sits within the hall and hears waves roar,
She sees the arms of him that is no more—
Chief of the misty isle and foaming wave.
The mighty are dispers'd at Temora's wall,
There's none in Cormac's sadly echoing hall;
The thoughtful king mourns in his youth for thee,
No more thy presence hero, shall he see:
Ceas'd is thy shield which struck an awful sound,
His foes again in numbers pour around.
Soft chief of Erin be thy quiet rest,
No more shall dangers animate thy breast;
No more Bragela hails thee to thy home,
Or sees thy sails approach thro' ocean's foam;
No more she wanders on the lonely shores,
And thinks she hears the distant—striking oars.
She sits within the hall and hears waves roar,
She sees the arms of him that is no more—
In tender sorrow thy fond sighs arise!
Fair maid of Sorglan, sorrow dims thy eyes!
Fair maid of Sorglan, sorrow dims thy eyes!
Blest, chief of Tura, be thy mighty soul!
Awful in battle did thy terrors roll.
Awful in battle did thy terrors roll.
Calmar the son of Martha.—His death is related at large in the third book of Fingal—he was the only son of Matha, and the family was extinct in him. The seat of the family was on the banks of the river Lara; near the place where Cuthullin lay; which circumstance suggested to him the lamentation of Alcletha over her foe. Alcletha is a poetic name for Matha.
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