The Poetical Works of Anna Seward :: :: University of Virginia Library

Lull'd by the dashing of the mountain stream,
Beneath the aged tree, in quiet dream,
Brave Connal lies. A stone with moss o'erspread,
Forms a grey pillow for the warrior's head.

At distance from the Chiefs he seeks repose;
The race of Colgar fear no treacherous foes.

Shrill as the winds o'er heathy Lena sweep,
He hears the voice of night assail his sleep;
And waking, marks a gleam of dusky red
Glide down the hill, and reach his mossy bed.

Young Crugal's semblance hovers in the ray,
Fall'n in the slaughter of that deathful day.
His face, is like the moon in shrouding rains;
His robes, the clouds, that rise from marshy plains;
Gleam, like decaying flames, his eyes around,
And dart upon his breast the livid wound!

As mortal visitant, with life-blood warm,
The dauntless chief accosts the shadowy form.

“Fam'd on the hill of Deer, what chance has led
“The valiant Crugal to my mossy bed?
“Ah! why so pale?—that never knew'st to yield,
“Son of the hill, and breaker of the shield!”

The airy head low bending, as in grief,
One dim hand stretch'd o'er the recumbent chief,
A wailful sound the bloodless lips exhale,
Thin as the reedy Lego's rising gale.

“Wide o'er its native hills my ghost has stray'd,
“But my pale corse on Ullin's shore is laid.
“No more wilt thou with Crugal commune kind,
“Or on the heath his lonely steps shalt find;
“My trackless feet through fields of air have past,
“Light as high Cromla's ever-whistling blast.
“But, O! my warning voice may Connal mark!
“I see the cloud of death descending dark;
“O'er Lena's plain it hovers!—Erin's hosts
“Must fall!—fly, Connal, from the field of ghosts!”

He sighs!—and, like the darken'd moon, retires
Amid his whistling blast, and meteor fires.

“Stay,” cries the valiant Connal, “Crugal stay,
“Son of the windy hill, and meteor-ray!
“What mountain-cave has thy pale corse possest?
“What green cliff blossoms o'er thy house of rest?
“Shall not thy voice in wintry storms arise?
“Shall we not hear it in the torrent's noise,
“When feeble children of the wind come forth,
“And shriek amid the tempests of the north?

Rising he moves, with rapid step, and light,
His armour ringing to the blast of night;
Speeds to the heroes, slumbering on the field,
And o'er Cuchullin strikes the clanging shield.

“Why, (says the ruler of the car,) why come
“The steps of Connal through the midnight-gloom?
“Against the alarming sound my spear might turn,
“And his slain friend the rash Cuchullin mourn.”

‘Rever'd Cuchullin, Chief of deathless fame,
‘To my late rest the ghost of Crugal came.
‘Dim through his form the midnight stars appear'd,
‘And like a distant stream his voice I heard.
‘Upon my startled ear it slowly broke,
‘And of the dark and narrow dwelling spoke,
‘For this he glided o'er the marshy heath,
‘The voice of woe, the messenger of death!—
‘For peace, or truce, O chief of Dunsaick, try,
‘Or o'er the heath of Lena instant fly.’

Then, gravely smiling, with intrepid air,
Replies the dauntless ruler of the war.

“He spoke to us of death's impending storm,
“Though stars dim twinkled thro' his misty form!—
“Connal, the rising gales, that murmur'd near,
“From Lena's cavern rush'd upon thine ear;—

“Or if it was thy Crugal's semblance pale,
“Why not to me impart the deathful tale?
“Thee did he teach his cave of rest to find,
“His narrow house, that feeble son of wind!
“My sword might penetrate its dark retreat,
“And force his knowledge from its secret seat.
“But small that knowledge, he was here to-day;—
“Knew'st thou he swell'd the slaughter of the fray?
“Scarce o'er these hills his ghost has wing'd its flight,
“Who there could tell him we should fall in fight?”

‘Yet heed the warning voice, brave Connal cries!
‘On the swift gale each warrior's spirit flies;
‘They dwell together in their gloomy cave,
‘Talk of the fate of Chiefs, the hero's grave.’

“Of other Chiefs—but let them ne'er presume
“To waste prediction on Cuchullin's doom!
“May in their caves my fate neglected lie!—
“The Chief of Erin was not born to fly!
“I will not fly from Swaran!—if I fall,
“Swift shall my spirit seek their airy hall;
“My tomb, in years of future fame, shall rise,
“Sought by the brave, and hallow'd by their sighs;
“On my cold stone the hunter's tear descend,
“And sorrowing o'er it fair Bragela bend.—

“I fear not death,—but fear ignoble flight,
“Stain of the youthful warrior's former might!—
“Oft has great Fingal, from his rapid car,
“Seen conquest mine amid the rage of war.—
“Dim phantom of the hill, appear to me!
“Shew in thy livid hand my death's decree;
“No thought of flight shall thy pale doom inspire,
“Son of the whistling blast, the meteor-fire!

“Go, Connal, loudly strike the high-hung shield,
“From yon riv'd oak dark shadowing on the field;
“Peace is not in the sound.—My Chiefs shall hear,
“Start from their sleep, and snatch the prostrate spear.—
“Though Fingal yet no promis'd aid fulfils,
“Nor leads his heroes from their stormy hills,
“Yet, Son of Colgar, will we scorn to fly,
“But nobly conquer, or as nobly die!”

This, and the ensuing version, are not calculated for the admirers of Ossian. Those who have a true taste for him, in the simple grandeur of the translation in solemn prose, will think, with the author of this Miscellany, that the most sonorous rhyme and best constructed measure cannot improve his poetic charms. But there are people of genius, who have fervent taste for lyric excellence, that consider poetry, divested of measure, as bombastic prose. Influenced by that prejudice, they perceive neither grandeur nor beauty in the awful and striking imagery of the old Bard. The author of the above paraphrase, convinced that the songs of Ossian contain poetic matter, potent to elevatc and render beautiful, any mode of composition, here tries the effect of that, in which Pope has given us a still more ancient Bard than Ossian. The passages very well bear being detached, and form in themselves a perfect whole. She thinks the ghosts of Cruoal, and Cuchullin, vie in sublime and mournful grace with those of Patroclus and of Hector—with that of Margaret in the exquisite ballad, and almost with the Spirit, in the Book of Job, which passed before the eyes of Eliphaz, amid the visions of the night, when deep sleep falleth on men.