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
wood. Silent and dark is the plain of death!
Still on the dusky Lena arose in my ears the
voice of Carril. He sung of the friends of our
youth; the days of former years! when we
met on the banks of Lego: when we sent round
the joy of the shell. Cromla answered to his
voice. The ghosts of those he sung came in
their rustling winds. They were seen to bend
with joy, towards the sound of their praise!
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.
Sorrow reddens in the eyes of his pride. He often
turned toward Lena. He remembered that
he fell. Fingal leaned on the shield of his fathers.
His grey locks slowly waved on the wind,
and glittered to the beam of night. He saw
the grief of Swaran, and spoke to the first of
bards.
“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
lightening of my sword is against the strong in
fight. Peaceful, it lies by my side when warriors
yield in war.”
“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
hero, that yielded not to Trenmor. The shell
of joy went round with songs, in praise of the
king of Morven. He that came over the waves,
the first of mighty men!
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
Lonval's son. Thine arm is feeble, sun-beam of
youth. Retire to Gormal's dark-brown hinds.”
“But I will retire,” replied the youth, “with
the sword of Trenmor; and exult in the sound
of my fame. The virgins shall gather with
smiles, around him who conquered mighty Trenmor.
They shall sigh with the sighs of love,
and admire the length of thy spear; when I
shall carry it among thousands; when I lift the
glittering point to the sun.”
“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
ground. She was to him a beam of light that
meets the sons of the cave; when they revisit
the fields of the sun, and bend their aching
eyes!
“Chief of the windy Morven,” begun the
maid of the arms of snow, “Let me rest in
thy bounding ship, far from the love of Corlo.
For he, like the thunder of the desart, is terrible
to Inibaca. He loves me in the gloom of pride.
He shakes ten thousand spears!” “Rest thou
in peace,” said the mighty Trenmor, “Rest behind
the shield of my fathers. I will not fly
from the chief, though he shakes ten thousand
spears!” Three days he waited on the shore.
He sent his horn abroad. He called Corlo to
battle, from all his echoing hills. But Corlo
came not to battle. The king of Lochlin descends
from his hall. He feasted on the roaring
shore. He gave the maid to Trenmor!
“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.
Dreadful as the storm of thine ocean, thou hast
poured thy valour forth; thy voice has been
like the voice of thousands when they engage in
war. Raise, to-morrow, raise thy white sails
to the wind, thou brother of Agandecca! Bright
as the beam of noon, she comes on my mournful
soul. I have seen thy tears for the fair one.
I spared thee in the halls of Starno; when my
sword was red with slaughter: when my eye
was full of tears for the maid. Or dost thou
chuse the fight? The combat which thy fathers
gave to Trenmor is thine! that thou mayest depart
renowned, like the sun setting in the
west!”
“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
enough to me, with all its deer and woods.
Rise on thy waves again, thou noble friend of
Agandecca. Spread thy white sails to the beam
of the morning; return to the echoing hills of
Gormal.” “Blest be thy soul, thou king of
shells,” said Swaran of the dark-brown shield.
“In peace thou art the gale of spring. In war
the mountain-storm. Take now my hand in
friendship, king of echoing Selma! Let thy
bards mourn those who fell. Let Erin give the
sons of Lochlin to earth. Raise high the mossy
stones of their fame: that the children of the
north hereafter may behold the place where their
fathers fought. The hunter may say, when he
leans on a mossy tomb, here Fingal and Swaran
fought, the heroes of other years. Thus hereafter
shall he say, and our fame shall last for
ever!”
“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
no more. Give us the song of other years. Let
the night pass away on the sound, and morning
return with joy.”
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
renowned. They are like the sun in a cloud,
when he hides his face in the south, but looks
again on the hills of grass!
“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
Craca had reached Grumal at the streams of Cona:
he vowed to have the white-bosomed maid,
or die on echoing Craca. Three days they strove
together, and Grumal on the fourth was bound.
Far from his friends they placed him, in the horrid
circle of Brumo, where often, they said,
the ghosts of the dead howled round the stone
of their fear. But he afterwards shone, like a
pillar of the light of heaven. They fell by his
mighty hand. Grumal had all his fame!”
“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
winds rustled over the chiefs. A hundred voices,
at once, arose: a hundred harps were strung.
They sung of other times; the mighty chiefs of
former years! When now shall I hear the bard!
When rejoice at the fame of my fathers? The
harp is not strung on Morven. The voice of
music ascends not on Cona. Dead, with the
mighty, is the bard. Fame is in the desart no
more.”
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
Bran, and the surly strength of Luath!
Fillan, and Ryno; but he is not here! My son
rests on the bed of death. Fillan and Fergus!
blow the horn, that the joy of the chace may
arise; that the deer of Cromla may hear, and
start at the lake of roes.”
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
great! One deer fell at the tomb of Ryno. The
grief of Fingal returned. He saw how peaceful
lay the stone of him, who was the first at the
chace! “No more shalt thou rise, O my son,
to partake of the feast of Cromla. Soon will
thy tomb be hid, and the grass grow rank on
thy grave. The sons of the feeble shall pass
along. They shall not know where the mighty
lie.
“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
of Semo! Gloomy and sad is the hero! his
hand is on his sword. Hail to the son of battle,
breaker of the shields!” “Hail to thee,” replied
Cuthullin, “hail to all the sons of Morven! Delightful
is thy presence, O Fingal, it is the sun
on Cromla; when the hunter mourns his absence
for a season, and sees him between the
clouds. Thy sons are like stars that attend
thy course. They give light in the night. It is
not thus thou hast seen me, O Fingal, returning
from the wars of thy land: when the kings of
the world had fled, and joy returned to the hill
of hinds!” “Many are thy words, Cuthullin,”
said Connan of small renown. “Thy words are
many, son of Semo; but where are thy deeds in
arms? Why did we come, over ocean, to aid
thy feeble sword! Thou flyest to thy cave of
grief, and Connan fights thy battles. Resign to
me these arms of light. Yield them, thou chief
of Erin!” “No hero,” replied the chief, “ever
sought the arms of Cuthullin; and had a thousand
heroes sought them, it were in vain, thou
gloomy youth! I fled not to the cave of grief,
till Erin failed at her streams.”
“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.