THE WAR OF INIS-THONA:
A POEM.
ARGUMENT.
Reflections on the poet's youth. An apostrophe to Selma.
Oscar obtains leave to go to Inis-thona, an island of Scandinavia.
The mournful story of Argon and Ruro, the two sons
of the king of Inis-thona. Oscar revenges their death, and
returns in triumph to Selma. A soliloquy by the poet himself.
Macpherson.
Our youth is like the dream of the hunter
Our youth is like the dream of the hunter on
the hill of heath. He sleeps in the mild beams
of the sun; he awakes amidst a storm; the red
lightning flies around: trees shake their heads
to the wind! He looks back, with joy, on the
day of the sun, and the pleasant dreams of his
rest! When shall Ossian's youth return? When
his ear delight in the sound of arms? When
shall I, like Oscar, travel in the light of my
steel! Come, with your streams, ye hills of
Cona! listen to the voice of Ossian. The song
rises, like the sun, in my soul. I feel the joys of
other times!
I behold thy towers, O Selma! the oaks of
thy shaded wall: thy streams sound in my ear;
thy heroes gather around. Fingal sits in the
midst. He leans on the shield of Trenmor: his
spear stands against the wall; he listens to the
song of his bards. The deeds of his arm are
heard; the actions of the king in his youth!
Oscar had returned from the chace, and heard
the hero's praise. He took the shield of Branno
from the wall; his eyes were filled with tears.
Red was the cheek of youth. His voice was
trembling, low. My spear shook its bright head
in his hand: he spoke to Morven's king.
“Fingal! thou king of heroes! Ossian, next
to him in war! ye have fought in your youth;
your names are renowned in song. Oscar is like
the mist of Cona; I appear, and I vanish away:
The bard will not know my name. The hunter
will not search in the heath for my tomb. Let
me fight, O heroes, in the battle of Inis-thona.
Distant is the land of my war! ye shall not hear
of Oscar's fall! Some bard may find me there;
some bard may give my name to song. The
daughter of the stranger shall see my tomb, and
weep over the youth, that came from afar. The
bard shall say, at the feast, “Hear the song of
Oscar from the distant land!”
“Oscar,” replied the king of Morven, “thou
shalt fight, son of my fame! Prepare my dark-bosomed
ship to carry my hero to Inis-thona.
Son of my son, regard our fame; thou art of the
race of renown! Let not the children of strangers
say, feeble are the sons of Morven! Be
thou, in battle, a roaring storm; mild as the
evening sun in peace! Tell, Oscar, to Inis-thona's
king, that Fingal remembers his youth;
when we strove in the combat together, in the
days of Agandecca.”
They lifted up the sounding sail; the wind
whistled through the thongs of their masts.
Waves lash the oozy rocks; the strength of
ocean roars. My son beheld, from the wave,
the land of groves. He rushed into Runa's
sounding bay, and sent his sword to Annir of
spears. The grey-haired hero rose, when he saw
the sword of Fingal. His eyes were full of tears;
he remembered his battles in youth. Twice had
they lifted the spear, before the lovely Agandecca:
heroes stood far distant, as if two spirits
were striving in winds.
“But now,” began the king, “I am old; the
sword lies useless in my hall. Thou, who art of
Morven's race! Annir has seen the battle of
spears; but now he is pale and withered, like the
oak of Lano. I have no son to meet thee with
joy, to bring thee to the halls of his fathers. Argon
is pale in the tomb, and Ruro is no more.
My daughter is in the hall of strangers: she
longs to behold my tomb. Her spouse shakes
ten thousand spears; he comes, a cloud of death
from Lano. Come, to share the feast of Annir,
son of echoing Morven!”
Three days they feasted together; on the
fourth Annir heard the name of Oscar. They
rejoiced in the shell. They pursued the boars
of Runa. Beside the fount of mossy stones, the
weary heroes rest. The tear steals in secret from
Annir: he broke the rising sigh. “Here darkly
rest,” the hero said, “the children of my youth.
This stone is the tomb of Ruro; that tree sounds
over the grave of Argon. Do ye hear my voice,
O my sons, within your narrow house? Or do
ye speak in these rustling leaves, when the winds
of the desert rise?”
“King of Inis-thona,” said Oscar, “how fell
the children of youth? The wild boar rushes
over their tombs, but he does not disturb their
repose. They pursue deer formed of clouds,
and bend their airy bow. They still love the
sport of their youth; and mount the wind with
joy.”
“Cormalo,” replied the king, “is a chief of
ten thousand spears. He dwells at the waters of
Lano, which send forth the vapour of death.
He came to Runa's echoing halls, and sought
the honour of the spear. The youth was lovely
as the first beam of the sun; few were they who
could meet him in fight! My heroes yielded to
Cormalo: my daughter was seized in his love.
Argon and Ruro returned from the chace; the
tears of their pride descend: they roll their silent
eyes on Runa's heroes, who had yielded to
a stranger. Three days they feasted with Cormalo:
on the fourth young Argon fought. But
who could fight with Argon! Cormalo is overcome.
His heart swelled with the grief of pride;
he resolved, in secret, to behold the death of my
sons. They went to the hills of Runa: they
pursued the dark-brown hinds. The arrow of
Cormalo flew in secret: my children fell in blood.
He came to the maid of his love; to Inis-thona's
long-haired maid. They fled over the desert.
Annir remained alone. Night came on, and day
appeared; nor Argon's voice, nor Ruro's came.
At length their much-loved dog was seen; the
fleet and bounding Runar. He came into the
hall and howled; and seemed to look toward the
place of their fall. We followed him: we found
them here: we laid them by this mossy stream.
This is the haunt of Annir, when the chace of
the hinds is past. I bend like the trunk of an
aged oak; my tears for ever flow!”
“O Ronnan!” said the rising Oscar, “Ogar,
king of spears! call my heroes to my side, the
sons of streamy Morven. To-day we go to Lano's
water, that sends forth the vapour of death.
Cormalo will not long rejoice: death is often at
the point of our swords!”
They came over the desert like stormy clouds,
when the winds roll them along the heath:
their edges are tinged with lightning; the echoing
groves foresee the storm! The horn of Oscar's
battle is heard; Lano shook over all its
waves. The children of the lake convened around
the sounding shield of Cormalo. Oscar fought,
as he was wont in war. Cormalo fell beneath
his sword: the sons of dismal Lano fled to their
secret vales! Oscar brought the daughter of
Inis-thona to Annir's echoing halls. The face
of age is bright with joy; he blest the king of
swords!
How great was the joy of Ossian, when he beheld
the distant sail of his son! it was like a
cloud of light that rises in the east, when the
traveller is sad in a land unknown; and dismal
night, with her ghosts, is sitting around in
shades! We brought him, with songs, to Selma's
halls. Fingal spread the feast of shells.
A thousand bards raised the name of Oscar:
Morven answered to the sound. The daughter
of Toscar was there; her voice was like the harp;
when the distant sound comes, in the evening,
on the soft-rustling breeze of the vale!
O lay me, ye that see the light, near some
rock of my hills! let the thick hazels be around,
let the rustling oak be near. Green be the place
of my rest; let the sound of the distant torrent
be heard. Daughter of Toscar, take the
harp, and raise the lovely song of Selma; that
sleep may overtake my soul in the midst of joy;
that the dreams of my youth may return, and
the days of the mighty Fingal. Selma! I behold
thy towers, thy trees, thy shaded wall! I see the
heroes of Morven; I hear the song of bards!
Oscar lifts the sword of Cormalo; a thousand
youths admire its studded thongs. They look
with wonder on my son: They admire the
strength of his arm. They mark the joy of his
father's eyes; they long for an equal fame. And
ye shall have your fame, O sons of streamy Morven!
My soul is often brightened with song;
I remember the friends of my youth. But sleep
descends, in the sound of the harp! pleasant
dreams begin to rise! Ye sons of the chace, stand
far distant, nor disturb my rest. The bard of
other times holds discourse with his fathers, the
chiefs of the days of old! Sons of the chace,
stand far distant! disturb not the dreams of Ossian!