THE BATTLE OF LORA:
A POEM.
ARGUMENT.
Fingal, on his return from Ireland, after he had expelled
Swaran from that kingdom, made a feast to all his heroes:
he forgot to invite Ma-ronnan and Aldo, two chiefs, who had
not been along with him in his expedition. They resented
his neglect; and went over to Erragon, king of Sora, a country
of Scandinavia, the declared enemy of Fingal. The valour
of Aldo soon gained him a great reputation in Sora:
and Lorma, the beautiful wife of Erragon, fell in love with
him. He found means to escape with her, and to come to
Fingal, who resided then in Selma on the western coast. Erragon
invaded Scotland, and was slain in battle by Gaul, the
son of Morni, after he had rejected the terms of peace offered
him by Fingal. In this war Aldo fell, in a single combat,
by the hands of his rival Erragon; and the unfortunate
Lorma afterwards died of grief.
Macpherson.
Son of the distant land
Son of the distant land, who dwellest in the
secret cell! do I hear the sound of thy grove?
or is it thy voice of songs? The torrent was
loud in my ear; but I heard a tuneful voice.
Dost thou praise the chiefs of thy land: or the
spirits of the wind? But, lonely dweller of
rocks! look thou on that heathy plain. Thou
seest green tombs, with their rank whistling
grass: With their stones of mossy heads. Thou
seest them, son of the rock; but Ossian's eyes
have failed.
A mountain-stream comes roaring down, and
sends its waters round a green hill. Four mossy
stones, in the midst of withered grass, rear their
heads on the top. Two trees, which the storms
have bent, spread their whistling branches around.
This is thy dwelling, Erragon; this
thy narrow house: the sound of thy shells have
been long forgot in Sora. Thy shield is become
dark in thy hall. Erragon, king of ships! chief
of distant Sora! how hast thou fallen on our
mountains? How is the mighty low? Son of
the secret cell! dost thou delight in songs?
Hear the battle of Lora. The sound of its steel
is long since past. So thunder on the darkened
hill roars, and is no more. The sun returns with
his silent beams. The glittering rocks, and
green heads of the mountains, smile!
The bay of Cona received our ships from
Erin's rolling waves. Our white sheets hung
loose to the masts. The boisterous winds roared
behind the groves of Morven. The horn of the
king is sounded; the deer start from their rocks.
Our arrows flew in the woods. The feast of the
hill is spread. Our joy was great on our rocks,
for the fall of the terrible Swaran. Two heroes
were forgot at our feast. The rage of their bosoms
burned. They rolled their red eyes in secret.
The sigh bursts from their breasts. They
were seen to talk together, and to throw their
spears on earth. They were two dark clouds,
in the midst of our joy; like pillars of mist on
the settled sea. They glitter to the sun; but
the mariners fear a storm.
“Raise my white sails,” said Maronnan, “raise
them to the winds of the west. Let us rush, O
Aldo, through the foam of the northern wave.
We are forgot at the feast: but our arms have
been red in blood. Let us leave the hills of Fingal,
and serve the king of Sora. His countenance
is fierce. War darkens around his spear.
Let us be renowned, O Aldo, in the battles of
other lands!”
They took their swords, their shields of thongs.
They rushed to Lumar's resounding bay. They
came to Sora's haughty king, the chief of bounding
steeds. Erragon had returned from the
chace. His spear was red in blood. He bent
his dark face to the ground; and whistled as he
went. He took the strangers to his feasts: they
fought and conquered in his wars.
Aldo returned with his fame towards Sora's
lofty walls. From her tower looked the spouse
of Erragon, the humid, rolling eyes of Lorma.
Her yellow hair flies on the wind of ocean. Her
white breast heaves, like snow on heath; when
the gentle winds arise, and slowly move it in
the light. She saw young Aldo, like the beam
of Sora's setting sun. Her soft heart sighed.
Tears filled her eyes. Her white arm supported
her head. Three days she sat within the hall,
and covered her grief with joy. On the fourth
she fled with the hero, along the troubled sea.
They came to Cona's mossy towers, to Fingal
king of spears.
“Aldo, of the heart of pride!” said Fingal,
rising in wrath: “shall I defend thee from the
rage of Sora's injured king? Who will now receive
my people into their halls? Who will give
the feast of strangers, since Aldo, of the little
soul, has dishonoured my name in Sora? Go to
thy hills, thou feeble hand. Go: hide thee in
thy caves. Mournful is the battle we must fight,
with Sora's gloomy king. Spirit of the noble
Trenmor! When will Fingal cease to fight? I
was born in the midst of battles, and my steps
must move in blood to the tomb. But my hand
did not injure the weak, my steel did not touch
the feeble in arms. I behold thy tempests, O
Morven, which will overturn my halls; when
my children are dead in battle, and none remains
to dwell in Selma. Then will the feeble come,
but they will not know my tomb. My renown
is only in song. My deeds shall be as a dream
to future times!”
His people gathered around Erragon, as the
storms round the ghost of night; when he calls
them, from the top of Morven, and prepares to
pour them on the land of the stranger. He
came to the shore of Cona. He sent his bard to
the king; to demand the combat of thousands;
or the land of many hills! Fingal sat in his hall
with the friends of his youth around him. The
young heroes were at the chace, far distant in
the desert. The grey-haired chiefs talked of
other times; of the actions of their youth; when
the aged Nartmor came, the chief of streamy
Lora.
“This is no time,” said Nartmor, “to hear the
songs of other years: Erragon frowns on the
coast, and lifts ten thousand swords. Gloomy
is the king among his chiefs! he is like the
darkened moon, amidst the meteors of night;
when they sail along her skirts, and give the
light that has failed o'er her orb.” “Come,”
said Fingal, “from thy hall, come, daughter
of my love: come from thy hall, Bosmina, maid
of streamy Morven! Nartmor, take the steeds
of the strangers. Attend the daughter of Fingal!
Let her bid the king of Sora to our feast,
to Selma's shaded wall. Offer him, O Bosmina,
the peace of heroes, and the wealth of generous
Aldo. Our youths are far distant. Age is on
our trembling hands!”
She came to the host of Erragon, like a beam
of light to a cloud. In her right hand was
seen a sparkling shell. In her left, an arrow of
gold. The first, the joyful mark of peace! The
latter the sign of war. Erragon brightened in
her presence as a rock, before the sudden beams
of the sun; when they issue from a broken cloud,
divided by the roaring wind!
“Son of the distant Sora,” began the mildly
blushing maid, “come to the feast of Morven's
king, to Selma's shaded walls. Take the peace
of heroes, O warrior! Let the dark sword rest
by thy side. Chusest thou the wealth of kings?
Then hear the words of generous Aldo. He gives
to Erragon an hundred steeds, the children of
the rein; an hundred maids from distant lands;
an hundred hawks with fluttering wing, that fly
across the sky. An hundred girdles shall also
be thine, to bind high-bosomed maids. The
friends of the births of heroes. The cure of the
sons of toil. Ten shells, studded with gems,
shall shine in Sora's towers: the bright water
trembles on their stars, and seems to be sparkling
wine. They gladdened once the kings of
the world, in the midst of their echoing halls.
These, O hero, shall be thine; or thy white-bosomed
spouse. Lorma shall roll her bright eyes
in thy halls; though Fingal loves the generous
Aldo: Fingal! who never injured a hero, though
his arm is strong!”
“Soft voice of Cona!” replied the king, “tell
him, he spreads his feast in vain. Let Fingal
pour his spoils around me. Let him bend beneath
my power. Let him give me the swords
of his fathers: the shields of other times; that
my children may behold them in my halls, and
say, “These are the arms of Fingal.” “Never
shall they behold them in thy halls!” said the
rising pride of the maid; “they are in the hands
of heroes, who never yielded in war. King of
echoing Sora! the storm is gathering on our
hills. Dost thou not foresee the fall of thy
people, son of the distant land?”
She came to Selma's silent halls. The king
beheld her down-cast eyes. He rose from his
place, in his strength. He shook his aged locks.
He took the sounding mail of Trenmor. The
dark-brown shield of his fathers. Darkness
filled Selma's hall, when he stretched his hand to
his spear: the ghosts of thousands were near,
and foresaw the death of the people. Terrible
joy rose in the face of the aged heroes. They
rushed to meet the foe. Their thoughts are on
the deeds of other years; and on the fame that
rises from death!
Now at Trathal's ancient tomb the dogs of the
chace appeared. Fingal knew that his young
heroes followed. He stopt in the midst of his
course. Oscar appeared the first; then Morni's
son, and Némi's race. Fercuth shewed his
gloomy form. Dermid spread his dark hair on
wind. Ossian came the last. I hummed the
song of other times. My spear supported my
steps over the little streams. My thoughts were
of mighty men. Fingal struck his bossy shield;
and gave the dismal sign of war. A thousand
swords, at once unsheathed, gleam on the waving
heath. Three grey-haired sons of song raise the
tuneful, mournful voice. Deep and dark, with
sounding steps, we rush, a gloomy ridge, along;
like the shower of a storm, when it pours on a
narrow vale.
The king of Morven sat on his hill. The sunbeam
of battle flew on the wind. The friends
of his youth are near, with all their waving
locks of age. Joy rose in the hero's eyes when
he beheld his sons in war; when he saw us
amidst the lightning of swords, mindful of the
deeds of our fathers. Erragon came on, in his
strength, like the roar of a winter stream. The
battle falls around his steps: death dimly stalks
along by his side!
“Who comes,” said Fingal, “like the bounding
roe, like the hart of echoing Cona? His
shield glitters on his side. The clang of his armour
is mournful. He meets with Erragon in
the strife! Behold the battle of the chiefs! It is
like the contending of ghosts in a gloomy storm.
But fallest thou, son of the hill; and is thy white
bosom stained with blood? Weep, unhappy
Lorma, Aldo is no more!” The king took the
spear of his strength. He was sad for the fall of
Aldo. He bent his deathful eyes on the foe:
but Gaul met the king of Sora. Who can relate
the fight of the chiefs? The mighty stranger
fell!
“Sons of Cona!” Fingal cried aloud, “stop the
hand of death. Mighty was he that is low.
Much is he mourned in Sora! The stranger will
come towards his hall, and wonder why it is so
silent. The king is fallen, O stranger. The joy
of his house is ceased. Listen to the sound of
his woods. Perhaps his ghost is murmuring
there! But he is far distant, on Morven, beneath
the sword of a foreign foe.” Such were
the words of Fingal, when the bard raised the
song of peace. We stopped our uplifted swords.
We spared the feeble foe. We laid Erragon in a
tomb. I raised the voice of grief. The clouds
of night came rolling down. The ghost of Erragon
appeared to some. His face was cloudy
and dark; an half-formed sigh is in his breast.
“Blest be thy soul, O king of Sora! thine arm
was terrible in war!”
Lorma sat in Aldo's hall. She sat at the light
of a flaming oak. The night came down; but
he did not return. The soul of Lorma is sad!
“What detains thee, hunter of Cona? Thou
didst promise to return. Has the deer been distant
far? do the dark winds sigh round thee on
the heath? I am in the land of strangers; where
is my friend, but Aldo? Come from thy sounding
hills, O my best beloved!”
Her eyes are turned toward the gate. She
listens to the rustling blast. She thinks it is Aldo's
tread. Joy rises in her face! But sorrow
returns again, like a thin cloud on the moon.
“Wilt thou not return, my love! Let me behold
the face of the hill. The moon is in the
east. Calm and bright is the breast of the lake!
When shall I behold his dogs, returning from
the chace? When shall I hear his voice, loud
and distant on the wind? Come from thy sounding
hills, hunter of woody Cona!” His thin
ghost appeared on a rock, like a watry beam of
feeble light: When the moon rushes sudden
from between two clouds, and the midnight
shower is on the field! She followed the empty
form over the heath. She knew that her hero
fell. I heard her approaching cries on the wind,
like the mournful voice of the breeze, when it
sighs on the grass of the cave!
She came. She found her hero! Her voice
was heard no more. Silent she rolled her eyes.
She was pale, and wildly sad! Few were her
days on Cona. She sunk into the tomb. Fingal
commanded his bards; they sung over the death
of Lorma. The daughters of Morven mourned
her, for one day in the year, when the dark
winds of autumn returned!
Son of the distant land! Thou dwellest in
the field of fame! O let thy song arise, at times,
in praise of those who fell. Let their thin ghosts
rejoice around thee; and the soul of Lorma
come on a feeble beam: when thou liest down
to rest, and the moon looks into thy cave. Then
shalt thou see her lovely; but the tear is still
on her cheek!