CARTHON:
A POEM.
ARGUMENT.
This poem is complete, and the subject of it, as of most of
Ossian's compositions, tragical. In the time of Comhal, the
son of Trathal, and father of the celebrated Fingal, Clessammor,
the son of Thaddu, and brother of Morna, Fingal's mother,
was driven by a storm into the river Clyde, on the
banks of which stood Balclutha, a town belonging to the Britons
between the walls. He was hospitably received by Reuthamir,
the principal man in the place, who gave him Moina,
his only daughter, in marriage. Reuda, the son of Cormo,
a Briton who was in love with Moina, came to Reuthamir's
house, and behaved haughtily towards Clessammor. A quarrel
ensued, in which Reuda was killed; the Britons, who attended
him, pressed so hard on Clessammor, that he was obliged
to throw himself into the Clyde, and swim to his ship.
He hoisted sail; and the wind being favourable, bore him
out to sea. He often endeavoured to return, and carry off
his beloved Moina by night; but the wind continuing contrary,
he was forced to desist.
Moina, who had been left with child by her husband, brought
forth a son, and died soon after.—Reuthamir named the
child Carthon, i. e. the murmur of waves, from the storm
which carried off Clessammor, his father, who was supposed
to have been cast away. When Carthon was three years old,
Comhal, the father of Fingal, in one of his expeditions against
the Britons, took and burnt Balclutha. Reuthamir was killed
in the attack; and Carthon was carried safe away by his
nurse, who fled farther into the country of the Britons. Carthon,
coming to man's estate, was resolved to revenge the fall
of Balclutha on Comhal's posterity. He set sail from the
Clyde, and falling on the coast of Morven, defeated two of
Fingal's heroes, who came to oppose his progress. He was,
at last, unwittingly killed by his father Clessammor, in a
single combat. This story is the foundation of the present
poem, which opens on the night preceding the death of Carthon,
so that what passed before is introduced by way of
episode. The poem is addressed to Malvina, the daughter of
Toscar.
Macpherson.
A tale of the times of old!
A tale of the times of old! The deeds of days
of other years!
The murmur of thy streams, O Lora, brings
back the memory of the past. The sound of thy
woods, Garmallar, is lovely in mine ear. Dost
thou not behold, Malvina, a rock with its head
of heath? Three aged pines bend from its face;
green is the narrow plain at its feet; there the
flower of the mountain grows, and shakes its
white head in the breeze. The thistle is there
alone, shedding its aged beard. Two stones,
half sunk in the ground, shew their heads of
moss. The deer of the mountain avoids the
place; for he beholds a dim ghost standing
there. The mighty lie, O Malvina, in the narrow
plain of the rock.
A tale of the times of old! the deeds of days
of other years!
Who comes from the land of strangers, with
his thousands around him? the sun-beam pours
its bright stream before him; his hair meets the
wind of his hills. His face is settled from war.
He is calm, as the evening beam that looks from
the cloud of the west, on Cona's silent vale.
Who is it but Comhal's son, the king of mighty
deeds! He beholds his hills with joy, he bids a
thousand voices rise. “Ye have fled over your
fields, ye sons of the distant land! The king of
the world sits in his hall, and hears of his people's
flight. He lifts his red eye of pride; he
takes his father's sword. Ye have fled over your
fields, sons of the distant land!”
Such were the words of the bards, when they
came to Selma's halls. A thousand lights from
the strangers' land arose, in the midst of the people.
The feast is spread around; the night passed
away in joy. “Where is the noble Clessammor?”
said the fair-haired Fingal. “Where is the
brother of Morna, in the hour of my joy? Sullen
and dark he passes his days in the vale of
echoing Lora: but, behold, he comes from the
hill, like a steed in his strength, who finds his
companions in the breeze; and tosses his bright
mane in the wind. Blessed be the soul of Clessammor:
Why so long from Selma?”
“Returns the chief,” said Clessammor, “in the
midst of his fame? Such was the renown of
Comhal in the battles of his youth. Often did
we pass over Carun to the land of the strangers:
our swords returned, not unstained with blood:
nor did the kings of the world rejoice. Why do
I remember the times of our war? My hair is
mixed with grey. My hand forgets to bend the
bow: I lift a lighter spear. O that my joy would
return, as when I first beheld the maid; the
white-bosomed daughter of strangers, Moina,
with the dark-blue eyes!”
“Tell,” said the mighty Fingal, “the tale of thy
youthful days. Sorrow, like a cloud on the sun,
shades the soul of Clessammor. Mournful are
thy thoughts, alone, on the banks of the roaring
Lora. Let us hear the sorrow of thy youth, and
the darkness of thy days!”
“It was in the days of peace,” replied the great
Clessammor, “I came, in my bounding ship, to
Balclutha's wall of towers. The winds had
roared behind my sails, and Clutha's streams
received my dark-bosomed ship. Three days I
remained in Reuthámir's halls, and saw his daughter,
that beam of light. The joy of the shell
went round, and the aged hero gave the fair.
Her breasts were like foam on the wave, and her
eyes like stars of light: her hair was dark as the
raven's wing: her soul was generous and mild.
My love for Moina was great: my heart poured
forth in joy.
“The son of a stranger came; a chief who
loved the white-bosomed Moina. His words were
mighty in the hall; he often half-unsheathed his
sword. Where, said he, is the mighty Comhal,
the restless wanderer of the heath? Comes he,
with his host, to Balclutha, since Clessammor is
so bold? My soul, I replied, O warrior! burns
in a light of its own. I stand without fear in
the midst of thousands, though the valiant are
distant far. Stranger! thy words are mighty;
for Clessammor is alone. But my sword trembles
by my side, and longs to glitter in my hand.
Speak no more of Comhal, son of the winding
Clutha!
“The strength of his pride arose. We fought;
he fell beneath my sword. The banks of Clutha
heard his fall; a thousand spears glittered around.
I fought: the strangers prevailed: I plunged into
the stream of Clutha. My white sails rose
over the waves, and I bounded on the dark-blue
sea. Moina came to the shore, and rolled the
red eye of her tears: her loose hair flew on the
wind; and I heard her mournful, distant cries.
Often did I turn my ship! but the winds of the
east prevailed. Nor Clutha ever since have I
seen, nor Moina of the dark brown hair. She
fell in Balchuta; for I have seen her ghost. I
knew her as she came through the dusky night,
along the murmur of Lora: she was like the
new moon, seen through the gathered mist:
when the sky pours down its flaky snow, and
the world is silent and dark.
Raise, ye bards, said the mighty Fingal, the
praise of unhappy Moina. Call her ghost, with
your songs, to our hills; that she may rest with
the fair of Morven, the sun-beams of other
days, the delight of heroes of old. I have seen
the walls of Balclutha, but they were desolate.
The fire had resounded in the halls: and the
voice of the people is heard no more. The
stream of Clutha was removed from its place by
the fall of the walls. The thistle shook, there,
its lonely head: the moss whistled to the wind.
The fox looked out, from the windows, the
rank grass of the wall waved round its head.
Desolate is the dwelling of Moina, silence is in
the house of her fathers. Raise the song of
mourning, O bards, over the land of strangers.
They have but fallen before us: for, one day,
we must fall. Why dost thou build the hall, son
of the winged days? Thou lookest from thy
towers to-day; yet a few years, and the blast
of the desart comes; it howls in thy empty
court, and whistles round thy half-worn shield.
And let the blast of the desart come, we shall
be renowned in our day! The mark of my arm
shall be in battle; my name in the song of bards.
Raise the song; send round the shell: let joy
be heard in my hall. When thou, sun of heaven,
shalt fail! if thou shalt fail, thou mighty
light! if thy brightness is for a season, like Fingal,
our fame shall survive thy beams!
Such was the song of Fingal, in the day of
his joy. His thousand bards leaned forward
from their seats, to hear the voice of the king.
It was like the music of harps on the gale of the
spring. Lovely were thy thoughts, O Fingal!
why had not Ossian the strength of thy soul?
But thou standest alone, my father! who can
equal the king of Selma?
The night passed away in song; morning returned
in joy. The mountains shewed their
grey heads; the blue face of ocean smiled. The
white wave is seen tumbling round the distant
rock; a mist rose, slowly, from the lake. It
came, in the figure of an aged man, along the
silent plain. Its large limbs did not move in
steps; for a ghost supported it in mid air. It
came towards Selma's hall, and dissolved in a
shower of blood.
The king alone beheld the sight; he foresaw
the death of the people. He came, in silence,
to his hall; and took his father's spear. The
mail rattled on his breast. The heroes rose
around. They looked, in silence, on each other,
marking the eyes of Fingal. They saw battle
in his face: the death of armies on his spear.
A thousand shields, at once, are placed on their
arms; they drew a thousand swords. The hall
of Selma brightened around. The clang of arms
ascends. The grey dogs howl in their place.
No word is among the mighty chiefs. Each
marked the eyes of the king; and half assumed
his spear.
“Sons of Morven,” begun the king, “this is
no time to fill the shell. The battle darkens near
us; death hovers over the land. Some ghost,
the friend of Fingal, has forewarned us of the
foe. The sons of the stranger come from the
darkly-rolling sea. For, from the water, came
the sign of Morven's gloomy danger. Let each
assume his heavy spear, each gird on his father's
sword. Let the dark helmet rise on every
head; the mail pour its lightening from every
side. The battle gathers like a storm; soon
shall ye hear the roar of death.”
The hero moved on before his host, like a
cloud before a ridge of green fire; when it
pours on the sky of night, and mariners foresee
a storm. On Cona's rising heath they stood:
the white-bosomed maids beheld them above
like a grove; they foresaw the death of the
youth, and looked towards the sea with fear.
The white wave deceived them for distant sails;
the tear is on their cheek! The sun rose on the
sea, and we beheld a distant fleet. Like the mist
of ocean they came: and poured their youth
upon the coast. The chief was among them,
like the stag in the midst of the herd. His
shield is studded with gold; stately strode the
king of spears. He moved towards Selma; his
thousands moved behind.
“Go, with a song of peace,” said Fingal, “go,
Ullin, to the king of swords. Tell him that we
are mighty in war; that the ghosts of our foes
are many. But renowned are they who have
feasted in my halls! they shew the arms of
my fathers in a foreign land: the sons of the
strangers wonder, and bless the friends of Morven's
race; for our names have been heard afar;
the kings of the world shook in the midst of
their host.”
Ullin went with his song. Fingal rested on
his spear: he saw the mighty foe in his armour:
he blest the stranger's son. “How stately art
thou, son of the sea!” said the king of woody
Morven; “Thy sword is a beam of fire by thy
side: thy spear is a pine that defies the storm.
The varied face of the moon is not broader than
thy shield. Ruddy is thy face of youth! soft
the ringlets of thy hair! But this tree may fall;
and his memory be forgot! The daughter of the
stranger will be sad, looking to the rolling sea:
the children will say, “We see a ship; perhaps
it is the king of Balclutha.” The tear starts
from their mother's eye. Her thoughts are of
him who sleeps in Morven!”
Such were the words of the king, when Ullin
came to the mighty Carthon: he threw down
the spear before him; he raised the song of
peace. “Come to the feast of Fingal, Carthon,
from the rolling sea! partake of the feast of the
king, or lift the spear of war! The ghosts of our
foes are many: but renowned are the friends of
Morven! Behold that field, O Carthon; many
a green hill rises there, with mossy stones and
rustling grass: these are the tombs of Fingal's
foes, the sons of the rolling sea!”
“Dost thou speak to the weak in arms!”
said Carthon, “bard of the woody Morven? Is
my face pale for fear, son of the peaceful song?
Why, then, dost thou think to darken my soul
with the tales of those who fell? My arm has
fought in battle; my renown is known afar.
Go to the feeble in arms, bid them yield to Fingal.
Have not I seen the fallen Balclutha? And
shall I feast with Comhal's son? Comhal! who
threw his fire in the midst of my father's hall!
I was young, and knew not the cause, why the
virgins wept. The columns of smoke pleased
mine eye, when they rose above my walls!
I often looked back, with gladness, when my
friends fled along the hill. But when the years
of my youth came on, I beheld the moss of my
fallen walls: my sigh arose with the morning,
and my tears descended with night. Shall I
not fight, I said to my soul, against the children
of my foes? And I will fight, O bard! I feel the
strength of my soul.”
His people gathered around the hero, and
drew, at once, their shining swords. He stands,
in the midst, like a pillar of fire; the tear half-starting
from his eye; for he thought of the fallen
Balclutha; the crowded pride of his soul
arose. Sidelong he looked up to the hill, where
our heroes shone in arms; the spear trembled
in his hand: bending forward, he seemed to
threaten the king.
“Shall I,” said Fingal to his soul, “meet, at
once, the youth? Shall I stop him, in the midst
of his course, before his fame shall arise? But
the bard, hereafter, may say, when he sees the
tomb of Carthon; Fingal took his thousands to
battle, before the noble Carthon fell. No: bard
of the times to come! thou shalt not lessen
Fingal's fame. My heroes will fight the youth,
and Fingal behold the war. If he overcomes,
I rush, in my strength, like the roaring stream
of Cona. Who, of my chiefs, will meet the son
of the rolling sea? Many are his warriors on the
coast: and strong is his ashen spear!”
Cathul rose, in his strength, the son of the
mighty Lormar: three hundred youths attend
the chief, the race of his native streams. Feeble
was his arm against Carthon; he fell, and his
heroes fled. Connal resumed the battle, but he
broke his heavy spear: he lay bound on the
field: Carthon pursued his people.
“Clessammor!” said the king of Morven,
“where is the spear of thy strength? Wilt thou
behold Connal bound; thy friend, at the stream
of Lora? Rise, in the light of thy steel, companion
of valiant Comhal. Let the youth of
Balclutha feel the strength of Morven's race.”
He rose in the strength of his steel, shaking his
grizly locks. He fitted the shield to his side;
he rushed, in the pride of valour.
Carthon stood on a rock; he saw the hero
rushing on. He loved the dreadful joy of his
face: his strength, in the locks of age! “Shall
I lift that spear,” he said, “that never strikes,
but once, a foe? Or shall I, with the words
of peace, preserve the warrior's life? Stately are
his steps of age! lovely the remnant of his
years! Perhaps it is the husband of Moina;
the father of car-borne Carthon. Often have
I heard, that he dwelt at the echoing stream of
Lora.”
Such were his words, when Clessammor came,
and lifted high his spear. The youth received
it on his shield, and spoke the words of peace.
“Warrior of the aged locks! Is there no youth
to lift the spear? Hast thou no son, to raise the
shield before his father, to meet the arm of
youth? Is the spouse of thy love no more? or
weeps she over the tombs of thy sons? Art thou
of the kings of men? What will be the fame of
my sword shouldst thou fall?”
“It will be great, thou son of pride!” begun
the tall Clessammor. “I have been renowned
in battle; but I never told my name to a foe.
Yield to me, son of the wave, then shalt thou
know, that the mark of my sword is in many a
field.” “I never yielded, king of spears!” replied
the noble pride of Carthon: “I have also
fought in war; I behold my future fame. Despise
me not, thou chief of men; my arm, my
spear, is strong. Retire among thy friends, let
younger heroes fight.” “Why dost thou wound
my soul,” replied Clessammor with a tear? “Age
does not tremble on my hand; I still can lift the
sword. Shall I fly in Fingal's sight; in the sight
of him I love? Son of the sea! I never fled:
exalt thy pointed spear.”
They fought, like two contending winds,
that strive to roll the wave. Carthon bade his
spear to err; he still thought that the foe was
the spouse of Moina. He broke Clessammor's
beamy spear in twain; he seized his shining
sword. But as Carthon was binding the chief;
the chief drew the dagger of his fathers. He
saw the foe's uncovered side; and opened, there,
a wound.
Fingal saw Clessammor low: he moved in
the sound of his steel. The host stood silent,
in his presence; they turned their eyes to the
king. He came, like the sullen noise of a storm,
before the winds arise: the hunter hears it in
the vale, and retires to the cave of the rock.
Carthon stood in his place: the blood is rushing
down his side: he saw the coming down of
the king; his hopes of fame arose; but pale was
his cheek: his hair flew loose, his helmet shook
on high: the force of Carthon failed; but his
soul was strong.
Fingal beheld the hero's blood; he stopt the
uplifted spear. “Yield, king of swords!” said
Comhal's son; “I behold thy blood. Thou
hast been mighty in battle; and thy fame shall
never fade.” “Art thou the king so far renowned,”
replied the car-borne Carthon? “Art
thou that light of death, that frightens the
kings of the world? But why should Carthon
ask? for he is like the stream of his hills;
strong as a river, in his course: swift as the
eagle of heaven. O that I had fought with
the king; that my fame might be great in song!
that the hunter, beholding my tomb, might say,
he fought with the mighty Fingal. But Carthon
dies unknown; he has poured out his force
on the weak.”
“But thou shalt not die unknown,” replied
the king of woody Morven: “my bards are
many, O Carthon, their songs descend to future
times. The children of years to come shall hear
the fame of Carthon; when they sit round the
burning oak, and the night is spent in songs
of old. The hunter, sitting in the heath, shall
hear the rustling blast; and, raising his eyes,
behold the rock where Carthon fell. He shall
turn to his son, and show the place where the
mighty fought; “There the king of Balclutha
fought, like the strength of a thousand streams.”
Joy rose in Carthon's face: he lifted his
heavy eyes. He gave his sword to Fingal, to
lie within his hall, that the memory of Balclutha's
king might remain in Morven. The battle
ceased along the field, the bard had sung the
song of peace. The chiefs gathered round the
falling Carthon; they heard his words, with
sighs. Silent they leaned on their spears, while
Balclutha's hero spoke. His hair sighed in the
wind, and his voice was sad and low.
“King of Morven,” Carthon said, “I fall in
the midst of my course. A foreign tomb receives,
in youth, the last of Reuthamir's race.
Darkness dwells in Balclutha: the shadows of
grief in Crathmo. But raise my remembrance
on the banks of Lora: where my fathers dwelt.
Perhaps the husband of Moina will mourn over
his fallen Carthon.” His words reached the
heart of Clessammor: he fell, in silence, on his
son. The host stood darkened around: no
voice is on the plain. Night came, the moon,
from the east, looked on the mournful field;
but still they stood, like a silent grove that lifts
its head on Gormal, when the loud winds are
laid, and dark autumn is on the plain.
Three days they mourned above Carthon;
on the fourth his father died. In the narrow
plain of the rock they lie; a dim ghost defends
their tomb. There lovely Moina is often seen;
when the sun-beam darts on the rock, and all
around is dark. There she is seen, Malvina,
but not like the daughters of the hill. Her
robes are from the stranger's land; and she is
still alone!
Fingal was sad for Carthon; he commanded
his bards to mark the day, when shadowy autumn
returned: And often did they mark the
day and sing the hero's praise. “Who comes
so dark from ocean's roar, like autumn's shadowy
cloud? Death is trembling in his hand!
his eyes are flames of fire! Who roars along
dark Lora's heath? Who but Carthon, king of
swords? The people fall! see! how he strides,
like the sullen ghost of Morven! But there he
lies a goodly oak, which sudden blasts overturned!
When shalt thou rise, Balclutha's joy!
When, Carthon, shalt thou arise? Who comes so
dark from ocean's roar, like autumn's shadowy
cloud?” Such were the words of the bards, in
the day of their mourning: Ossian often joined
their voice; and added to their song. “My
soul has been mournful for Carthon; he fell in
the days of his youth: and thou, O Clessammor!
where is thy dwelling in the wind? Has
the youth forgot his wound? Flies he, on
clouds, with thee? I feel the sun, O Malvina,
leave me to my rest. Perhaps they may come
to my dreams; I think I hear a feeble voice!
The beam of heaven delights to shine on the
grave of Carthon: I feel it warm around!
“O thou that rollest above, round as the
shield of my fathers! Whence are thy beams,
O sun! thy everlasting light? Thou comest
forth, in thy awful beauty; the stars hide themselves
in the sky; the moon, cold and pale,
sinks in the western wave. But thou thyself
movest alone; who can be a companion of thy
course! The oaks of the mountains fall; the
mountains themselves decay with years; the
ocean shrinks and grows again; the moon herself
is lost in heaven: but thou art for ever
the same; rejoicing in the brightness of thy
course. When the world is dark with tempests;
when thunder rolls, and lightning flies; thou
lookest in thy beauty, from the clouds, and
laughest at the storm. But to Ossian, thou
lookest in vain; for he beholds thy beams no
more; whether thy yellow hair flows on the
eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of
the west. But thou art perhaps, like me, for
a season, thy years will have an end. Thou
shalt sleep in the clouds, careless of the voice of
the morning. Exult then, O sun, in the
strength of thy youth! Age is dark and unlovely;
it is like the glimmering light of the
moon, when it shines through broken clouds,
and the mist is on the hills; the blast of north
is on the plain, the traveller shrinks in the midst
of his journey.