CALTHON AND COLMAL:
A POEM.
ARGUMENT.
This piece, as many more of Ossian's compositions, is addressed
to one of the first Christian missionaries. The story of the
poem is handed down, by tradition, thus. In the country
of the Britons between the walls, two chiefs lived in the days
of Fingal, Dunthalmo, lord of Teutha, supposed to be the
Tweed; and Rathmor, who dwelt at Clutha, well known to
be the river Clyde. Rathmor was not more renowned for
his generosity and hospitality, than Dunthalmo was infamous
for his cruelty and ambition. Dunthalmo, through envy, or
on account of some private feuds, which subsisted between the
families, murdered Rathmor at a feast; but being afterwards
touched with remorse, he educated the two sons of Rathmor,
Calthon and Colmar, in his own house. They growing up
to man's estate, dropped some hints that they intended to revenge
the death of their father, upon which Dunthalmo shut
them up in two caves on the banks of Teutha, intending to
take them off privately. Colmal, the daughter of Dunthalmo,
who was secretly in love with Calthon, helped him to
make his escape from prison, and fled with him to Fingal,
disguised in the habit of a young warrior, and implored his
aid against Dunthalmo. Fingal sent Ossian with three hundred
men, to Colmar's relief. Dunthalmo having previously
murdered Colmar, came to a battle with Ossian; but he was
killed by that hero, and his army totally defeated.
Calthon married Colmal, his deliverer; and Ossian returned to Morven.
Macpherson.
Pleasant is the voice of thy song
Pleasant is the voice of thy song, thou lonely
dweller of the rock. It comes on the sound of
the stream, along the narrow vale. My soul
awakes, O stranger! in the midst of my hall. I
stretch my hand to the spear, as in the days of
other years. I stretch my hand; but it is feeble:
and the sigh of my bosom grows. Wilt
thou not listen, son of the rock, to the song of
Ossian? My soul is full of other times; the joy
of my youth returns. Thus the sun appears in
the west, after the steps of his brightness have
moved behind a storm; the green hills lift their
dewy heads: the blue streams rejoice in the vale.
The aged hero comes forth on his staff; his
grey hair glitters in the beam. Dost thou not
behold, son of the rock, a shield in Ossian's hall?
It is marked with the strokes of battle; and the
brightness of its bosses has failed. That shield
the great Dunthalmo bore, the chief of streamy
Teutha. Dunthalmo bore it in battle before he
fell by Ossian's spear. Listen, son of the rock,
to the tale of other years!
Rathmor was a chief of Clutha. The feeble
dwelt in his hall. The gates of Rathmor were
never shut; his feast was always spread. The
sons of the stranger came. They blessed the generous
chief of Clutha. Bards raised the song,
and touched the harp: joy brightened on the
face of the sad! Dunthalmo came, in his pride,
and rushed into the combat of Rathmor. The
chief of Clutha overcame: the rage of Dunthalmo
rose. He came, by night, with his warriors;
the mighty Rathmor fell. He fell in his halls,
where his feast was often spread for strangers.
Colmar and Calthon were young, the sons of
car-borne Rathmor. They came, in the joy of
youth, into their father's hall. They beheld him
in his blood; their bursting tears descend. The
soul of Dunthalmo melted, when he saw the
children of youth. He brought them to Alteutha's
walls; they grew in the house of their foe.
They bent the bow in his presence; and came
forth to his wars. They saw the fallen walls of
their fathers; they saw the green thorn in the
hall. Their tears rushed forth in secret. At
times their faces were sad. Dunthalmo beheld
their grief: his darkening soul designed their
death. He closed them in two caves, on the
echoing banks of Teutha. The sun did not come
there with his beams; nor the moon of heaven
by night. The sons of Rathmor remained in
darkness, and foresaw their death.
The daughter of Dunthalmo wept in silence,
the fair-haired, blue-eyed Colmal. Her eye had
rolled in secret on Calthon; his loveliness swelled
in her soul. She trembled for her warrior;
But what could Colmal do? Her arm could not
lift the spear; nor was the sword formed for
her side. Her white breast never rose beneath a
mail. Neither was her eye the terror of heroes.
What canst thou do, O Colmal! for the falling
chief? Her steps are unequal; her hair is loose:
her eye looks wildly through her tears. She
came, by night, to the hall. She armed her lovely
form in steel; the steel of a young warrior,
who fell in the midst of his battles. She came to
the cave of Calthon, and loosed the thong from
his hands.
“Arise, son of Rathmor,” she said, “arise,
the night is dark! Let us fly to the king of Selma,
chief of fallen Clutha! I am the son of
Lamgal, who dwelt in thy father's hall. I heard
of thy dark dwelling in the cave, and my soul
arose. Arise, son of Rathmor, arise, the night
is dark!” “Blest voice!” replied the chief,
“comest thou from the clouds to Calthon! The
ghosts of his fathers have often descended in his
dreams, since the sun has retired from his eyes,
and darkness has dwelt around him. Or art thou
the son of Lamgal, the chief I often saw in Clutha?
But shall I fly to Fingal, and Colmar my
brother low? Will I fly to Morven, and the
hero closed in night? No: give me that spear,
son of Lamgal, Calthon will defend his brother!”
“A thousand warriors,” replied the maid,
“stretch their spears round car-borne Colmar.
What can Calthon do against a host so great?
Let us fly to the king of Morven, he will come
with war. His arm is stretched forth to the unhappy;
the lightning of his sword is round the
weak. Arise, thou son of Rathmor; the shadows
will fly away. Arise, or thy steps may be
seen, and thou must fall in youth!”
The sighing hero rose; his tears descend for
car-borne Colmar. He came with the maid to
Selma's hall; but he knew not that it was Colmal.
The helmet covered her lovely face. Her
bosom heaved beneath the steel. Fingal returned
from the chace, and found the lovely strangers.
They were like two beams of light, in the
midst of the hall of shells. The king heard the
tale of grief; and turned his eyes around. A
thousand heroes half-rose before him; claiming
the war of Teutha. I came with my spear from
the hill; the joy of battle rose in my breast: for
the king spoke to Ossian in the midst of a thousand
chiefs.
“Son of my strength,” began the king, “take
thou the spear of Fingal. Go to Teutha's rushing
stream, and save the car-borne Colmar. Let
thy fame return before thee like a pleasant gale;
that my soul may rejoice over my son, who renews
the renown of our fathers. Ossian! be
thou a storm in war; but mild when the foe is
low! It was thus my fame arose, O my son; be
thou like Selma's chief. When the haughty come
to my halls, my eyes behold them not. But my
arm is stretched forth to the unhappy. My sword
defends the weak.”
I rejoiced in the words of the king. I took
my rattling arms. Diaran rose at my side, and
Dargo, king of spears. Three hundred youths
followed our steps: the lovely strangers were at
my side. Dunthalmo heard the sound of our
approach. He gathered the strength of Teutha.
He stood on a hill with his host. They were
like rocks broken with thunder, when their bent
trees are singed and bare, and the streams of
their chinks have failed. The stream of Teutha
rolled, in its pride, before the gloomy foe. I sent
a bard to Dunthalmo, to offer the combat on the
plain; but he smiled in the darkness of his pride.
His unsettled host moved on the hill; like the
mountain-cloud, when the blast has entered its
womb, and scatters the curling gloom on every
side.
They brought Colmar to Teutha's bank, bound
with a thousand thongs. The chief is sad, but
stately. His eye is on his friends; for we stood,
in our arms, whilst Teutha's waters rolled between.
Dunthalmo came with his spear, and
pierced the hero's side: he rolled on the bank in
his blood. We heard his broken sighs. Calthon
rushed into the stream: I bounded forward on
my spear. Teutha's race fell before us. Night
came rolling down. Dunthalmo rested on a
rock, amidst an aged wood. The rage of his
bosom burned against the car-borne Calthon.
But Calthon stood in his grief; he mourned the
fallen Colmar; Colmar slain in youth, before his
fame arose!
I bade the song of woe to rise, to sooth the
mournful chief; but he stood beneath a tree, and
often threw his spear on earth. The humid eye
of Colmal rolled near in a secret tear: she foresaw
the fall of Dunthalmo, or of Clutha's warlike
chief. Now half the night had passed away.
Silence and darkness were on the field. Sleep
rested on the eyes of the heroes: Calthon's settling
soul was still. His eyes were half-closed;
but the murmur of Teutha had not yet failed in
his ear. Pale, and shewing his wounds, the ghost
of Colmar came: he bent his head over the
hero, and raised his feeble voice.
“Sleeps the son of Rathmor in his night, and
his brother low? Did we not rise to the chace together?
Pursued we not the dark-brown hinds?
Colmar was not forgot till he fell: till death had
blasted his youth. I lie pale beneath the rock
of Lona. O let Calthon rise! the morning comes
with its beams: Dunthalmo will dishonour the
fallen. He passed away in his blast. The rising
Calthon saw the steps of his departure. He
rushed in the sound of his steel. Unhappy Colmal
rose. She followed her hero through night,
and dragged her spear behind. But when Calthon
came to Lona's rock, he found his fallen
brother. The rage of his bosom rose; he rushed
among the foe. The groans of death ascend.
They close around the chief. He is bound in
the midst, and brought to gloomy Dunthalmo.
The shout of joy arose; and the hills of night
replied.
I started at the sound: and took my father's
spear. Diaran rose at my side; and the youthful
strength of Dargo. We missed the chief of
Clutha, and our souls were sad. I dreaded the
departure of my fame. The pride of my valour
rose! “Sons of Morven,” I said, “it is not
thus our fathers fought. They rested not on
the field of strangers, when the foe was not fallen
before them. Their strength was like the eagles
of heaven; their renown is in the song. But our
people fall by degrees. Our fame begins to depart.
What shall the king of Morven say, if
Ossian conquers not at Teutha? Rise in your
steel, ye warriors; follow the sound of Ossian's
course. He will not return, but renowned, to
the echoing walls of Selma.”
Morning rose on the blue waters of Teutha.
Colmal stood before me in tears. She told of the
chief of Clutha: thrice the spear fell from her
hand. My wrath turned against the stranger;
for my soul trembled for Calthon. “Son of the
feeble hand,” I said, “do Teutha's warriors fight
with tears? The battle is not won with grief;
nor dwells the sigh in the soul of war. Go to
the deer of Carmun, to the lowing herds of Teutha.
But leave these arms, thou son of fear. A
warrior may lift them in fight.”
I tore the mail from her shoulders. Her snowy
breast appeared. She bent her blushing face to the
ground. I looked in silence to the chiefs. The
spear fell from my hand; the sigh of my bosom
rose! But when I heard the name of the maid,
my crowding tears rushed down. I blessed the
lovely beam of youth, and bade the battle move!
Why, son of the rock, should Ossian tell how
Teutha's warriors died? They are now forgot
in their land; their tombs are not found on the
heath. Years came on with their storms. The
green mounds are mouldered away. Scarce is
the grave of Dunthalmo seen, or the place where
he fell by the spear of Ossian. Some grey warrior,
half blind with age, sitting by night at the
flaming oak of the hall, tells now my deeds to
his sons, and the fall of the dark Dunthalmo.
The faces of youth bend sidelong towards his
voice. Surprize and joy burn in their eyes! I
found Calthon bound to an oak, my sword cut
the thongs from his hands. I gave him the white-bosomed
Colmal. They dwelt in the halls of
Teutha.