LATHMON:
A POEM.
ARGUMENT.
Lathmon, a British prince, taking advantage of Fingal's absence
on an expedition in Ireland, made a descent on Morven,
and advanced within sight of Selma, the royal residence. Fingal
arrived in the mean time, and Lathmon retreated to a
hill, where his army was surprised by night, and himself taken
prisoner by Ossian and Gaul, the son of Morni. The
poem opens with the first appearance of Fingal on the coast
of Morven, and ends, it may be supposed, about noon the
next day.
Macpherson.
Selma, thy halls are silent.
Selma, thy halls are silent. There is no sound
in the woods of Morven. The wave tumbles
alone on the coast. The silent beam of the sun
is on the field. The daughters of Morven come
forth, like the bow of the shower; they look towards
green Erin for the white sails of the king.
He had promised to return, but the winds of the
north arose!
Who pours from the eastern hill, like a stream
of darkness? It is the host of Lathmon. He has
heard of the absence of Fingal. He trusts in
the wind of the north. His soul brightens with
joy. Why dost thou come, O Lathmon? The
mighty are not in Selma. Why comest thou with
thy forward spear? Will the daughters of Morven
fight? But stop, O mighty stream, in thy
course! Does not Lathmon behold these sails?
Why dost thou vanish, Lathmon, like the mist
of the lake? But the squally storm is behind
thee: Fingal pursues thy steps!
The king of Morven had started from sleep,
as we rolled on the dark-blue wave. He stretched
his hand to the spear, his heroes rose around.
We knew that he had seen his fathers, for they
often descended to his dreams, when the sword
of the foe rose over the land; and the battle
darkened before us. “Whither hast thou fled,
O wind!” said the king of Morven. “Dost
thou rustle in the chambers of the south, pursuest
thou the shower in other lands? Why dost
thou not come to my sails? to the blue face of
my seas? The foe is in the land of Morven, and
the king is absent far. But let each bind on his
mail, and each assume his shield. Stretch every
spear over the wave: let every sword be unsheathed.
Lathmon is before us with his host;
he that fled from Fingal on the plains of Lona.
But he returns, like a collected stream, and his
roar is between our hills.
Such were the words of Fingal. We rushed
into Carmona's bay. Ossian ascended the hill:
He thrice struck his bossy shield. The rock of
Morven replied; the bounding roes came forth.
The foe was troubled in my presence: he collected
his darkened host. I stood, like a cloud
on the hill, rejoicing in the arms of my youth.
Morni sat beneath a tree, at the roaring waters
of Strumon: his locks of age are grey: he
leans forward on his staff; young Gaul is near
the hero, hearing the battles of his father. Often
did he rise, in the fire of his soul, at the mighty
deeds of Morni. The aged heard the sound of
Ossian's shield: he knew the sign of war. He
started at once from his place. His grey hair
parted on his back. He remembered the deeds of
other years.
“My son,” he said to fair-haired Gaul, “I
hear the sound of war. The king of Morven is
returned, his signals are spread on the wind. Go
to the halls of Strumon; bring his arms to Morni.
Bring the shield of my father's latter years;
for my arm begins to fail. Take thou thy armour,
O Gaul, and rush to the first of thy battles.
Let thine arm reach to the renown of thy
fathers. Be thy course in the field, like the eagle's
wing. Why shouldst thou fear death, my son?
the valiant fall with fame; their shields turn the
dark stream of danger away; renown dwells
on their aged hairs. Dost thou not see, O Gaul,
how the steps of my age are honoured? Morni
moves forth, and the young meet him, with
awe, and turn their eyes, with silent joy, on his
course. But I never fled from danger, my son!
my sword lightened through the darkness of war.
The stranger melted before me; the mighty
were blasted in my presence.”
Gaul brought the arms to Morni: the aged
warrior is covered with steel. He took the spear
in his hand, which was stained with the blood
of the valiant. He came towards Fingal, his son
attended his steps. The son of Comhal arose
before him with joy, when he came in his locks
of age.
“Chief of roaring Strumon!” said the rising
soul of Fingal, “do I behold thee in arms, after
thy strength has failed? Often has Morni shone
in fight, like the beam of the ascending sun;
when he disperses the storms of the hill, and
brings peace to the glittering fields. But why
didst thou not rest in thine age? Thy renown
is in the song. The people behold thee, and
bless the departure of mighty Morni. Why didst
thou not rest in thine age! The foe will vanish
before Fingal!”
“Son of Comhal,” replied the chief, “the
strength of Morni's arm has failed. I attempt to
draw the sword of my youth, but it remains in
its place. I throw the spear, but it falls short of
the mark. I feel the weight of my shield. We
decay like the grass of the hill: our strength returns
no more. I have a son, O Fingal, his
soul has delighted in Morni's deeds; but his
sword has not been lifted against a foe, neither
has his fame begun. I come with him to war;
to direct his arm in fight. His renown will be
a light to my soul, in the dark hour of my departure.
O that the name of Morni were forgot
among the people! that the heroes would only
say, “Behold the father of Gaul!”
“King of Strumon,” Fingal replied, “Gaul
shall lift the sword in fight. But he shall lift it
before Fingal; my arm shall defend his youth.
But rest thou in the halls of Selma, and hear of
our renown. Bid the harp to be strung; and
the voice of the bard to arise, that those who fall
may rejoice in their fame; and the soul of Morni
brighten with joy. Ossian! thou hast fought in
battles: the blood of strangers is on thy spear:
thy course be with Gaul, in the strife; but depart
not from the side of Fingal! lest the foe
should find you alone, and your fame fail in my
presence.”
I saw Gaul in his arms; my soul was mixed
with his. The fire of the battle was in his eyes!
he looked to the foe with joy. We spoke the
words of friendship in secret; the lightning of
our swords poured together; for we drew them
behind the wood, and tried the strength of our
arms on the empty air.
Night came down on Morven. Fingal sat at
the beam of the oak. Morni sat at his side, with
all his grey waving locks. Their words were of
other times, of the mighty deeds of their fathers.
Three bards, at times, touch the harp; Ullin was
near with his song. He sung of the mighty
Comhal; but darkness gathered on Morni's brow.
He rolled his red eye on Ullin: at once ceased
the song of the bard. Fingal observed the aged
hero, and he mildly spoke. “Chief of Strumon,
why that darkness? Let the days of other years
be forgot. Our fathers contended in war; but
we meet together at the feast. Our swords are
turned on the foe of our land: he melts before
us on the field. Let the days of our fathers be
forgot, hero of mossy Strumon!”
“King of Morven,” replied the chief, “I remember
thy father with joy. He was terrible in
battle; the rage of the chief was deadly. My
eyes were full of tears, when the king of heroes
fell. The valiant fall, O Fingal! the feeble remain
on the hills! How many heroes have passed
away, in the days of Morni! Yet I did not
shun the battle; neither did I fly from the strife
of the valiant. Now let the friends of Fingal
rest; for the night is around; that they may
rise, with strength, to battle against car-borne
Lathmon. I hear the sound of his host, like
thunder moving on the hills. Ossian! and fair-haired
Gaul! ye are young and swift in the race.
Observe the foes of Fingal from that woody hill.
But approach them not, your fathers are not near
to shield you. Let not your fame fall at once.
The valour of youth may fail!”
We heard the words of the chief with joy.
We moved in the clang of our arms. Our steps
are on the woody hill. Heaven burns with all
its stars. The meteors of death fly over the
field. The distant noise of the foe reached our
ears. It was then Gaul spoke, in his valour: his
hand half-unsheathed the sword.
“Son of Fingal,” he said, “why burns the
soul of Gaul? My heart beats high. My steps
are disordered; my hand trembles on my sword.
When I look towards the foe, my soul lightens
before me. I see their sleeping host. Tremble
thus the souls of the valiant in battles of the
spear? How would the soul of Morni rise, if
we should rush on the foe! Our renown would
grow in song: Our steps would be stately in the
eyes of the brave.”
“Son of Morni,” I replied, “my soul delights
in war. I delight to shine in battle alone, to
give my name to the bards. But what if the foe
should prevail; can I behold the eyes of the
king! They are terrible in his displeasure, and
like the flames of death. But I will not behold
them in his wrath! Ossian shall prevail, or fall.
But shall the fame of the vanquished rise? They
pass like a shade away. But the fame of Ossian
shall rise! His deeds shall be like his father's.
Let us rush in our arms; son of Morni, let us
rush to fight. Gaul! if thou should'st return, go
to Selma's lofty hall. Tell to Evirallin, that I
fell with fame; carry this sword to Branno's
daughter. Let her give it to Oscar, when the
years of his youth shall arise.”
“Son of Fingal,” Gaul replied, with a sigh;
“shall I return after Ossian is low? What would
my father say, what Fingal the king of men?
The feeble would turn their eyes, and say, “Behold
Gaul, who left his friend in his blood!” Ye
shall not behold me, ye feeble, but in the midst
of my renown. Ossian! I have heard from my
father the mighty deeds of heroes; their mighty
deeds when alone; for the soul increases in danger.”
“Son of Morni,” I replied, and strode before
him on the heath, “our fathers shall praise our
valour, when they mourn our fall. A beam of
gladness shall rise on their souls, when their eyes
are full of tears. They will say, “Our sons have
not fallen unknown: they spread death around
them.” But why should we think of the narrow
house? The sword defends the brave. But
death pursues the flight of the feeble; their renown
is never heard.”
We rushed forward through night; we came
to the roar of a stream, which bent its blue
course round the foe, through trees that echoed
to its sound. We came to the bank of the stream,
and saw the sleeping host. Their fires were decayed
on the plain; the lonely steps of their
scouts were distant far. I stretched my spear
before me, to support my steps over the stream.
But Gaul took my hand, and spoke the words
of the brave. “Shall the son of Fingal rush
on the sleeping foe? Shall he come like a blast
by night, when it overturns the young trees in
secret? Fingal did not thus receive his fame,
nor dwells renown on the grey hairs of Morni,
for actions like these. Strike, Ossian, strike the
shield, and let their thousands rise. Let them
meet Gaul in his first battle, that he may try the
strength of his arm.”
My soul rejoiced over the warrior; my bursting
tears came down. “And the foe shall meet
thee, Gaul!” I said; “the fame of Morni's son
shall arise. But rush not too far, my hero; let
the gleam of thy steel be near to Ossian. Let
our hands join in slaughter. Gaul! dost thou
not behold that rock? Its grey side dimly gleams
to the stars. Should the foe prevail, let our back
be towards the rock. Then shall they fear to
approach our spears; for death is in our hands!”
I struck thrice my echoing shield. The starting
foe arose. We rushed on in the sound of our
arms. Their crowded steps fly over the heath.
They thought that the mighty Fingal was come.
The strength of their arms withered away. The
sound of their flight was like that of flame, when
it rushes through the blasted groves. It was
then the spear of Gaul flew in its strength; it
was then his sword arose. Cremor fell; and
mighty Leth. Dunthormo struggled in his blood.
The steel rushed through Crotho's side, as bent,
he rose on his spear; the black stream poured
from the wound, and hissed on the half-extinguished
oak. Cathmin saw the steps of the
hero behind him; he ascended a blasted tree; but
the spear pierced him from behind. Shrieking,
panting, he fell. Moss and withered branches
pursue his fall, and strew the blue arms of
Gaul.
Such were thy deeds, son of Morni, in the first
of thy battles. Nor slept the sword by thy side,
thou last of Fingal's race! Ossian rushed forward
in his strength; the people fell before him;
as the grass by the staff of the boy, when he
whistles along the field, and the grey beard of
the thistle falls. But careless the youth moves
on; his steps are towards the desert. Grey
morning rose around us; the winding streams are
bright along the heath. The foe gathered on a
hill; and the rage of Lathmon rose. He bent
the red eye of his wrath: he is silent in his rising
grief. He often struck his bossy shield; and
his steps are unequal on the heath. I saw the
distant darkness of the hero, and I spoke to
Morni's son.
Car-borne chief of Strumon, dost thou behold
the foe? They gather on the hill in their wrath.
Let our steps be towards the king. He shall rise
in his strength, and the host of Lathmon vanish.
Our fame is around us, warrior; the eyes
of the aged will rejoice. But let us fly, son of
Morni, Lathmon descends the hill. “Then let
our steps be slow,” replied the fair-haired Gaul,
“lest the foe say, with a smile, “Behold the warriors
of night. They are, like ghosts, terrible in
darkness; they melt away before the beam of
the east. Ossian, take the shield of Gormar,
who fell beneath thy spear. The aged heroes will
rejoice, beholding the deeds of their sons.”
Such were our words on the plain, when Sulmath
came to car-borne Lathmon: Sulmath,
chief of Dutha, at the dark-rolling stream of
Duvranna. “Why dost thou not rush, son of
Nuäth, with a thousand of thy heroes? Why
dost thou not descend with thy host, before the
warriors fly? Their blue arms are beaming to
the rising light, and their steps are before us on
the heath!”
“Son of the feeble hand,” said Lathmon,
“shall my host descend! They are but two, son
of Dutha; shall a thousand lift their steel! Nuäth
would mourn, in his hall, for the departure
of his fame. His eyes would turn from Lathmon,
when the tread of his feet approached. Go
thou to the heroes, chief of Dutha. I behold the
stately steps of Ossian. His fame is worthy of
my steel! let us contend in fight.”
The noble Sulmath came. I rejoiced in the
words of the king. I raised the shield on my
arm; Gaul placed in my hand the sword of Morni.
We returned to the murmuring stream;
Lathmon came down in his strength. His dark
host rolled, like clouds, behind him: but the
son of Nuäth was bright in his steel!
“Son of Fingal,” said the hero, “thy fame
has grown on our fall. How many lie there of
my people by thy hand, thou king of men! Lift
now thy spear against Lathmon; lay the son of
Nuäth low! Lay him low among his warriors,
or thou thyself must fall! It shall never be told
in my halls, that my people fell in my presence;
that they fell in the presence of Lathmon, when
his sword rested by his side: the blue eyes of
Cutha would roll in tears; her steps be lonely in
the vales of Dunlathmon!”
“Neither shall it be told,” I replied, “that
the son of Fingal fled. Were his steps covered
with darkness, yet would not Ossian fly! his
soul would meet him, and say, “Does the bard
of Selma fear the foe?” No: he does not fear
the foe. His joy is in the midst of battle!”
Lathmon came on with his spear. He pierced
the shield of Ossian. I felt the cold steel by my
side. I drew the sword of Morni. I cut the
spear in twain. The bright point fell glittering
on earth. The son of Nuäth burnt in his wrath.
He lifted high his sounding shield. His dark
eyes rolled above it, as bending forward, it shone
like a gate of brass! But Ossian's spear pierced
the brightness of his bosses, and sunk in a
tree that rose behind. The shield hung on the
quivering lance! but Lathmon still advanced!
Gaul foresaw the fall of the chief. He stretched
his buckler before my sword; when it descended,
in a stream of light, over the king of Dunlathmon!
Lathmon beheld the son of Morni. The tear
started from his eye. He threw the sword of his
fathers on earth, and spoke the words of the
brave. “Why should Lathmon fight against
the first of men? Your souls are beams from heaven;
your swords the flames of death! Who
can equal the renown of the heroes, whose deeds
are so great in youth? O that ye were in the
halls of Nuäth, in the green dwelling of Lathmon!
then would my father say, that his son
did not yield to the weak! But who comes, a
mighty stream, along the echoing heath? the
little hills are troubled before him; a thousand
ghosts are on the beams of his steel; the ghosts
of those who are to fall, by the arm of the
king of resounding Morven. Happy art thou,
O Fingal, thy sons shall fight thy wars. They
go forth before thee; they return with the steps
of their renown!”
Fingal came, in his mildness, rejoicing in secret
over the deeds of his son. Morni's face
brightened with gladness; his aged eyes look
faintly through tears of joy. We came to the
halls of Selma. We sat around the feast of shells.
The maids of song came into our presence, and
the mildly blushing Evirallin! Her hair spreads
on her neck of snow; her eye rolls, in secret, on
Ossian. She touched the harp of music; we
blessed the daughter of Branno.
Fingal rose in his place, and spoke to Lathmon,
king of spears. The sword of Trenmor
shook by his side, as high he raised his mighty
arm. “Son of Nuäth,” he said, “why dost thou
search for fame on Morven? We are not of the
race of the feeble; our swords gleam not over
the weak. When did we rouse thee, O Lathmon,
with the sound of war? Fingal does not delight
in battle, though his arm is strong! My
renown grows on the fall of the haughty. The
light of my steel pours on the proud in arms.
The battle comes; and the tombs of the valiant
rise; the tombs of my people rise, O my fathers!
I at last must remain alone! But I will remain
renowned; the departure of my soul shall be a
stream of light. Lathmon! retire to thy place!
Turn thy battles to other lands! The race of
Morven are renowned; their foes are the sons of
the unhappy!”