OITHONA:
A POEM.
ARGUMENT.
Gaul, the son of Morni, attended Lathmon into his own country,
after his being defeated in Morven, as related in the preceding
poem. He was kindly entertained by Nuäth, the father
of Lathmon, and fell in love with his daughter Oithona.
The lady was no less enamoured of Gaul, and a day was fixed
for their marriage. In the mean time Fingal, preparing for
an expedition into the country of the Britons, sent for Gaul.
He obeyed, and went; but not without promising to Oithona
to return, if he survived the war, by a certain day. Lathmon
too was obliged to attend his father Nuäth in his wars,
and Oithona was left alone at Dunlathmon, the seat of the
family. Dunrommath, lord of Uthal, supposed to be one of
the Orkneys, taking advantage of the absence of her friends,
came and carried off, by force, Oithona, who had formerly
rejected his love, into Tromathon, a desert island, where he
concealed her in a cave.
Gaul returned on the day appointed; heard of the rape, and
sailed to Tromathon, to revenge himself on Dunrommath.
When he landed, he found Oithona disconsolate, and resolved
not to survive the loss of her honour. She told him the story
of her misfortunes, and she scarce ended, when Dunrommath,
with his followers, appeared at the further end of the
island. Gaul prepared to attack him, recommending to Oithona
to retire, till the battle was over. She seemingly obeyed;
but she secretly armed herself, rushed into the thickest
of the battle, and was mortally wounded. Gaul, pursuing
the flying enemy, found her just expiring on the field: he
mourned over her, raised her tomb, and returned to Morven.
Thus is the story handed down by tradition; nor is it
given with any material difference in the poem, which opens
with Gaul's return to Dunlathmon, after the rape of Oithona.
Macpherson.
Darkness dwells around Dunlathmon
Darkness dwells around Dunlathmon, though
the moon shews half her face on the hill. The
daughter of night turns her eyes away; she beholds
the approaching grief. The son of Morni
is on the plain: there is no sound in the hall.
No long-streaming beam of light comes trembling
through the gloom. The voice of Oithona
is not heard amidst the noise of the streams
of Duvranna. “Whither art thou gone in thy
beauty, dark-haired daughter of Nuäth? Lathmon
is in the field of the valiant, but thou didst
promise to remain in the hall; thou didst promise
to remain in the hall till the son of Morni
returned. Till he returned from Strumon, to
the maid of his love! the tear was on thy cheek
at his departure; the sigh rose in secret in thy
breast. But thou dost not come forth with
songs, with the lightly-trembling sound of the
harp!”
Such were the words of Gaul, when he came
to Dunlathmon's towers. The gates were open
and dark. The winds were blustering in the
hall. The trees strowed the threshold with
leaves; the murmur of night was abroad. Sad
and silent, at a rock, the son of Morni sat: his
soul trembled for the maid; but he knew not
whither to turn his course! The son of Leth
stood at a distance, and heard the winds in his
bushy hair. But he did not raise his voice, for
he saw the sorrow of Gaul!
Sleep descended on the chiefs. The visions
of night arose. Oithona stood, in a dream, before
the eyes of Morni's son. Her hair was loose
and disordered: her lovely eye rolled deep in
tears. Blood stained her snowy arm. The robe
half hid the wound in her breast. She stood
over the chief, and her voice was feebly heard.
“Sleeps the son of Morni, he that was lovely in
the eyes of Oithona? Sleeps Gaul at the distant
rock, and the daughter of Nuäth low? The sea
rolls round the dark isle of Tromathon. I sit
in my tears in the cave! Nor do I sit alone, O
Gaul, the dark chief of Cuthal is there. He is
there in the rage of his love. What can Oithona
do?”
A rougher blast rushed through the oak. The
dream of night departed. Gaul took his aspen
spear. He stood in the rage of his soul. Often
did his eyes turn to the east. He accused
the lagging light. At length the morning came
forth. The hero lifted up the sail. The winds
came rustling from the hill; he bounded on the
waves of the deep. On the third day arose Tromathon,
like a blue shield in the midst of the
sea. The white wave roared against its rocks;
sad Oithona sat on the coast! She looked on the
rolling waters, and her tears came down. But
when she saw Gaul in his arms, she started and
turned her eyes away. Her lovely cheek is bent
and red; her white arm trembles by her side.
Thrice she strove to fly from his presence; thrice
her steps failed her as she went!
“Daughter of Nuäth,” said the hero, “why
dost thou fly from Gaul. Do my eyes send forth
the flame of death? Darkens hatred in my soul?
Thou art to me the beam of the east, rising in a
land unknown. But thou coverest thy face with
sadness, daughter of car-borne Nuäth! Is the foe
of Oithona near? My soul burns to meet him
in fight. The sword trembles by the side of
Gaul, and longs to glitter in his hand. Speak,
daughter of Nuäth, dost thou not behold my
tears!”
“Young chief of Strumon,” replied the maid,
“why comest thou over the dark-blue wave, to
Nuäth's mournful daughter? Why did I not pass
away in secret, like the flower of the rock, that
lifts its fair head unseen, and strows its withered
leaves on the blast? Why didst thou come, O
Gaul, to hear my departing sigh? I vanish in
my youth; my name shall not be heard. Or
it will be heard with grief; the tears of Nuäth
must fall. Thou wilt be sad, son of Morni, for
the departed fame of Oithona. But she shall
sleep in the narrow tomb, far from the voice of
the mourner. Why didst thou come, chief of
Strumon, to the sea-beat rocks of Tromathon?”
“I came to meet thy foes, daughter of car-borne
Nuäth! the death of Cuthal's chief darkens
before me; or Morni's son shall fall! Oithona!
when Gaul is low, raise my tomb on that
oozy rock. When the dark-bounding ship shall
pass, call the sons of the sea! call them, and
give this sword, to bear it hence to Morni's hall.
The grey-haired chief will then cease to look
towards the desert, for the return of his son!”
“Shall the daughter of Nuäth live?” she replied
with a bursting sigh, “Shall I live in
Tromathon, and the son of Morni low? My
heart is not of that rock; nor my soul careless
as that sea; which lifts its blue waves to every
wind, and rolls beneath the storm! The blast
which shall lay thee low, shall spread the
branches of Oithona on earth. We shall wither
together, son of car-borne Morni! The narrow
house is pleasant to me, and the grey stone of
the dead. for never more will I leave thy rocks,
O sea-surrounded Tromathon! Night came on
with her clouds, after the departure of Lathmon,
when he went to the wars of his fathers, to the
moss-covered rock of Duthormoth. Night came
on. I sat in the hall, at the beam of the oak!
The wind was abroad in the trees. I heard the
sound of arms. Joy rose in my face. I thought
of thy return. It was the chief of Cuthal, the
red-haired strength of Dunrommath. His eyes
rolled in fire: the blood of my people was on
his sword. They who defended Oithona fell by
the gloomy chief! What could I do? My arm
was weak. I could not lift the spear. He took
me in my grief, amidst my tears he raised the
sail. He feared the returning Lathmon, the brother
of unhappy Oithona! But behold he comes
with his people! the dark wave is divided before
him! Whither wilt thou turn thy steps, son of
Morni? Many are the warriors of thy foe!”
“My steps never turned from battle,” Gaul
said and unsheathed his sword. “Shall I then
begin to fear, Oithona, when thy foes are near?
Go to thy cave, my love, till our battle cease on
the field. Son of Leth, bring the bows of our
fathers! the sounding quiver of Morni! Let our
three warriors bend the yew. Ourselves will
lift the spear. They are an host on the rock!
our souls are strong in war!”
Oithona went to the cave. A troubled joy
rose on her mind, like the red path of lightning
on a stormy cloud! Her soul was resolved; the
tear was dried from her wildly-looking eye.
Dunrommath slowly approached. He saw the
son of Morni. Contempt contracted his face,
a smile is on his dark-brown cheek; his red
eye rolled, half-concealed, beneath his shaggy
brows!
“Whence are the sons of the sea,” begun the
gloomy chief? “Have the winds driven you
on the rocks of Tromathon? Or come you in
search of the white-handed maid? The sons of
the unhappy, ye feeble men, come to the hand
of Dunrommath! His eye spares not the weak;
he delights in the blood of strangers. Oithona
is a beam of light, and the chief of Cuthal enjoys
it in secret; wouldst thou come on its loveliness,
like a cloud, son of the feeble hand! Thou
mayst come, but shalt thou return to the halls
of thy fathers?” “Dost thou not know me,”
said Gaul, “red-haired chief of Cuthal? Thy
feet were swift on the heath, in the battle of
car-borne Lathmon; when the sword of Morni's
son pursued his host, in Morven's woody
land. Dunrommath! thy words are mighty,
for thy warriors gather behind thee. But do I
fear them, son of pride? I am not of the race of
the feeble!”
Gaul advanced in his arms; Dunrommath
shrunk behind his people. But the spear of
Gaul pierced the gloomy chief; his sword lopped
off his head, as it bended in death. The
son of Morni shook it thrice by the lock; the
warriors of Dunrommath fled. The arrows of
Morven pursued them: ten fell on the mossy
rocks. The rest lift the sounding sail, and
bound on the troubled deep. Gaul advanced
towards the cave of Oithona. He beheld a
youth leaning on a rock. An arrow had pierced
his side; his eye rolled faintly beneath his helmet.
The soul of Morni's son was sad, he came
and spoke the words of peace.
“Can the hand of Gaul heal thee, youth of
the mournful brow? I have searched for the
herbs of the mountains; I have gathered them
on the secret banks of their streams. My
hand has closed the wound of the brave, their
eyes have blessed the son of Morni. Where
dwelt thy fathers, warrior? Were they of the
sons of the mighty? Sadness shall come, like
night, on thy native streams. Thou art fallen
in thy youth!”
“My fathers,” replied the stranger, “were
of the race of the mighty; but they shall not be
sad; for my fame is departed like morning mist.
High walls rise on the banks of Duvranna; and
see their mossy towers in the stream; a rock
ascends behind them with its bending pines.
Thou mayst behold it far distant. There my
brother dwells. He is renowned in battle: give
him this glittering helm.”
The helmet fell from the hand of Gaul. It
was the wounded Oithona! She had armed herself
in the cave, and came in search of death.
Her heavy eyes are half closed; the blood pours
from her heaving side. “Son of Morni,” she
said, “prepare the narrow tomb. Sleep grows,
like darkness, on my soul. The eyes of Oithona
are dim! O had I dwelt at Duvranna, in the
bright beam of my fame! then had my years
come on with joy; the virgins would then bless
my steps. But I fall in youth, son of Morni;
my father shall blush in his hall!”
She fell pale on the rock of Tromathon. The
mournful warrior raised her tomb. He came to
Morven; we saw the darkness of his soul. Ossian
took the harp in the praise of Oithona. The
brightness of the face of Gaul returned. But his
sigh rose, at times, in the midst of his friends;
like blasts that shake their unfrequent wings,
after the stormy winds are laid!