CROMA:
A POEM.
ARGUMENT.
Malvina, the daughter of Toscar, is overheard by Ossian lamenting
the death of Oscar her lover. Ossian, to divert her
grief, relates his own actions in an expedition which he undertook,
at Fingal's command, to aid Crothar, the petty king
of Croma, a country in Ireland, against Rothmar, who invaded
his dominions. The story is delivered down thus in tradition.
Crothar, king of Croma, being blind with age, and
his son too young for the field, Rothmar, the chief of Tromlo,
resolved to avail himself of the opportunity offered of annexing
the dominions of Crothar to his own. He accordingly
marched into the country subject to Crothar, but which he
held of Arth, or Artho, who was, at the time, supreme king
of Ireland.
Crothar being, on account of his age and blindness, unfit for action,
sent for aid to Fingal, king of Scotland; who ordered
his son Ossian to the relief of Crothar. But before his arrival,
Fovargormo, the son of Crothar, attacking Rothmar,
was slain himself, and his forces totally defeated. Ossian renewed
the war; came to battle, killed Rothmar, and routed
his army. Croma being thus delivered of its enemies, Ossian
returned to Scotland.
Macpherson.
It was the voice of my love!
“It was the voice of my love! seldom art
thou in the dreams of Malvina! Open your
airy halls, O fathers of Toscar of shields! Unfold
the gates of your clouds: the steps of Malvina
are near. I have heard a voice in my
dream. I feel the fluttering of my soul. Why
didst thou come, O blast, from the dark-rolling
face of the lake? Thy rustling wing was in the
tree; the dream of Malvina fled. But she beheld
her love, when his robe of mist flew on the
wind. A sun-beam was on his skirts, they glittered
like the gold of the stranger. It was
the voice of my love! seldom comes he to my
dreams!”
“But thou dwellest in the soul of Malvina,
son of mighty Ossian! My sighs arise with the
beam of the east; my tears descend with the
drops of night. I was a lovely tree, in thy
presence, Oscar, with all my branches round me;
but thy death came like a blast from the desert,
and laid my green head low. The spring returned
with its showers; no leaf of mine arose!
The virgins saw me silent in the hall; they
touched the harp of joy. The tear was on the
cheek of Malvina: the virgins beheld me in my
grief. Why art thou sad, they said, thou first
of the maids of Lutha? Was he lovely as the
beam of the morning, and stately in thy sight?”
Pleasant is thy song in Ossian's ear, daughter
of streamy Lutha! Thou hast heard the music
of departed bards, in the dream of thy rest, when
sleep fell on thine eyes, at the murmur of Moruth.
When thou didst return from the chace,
in the day of the sun, thou hast heard the music
of bards, and thy song is lovely! It is lovely,
O Malvina, but it melts the soul. There is a
joy in grief when peace dwells in the breast of
the sad. But sorrow wastes the mournful, O
daughter of Toscar, and their days are few!
They fall away, like the flower on which the
sun hath looked in his strength after the mildew
has passed over it, when its head is heavy
with the drops of night. Attend to the tale
of Ossian, O maid. He remembers the days of
his youth!
The king commanded; I raised my sails, and
rushed into the bay of Croma; into Croma's
sounding bay in lovely Inisfail. High on the
coast arose the towers of Crothar king of spears;
Crothar renowned in the battles of his youth;
but age dwelt then around the chief. Rothmar
had raised the sword against the hero; and the
wrath of Fingal burned. He sent Ossian to
meet Rothmar in war, for the chief of Croma
was the friénd of his youth. I sent the bard before
me with songs. I came into the hall of
Crothar. There sat the chief amidst the arms of
his fathers, but his eyes had failed. His grey
locks waved around a staff, on which the warrior
leaned. He hummed the song of other
times, when the sound of our arms reached his
ears. Crothar rose, stretched his aged hand and
blessed the son of Fingal.
“Ossian!” said the hero, “the strength of
Crothar's arm has failed. O could I lift the
sword, as on the day that Fingal fought at Strutha!
He was the first of men! but Crothar had
also his fame. The king of Morven praised me;
he placed on my arm the bossy shield of Calthar,
whom the king had slain in his wars. Dost
thou not behold it on the wall, for Crothar's
eyes have failed? Is thy strength, like thy father's,
Ossian? let the aged feel thine arm!”
I gave my arm to the king; he felt it with
his aged hands. The sigh rose in his breast,
and his tears came down. “Thou art strong,
my son,” he said, “but not like the king of
Morven! But who is like the hero among the
mighty in war! Let the feast of my hall be
spread; and let my bards exalt the song. Great
is he that is within my walls, ye sons of echoing
Croma!” The feast is spread. The harp is heard;
and joy is in the hall. But it was joy covering
a sigh, that darkly dwelt in every breast. It
was like a faint beam of the moon spread on a
cloud in heaven. At length the music ceased,
and the aged king of Croma spoke; he spoke
without a tear, but sorrow swelled in the midst
of his voice.
“Son of Fingal! beholdest thou not the darkness
of Crothar's joy? My soul was not sad at
the feast, when the people lived before me. I
rejoiced in the presence of strangers, when my
son shone in the hall. But, Ossian, he is a beam
that is departed. He left no streak of light
behind. He is fallen, son of Fingal, in the wars
of his father. Rothmar, the chief of grassy Tromlo,
heard that these eyes had failed; he heard that
my arms were fixed in the hall, and the pride of
his soul arose! He came towards Croma; my
people fell before him. I took my arms in my
wrath, but what could sightless Crothar do? My
steps were unequal; my grief was great. I wished
for the days that were past. Days wherein
I fought; and won in the field of blood. My
son returned from the chace; the fair-haired
Fovar-gormo. He had not lifted his sword in
battle, for his arm was young. But the soul of
the youth was great; the fire of valour burnt in
his eyes. He saw the disordered steps of his father,
and his sighs arose. “King of Croma,” he
said, “is it because thou hast no son; is it for
the weakness of Fovar-gormo's arm that thy
sighs arise? I begin, my father, to feel my
strength; I have drawn the sword of my youth;
and I have bent the bow. Let me meet this
Rothmar, with the sons of Croma: let me meet
him, O my father; I feel my burning soul!”
And thou shalt meet him, I said, son of the
sightless Crothar! But let others advance before
thee, that I may hear the tread of thy feet
at thy return; for my eyes behold thee not,
fair-haired Fovar-gormo! He went, he met the
foe; he fell. Rothmar advances to Croma. He
who slew my son is near, with all his pointed
spears.”
This is no time to fill the shell, I replied, and
took my spear! My people saw the fire of my
eyes; they all arose around. Through night we
strode along the heath. Grey morning rose in
the east. A green narrow vale appeared before
us; nor wanting was its winding stream. The
dark host of Rothmar are on its banks, with all
their glittering arms. We fought along the vale.
They fled. Rothmar sunk beneath my sword!
Day had not descended in the west, when I
brought his arms to Crothar. The aged hero
felt them with his hands; and joy brightened
over all his thoughts.
The people gather to the hall. The shells of
the feast are heard. Ten harps are strung; five
bards advance, and sing, by turns, the praise
of Ossian; they poured forth their burning souls,
and the string answered to their voice. The joy
of Croma was great: for peace returned to the
land. The night came on with silence; the
morning returned with joy. No foe came in
darkness, with his glittering spear. The joy of
Croma was great; for the gloomy Rothmar had
fallen!
I raised my voice for Fovar-gormo, when
they laid the chief in earth. The aged Crothar
was there, but his sigh was not heard. He searched
for the wound of his son, and found it in his
breast. Joy rose in the face of the aged. He
came and spoke to Ossian. “King of spears!”
he said, “my son has not fallen without his
fame. The young warrior did not fly; but met
death, as he went forward in his strength. Happy
are they who die in youth, when their renown
is heard! The feeble will not behold them
in the hall; or smile at their trembling hands.
Their memory shall be honoured in song; the
young tear of the virgin will fall. But the aged
wither away, by degrees; the fame of their youth,
while they yet live, is all forgot. They fall in
secret. The sigh of their son is not heard. Joy
is around their tomb; the stone of their fame is
placed without a tear. Happy are they who die
in youth, when their renown is around them.