BOOK III.
ARGUMENT.
Morning coming on, Fingal, after a speech to his people, devolves
the command on Gaul, the son of Morni; it being the
custom of the times, that the king should not engage till the
necessity of affairs required his superior valour and conduct.
The king and Ossian retire to the rock of Cormul, which
overlooked the field of battle. The bards sing the war-song.
The general conflict is described. Gaul, the son of Morni,
distinguishes himself; kills Tur-lathon, chief of Moruth, and
other chiefs of lesser name. On the other hand, Foldath,
who commanded the Irish army, (for Cathmor, after the example
of Fingal, kept himself from battle) fights gallantly;
kills Connal, chief of Dun-lora, and advances to engage
Gaul himself. Gaul, in the mean time, being wounded in
the hand, by a random arrow, is covered by Fillan, the son
of Fingal, who performs prodigies of valour. Night comes
on. The horn of Fingal reealls his army. The bards meet
them, with a congratulatory song, in which the praises of
Gaul and Fillan are particularly celebrated. The chiefs sit
down at a feast; Fingal misses Connal. The episode of Connal
and Duth-caron is introduced; which throws further
light on the ancient history of Ireland. Carril is dispatched
to raise the tomb of Connal. The action of this book takes
up the second day, from the opening of the poem.
Macpherson.
Who is that at blue-streaming Lubar? Who,
by the bending hill of roes? Tall, he leans on
an oak torn from high, by nightly winds. Who
but Comhal's son, brightening in the last of his
fields? His grey hair is on the breeze. He half
unsheaths the sword of Luno. His eyes are
turned to Moi-lena, to the dark moving of foes.
Dost thou hear the voice of the king? It is like
the bursting of a stream in the desert, when it
comes, between its echoing rocks, to the blasted
field of the sun!
“Wide-skirted comes down the foe! Sons of
woody Selma, arise. Be ye like the rocks of our
land, on whose brown sides are the rolling of
streams. A beam of joy comes on my soul. I
see the foe mighty before me. It is when he is
feeble, that the sighs of Fingal are heard: lest
death should come, without renown, and darkness
dwell on his tomb. Who shall lead the war
against the host of Alnecma? It is only when
danger grows that my sword shall shine. Such
was the custom, heretofore, of Trenmor, the ruler
of winds! and thus descended to battle the
blue-shielded Trathal!”
The chiefs bend toward the king. Each darkly
seems to claim the war. They tell, by halves,
their mighty deeds. They turn their eyes on
Erin. But far before the rest the son of Morni
stands. Silent he stands; for who had not
heard of the battles of Gaul? They rose within
his soul. His hand, in secret, seized the sword.
The sword which he brought from Strumon,
when the strength of Morni failed.
On his spear leans Fillan of Selma, in the
wandering of his locks. Thrice he raised his eyes
to Fingal: his voice thrice fails him as he speaks.
My brother could not boast of battles: at once
he strides away. Bent over a distant stream he
stands: the tear hangs in his eye. He strikes, at
times, the thistle's head, with his inverted spear.
Nor is he unseen of Fingal. Sidelong he beholds
his son. He beholds him with bursting joy; and
turns, amid his crowded soul. In silence turns
the king towards Mora of woods. He hides the
big tear with his locks. At length his voice is
heard.
“First of the sons of Morni! Thou rock that
defiest the storm! lead thou my battle, for the
race of low-laid Cormac. No boy's staff is thy
spear: no harmless beam of light thy sword.
Son of Morni of steeds, behold the foe! Destroy!
Fillan, observe the chief! He is not calm
in strife; nor burns he, heedless, in battle. My
son, observe the chief! He is strong as Lubar's
streams; but never foams and roars. High on
cloudy Mora, Fingal shall behold the war. Stand,
Ossian, near thy father, by the falling stream.
Raise the voice, O bards! Selma, move beneath
the sound. It is my latter field. Clothe it over
with light.”
As the sudden rising of winds, or distant rolling
of troubled seas, when some dark ghost, in
wrath, heaves the billows over an isle: an isle,
the seat of mist, on the deep, for many dark-brown
years! So terrible is the sound of the
host, wide-moving over the field. Gaul is tall
before them. The streams glitter within his
strides. The bards raise the song by his side.
He strikes his shield between. On the skirts of
the blast, the tuneful voices rise.
“On Crona,” said the bards, “there bursts a
stream by night. It swells in its own dark course,
till morning's early beam. Then comes it white
from the hill, with the rocks and their hundred
groves. Far be my steps from Crona. Death
is tumbling there. Be ye a stream from Mora,
sons of cloudy Morven!”
“Who rises, from his car, on Clutha? The
hills are troubled before the king! The dark
woods echo round, and lighten at his steel. See
him, amidst the foe, like Colgach's sportful
ghost; when he scatters the clouds, and rides the
eddying winds! It is Morni of bounding steeds!
Be like thy father, O Gaul!”
“Selma is opened wide. Bards take the trembling
harps. Ten youths bear the oak of the
feast. A distant sun-beam marks the hill. The
dusky waves of the blast fly over the fields of
grass. Why art thou silent, O Selma? The king
returns with all his fame. Did not the battle
roar; yet peaceful is his brow? It roared, and
Fingal overcame. Be like thy father, O Fillan!”
They move beneath the song. High wave their
arms, as rushy fields beneath autumnal winds.
On Mora stands the king in arms. Mist flies
round his buckler abroad; as, aloft, it hung on
a bough, on Cormul's mossy rock. In silence I
stood by Fingal, and turned my eyes on Cromla's
wood: lest I should behold the host, and
rush amid my swelling soul. My foot is forward
on the heath. I glittered, tall, in steel;
like the falling stream of Tromlo, which nightly
winds bind over with ice. The boy sees it, on
high, gleaming to the early beam: toward it
he turns his ear, and wonders why it is so silent!
Nor bent over a stream is Cathmor, like a
youth in a peaceful field. Wide he drew forward
the war, a dark and troubled wave. But
when he beheld Fingal on Mora, his generous
pride arose; “Shall the chief of Atha fight, and
no king in the field? Foldath, lead my people
forth. Thou art a beam of fire.”
Forth issues Foldath of Moma, like a cloud,
the robe of ghosts. He drew his sword, a flame,
from his side. He bade the battle move. The
tribes, like ridgy waves, dark pour their strength
around. Haughty is his stride before them. His
red eye rolls in wrath. He calls Cormul chief
of Dunratho; and his words were heard.
“Cormul, thou beholdest that path. It winds
green behind the foe. Place thy people there,
lest Selma should escape from my sword. Bards
of green-vallied Erin, let no voice of yours arise.
The sons of Morven must fall without song.
They are the foes of Cairbar. Hereafter shall the
traveller meet their dark thick mist on Lena,
where it wanders, with their ghosts, beside the
reedy lake. Never shall they rise, without song,
to the dwelling of winds.”
Cormul darkened, as he went. Behind him
rushed his tribe. They sunk beyond the rock.
Gaul spoke to Fillan of Selma; as his eye pursued
the course of the dark-eyed chief of Dunratho.
“Thou beholdest the steps of Cormul!
Let thine arm be strong! When he is low, son
of Fingal, remember Gaul in war. Here I fall
forward into battle, amid the ridge of shields.”
The sign of death ascends; the dreadful sound
of Morni's shield. Gaul pours his voice between.
Fingal rises on Mora. He saw them, from wing
to wing, bending at once in strife. Gleaming,
on his own dark hill, stood Cathmor of streamy
Atha. The kings were like two spirits of heaven,
standing each on his gloomy cloud; when
they pour abroad the winds, and lift the roaring
seas. The blue-tumbling of waves is before
them, marked with the paths of whales. They
themselves are calm and bright. The gale lifts
slowly their locks of mist!
What beam of light hangs high on air! What
beam, but Morni's dreadful sword! Death is
strewed on thy paths, O Gaul! Thou foldest
them together in thy rage. Like a young oak
falls Tur-lathon, with his branches round him.
His high-bosomed spouse stretches her white
arms, in dreams, to the returning chief, as she
sleeps by gurgling Moruth, in her disordered
locks. It is his ghost, Oichoma. The chief is
lowly laid. Hearken not to the winds for Turlathon's
echoing shield. It is pierced by his
streams. Its sound is past away.
Not peaceful is the hand of Foldath. He winds
his course in blood. Connal met him in fight.
They mixed their clanging steel. Why should
mine eyes behold them! Connal, thy locks are
grey! Thou wert the friend of strangers, at the
moss-covered rock of Dun-lora. When the skies
were rolled together; then thy feast was spread.
The stranger heard the winds without; and rejoiced
at thy burning oak. Why, son of Duthcaron,
art thou laid in blood! The blasted tree
bends above thee. Thy shield lies broken near.
Thy blood mixes with the stream, thou breaker
of the shields!
Ossian took the spear in his wrath. But Gaul
rushed forward on Foldath. The feeble pass by
his side; his rage is turned on Moma's chief.
Now they had raised their deathful spears: unseen
an arrow came. It pierced the hand of
Gaul. His steel fell sounding to earth. Young
Fillan came, with Cormul's shield! He stretched
it large before the chief. Foldath sent his
shouts abroad, and kindled all the field: as a
blast that lifts the wide-winged flame, over Lumon's
echoing groves.
“Son of blue-eyed Clatho,” said Gaul, “O
Fillan, thou art a beam from heaven, that, coming
on the troubled deep, binds up the tempest's
wing. Cormul is fallen before thee. Early
art thou in the fame of thy fathers. Rush
not too far, my hero. I cannot lift the spear to
aid. I stand harmless in battle; but my voice
shall be poured abroad. The sons of Selma shall
hear, and remember my former deeds.”
His terrible voice rose on the wind. The host
bends forward in fight. Often had they heard
him, at Strumon, when he called them to the
chace of the hinds. He stands tall, amid the
war, as an oak in the skirts of a storm, which
now is clothed on high, in mist; then shews its
broad waving head. The musing hunter lifts
his eye from his own rushy field!
My soul pursues thee, O Fillan, through the
path of thy fame. Thou rolledst the foe before
thee. Now Foldath, perhaps, may fly: but night
comes down with its clouds. Cathmor's horn is
heard on high. The sons of Selma hear the
voice of Fingal from Mora's gathered mist. The
bards pour their song, like dew, on the returning war.
“Who comes from Strumon,” they said, “amid
her wandering locks? She is mournful in
her steps, and lifts her blue eyes toward Erin.
Why art thou sad, Evir-choma? Who is like
thy chief in renown? He descended dreadful to
battle; he returns, like a light from a cloud. He
raised the sword in wrath: they shrunk before
blue-shielded Gaul!”
“Joy, like the rustling gale, comes on the
soul of the king. He remembers the battles of
old; the days wherein his fathers fought. The
days of old return on Fingal's mind, as he beholds
the renown of his son. As the sun rejoices,
from his cloud, over the tree his beams have raised,
as it shakes its lonely head on the heath;
so joyful is the king over Fillan!”
“As the rolling of thunder on hills, when Lara's
fields are still and dark; such are the steps
of Selma, pleasant and dreadful to the ear. They
return with their sound, like eagles to their dark-browed
rock, after the prey is torn on the field,
the dun sons of the bounding hind. Your fathers
rejoice from their clouds, sons of streamy
Selma!”
Such was the nightly voice of bards, on Mora
of the hinds. A flame rose, from an hundred
oaks, which winds had torn from Cormul's steep.
The feast is spread in the midst: around sat the
gleaming chiefs. Fingal is there in his strength.
The eagle-wing of his helmet sounds. The
rustling blasts of the west, unequal rush through
night. Long looks the king in silence round:
at length his words are heard.
“My soul feels a want in our joy. I behold
a breach among my friends. The head of one
tree is low. The squally wind pours in on Selma.
Where is the chief of Dun-lora? Ought Connal
to be forgot at the feast? When did he forget
the stranger, in the midst of his echoing
hall? Ye are silent in my presence! Connal is
then no more. Joy meet thee, O warrior, like a
stream of light. Swift be thy course to thy fathers,
along the roaring winds. Ossian, thy soul
is fire: kindle the memory of the king.
Awake the battles of Connal, when first he shone in war.
The locks of Connal were grey. His days of
youth were mixed with mine. In one day
Duthcaron first strung our bows against the roes
of Dun-lora.”
“Many,” I said, “are our paths to battle, in
green vallied Erin. Often did our sails arise,
over the blue tumbling waves; when we came,
in other days, to aid the race of Conar. The
strife roared once in Alnecma, at the foam-covered
streams of Duth-úla. With Cormac descended
to battle Duthcaron from cloudy Selma.
Nor descended Duthcaron alone, his son was by
his side, the long-haired youth of Connal lifting
the first of his spears. Thou didst command
them, O Fingal, to aid the king of Erin.
“Like the bursting strength of ocean, the
sons of Bolga rushed to war. Colc-ulla was before
them, the chief of blue-streaming Atha.
The battle was mixed on the plain. Cormac
shone in his own strife, bright as the forms of
his fathers. But, far before the rest, Duthcaron
hewed down the foe. Nor slept the arm of Connal
by his father's side. Colc-ulla prevailed on
the plain: like scattered mist fled the people of
Cormac!
“Then rose the sword of Duthcaron, and the
steel of broad-shielded Connal. They shaded
their flying friends, like two rocks with their
heads of pine. Night came down on Duth-ula:
silent strode the chiefs over the field. A mountain-stream
roared across the path, nor could
Duthcaron bound over its course. Why stands
my father? said Connal. I hear the rushing
foe.”
“Fly, Connal,” he said. “Thy father's strength
begins to fail. I come wounded from battle.
Here let me rest in night.” “But thou shalt not
remain alone,” said Connal's bursting sigh. “My
shield is an eagle's wing to cover the king of
Dun-lora.” He bends dark above his father.
The mighty Duthcaron dies.”
Day rose, and night returned. No lonely bard
appeared, deep-musing on the heath: and could
Connal leave the tomb of his father, till he should
receive his fame? He bent the bow against the
rose of Duth-ula. He spread the lonely feast.
Seven nights he laid his head on the tomb, and
saw his father in his dreams. He saw him rolled,
dark, in a blast, like the vapour of reedy Lego.
At length the steps of Colgan came, the
bard of high Temora. Duthcaron received his
fame, and brightened as he rose on the wind.”
“Pleasant to the ear,” said Fingal, “is the
praise of the kings of men; when their bows are
strong in battle; when they soften at the sight of
the sad. Thus let my name be renowned, when
bards shall lighten my rising soul. Carril, son of
Kinfena! take the bards and raise a tomb. Tonight
let Connal dwell within his narrow house.
Let not the soul of the valiant wander on the
winds. Faint glimmers the moon on Moi-lena,
through the broad-headed groves of the hill!
Raise stones, beneath its beam, to all the fallen
in war. Though no chiefs were they, yet their
hands were strong in fight. They were my rock
in danger. The mountain from which I spread
my eagle-wings. Thence am I renowned. Carril,
forget not the low!”
Loud, at once, from the hundred bards, rose
the song of the tomb. Carril strode before them,
they are the murmur of streams behind his steps.
Silence dwells in the vales of Moi-lena, where
each, with its own dark rill, is winding between
the hills. I heard the voice of the bards, lessening,
as they moved along. I leaned forward
from my shield; and felt the kindling of my
soul. Half-formed, the words of my song burst
forth upon the wind. So hears a tree, on the
vale, the voice of spring around. It pours its
green leaves to the sun. It shakes its lonely
head. The hum of the mountain-bee is near
it; the hunter sees it, with joy, from the blasted
heath.
Young Fillan at a distance stood. His helmet
lay glittering on the ground. His dark hair is
loose to the blast. A beam of light is Clatho's
son! He heard the words of the king with joy.
He leaned forward on his spear.
“My son,” said car-borne Fingal, “I saw thy
deeds, and my soul was glad. The fame of our
fathers, I said, burst from its gathering cloud.
Thou art brave, son of Clatho; but headlong in
the strife. So did not Fingal advance, though
he never feared a foe. Let thy people be a ridge
behind. They are thy strength in the field.
Then shalt thou be long renowned, and behold
the tombs of the old. The memory of the past
returns, my deeds in other years; when first I
descended from ocean on the green-vallied isle.”
We bend towards the voice of the king. The
moon looks abroad from her cloud. The grey-skirted
mist is near; the dwelling of the ghosts!
