BOOK IV.
ARGUMENT.
The second night continues. Fingal relates, at the feast, his
own first expedition into Ireland, and his marriage with Roscrána,
the daughter of Cormac, king of that island. The
Irish chiefs convene in the presence of Cathmor. The situation
of the king described. The story of Sul-malla, the daughter
of Conmor, king of Inis-huna, who, in the disguise of a
young warrior, had followed Cathmor to the war. The sullen
behaviour of Foldath, who had commanded in the battle
of the preceding day, renews the difference between him and
Malthos; but Cathmor interposing, ends it. The chiefs feast,
and hear the song of Fonar the bard. Cathmor returns to
rest, at a distance from the army. The ghost of his brother
Cairbar appears to him in a dream, and obscurely foretels the
issue of the war. The soliloquy of the king. He discovers
Sul-malla. Morning comes. Her soliloquy closes the book.
Macpherson.
“Beneath an oak,” said the king, “I sat on
Selma's streamy rock, when Connal rose, from
the sea, with the broken speár of Duth-caron.
Far-distant stood the youth. He turned away
his eyes. He remembered the steps of his father,
on his own green hills. I darkened in my place.
Dusky thoughts flew over my soul. The kings
of Erin rose before me. I half-unsheathed the
sword. Slowly approached the chiefs. They
lifted up their silent eyes. Like a ridge of clouds,
they wait for the bursting forth of my voice. My
voice was, to them, a wind from heaven to roll
the mist away.”
“I bade my white sails to rise, before the roar
of Cona's wind. Three hundred youths looked,
from their waves, on Fingal's bossy shield. High
on the mast it hung, and marked the dark-blue
sea. But when night came down, I struck, at
times, the warning boss: I struck, and looked
on high, for fiery-haired Ul-erin. Nor absent
was the star of heaven. It travelled red between
the clouds. I pursued the lovely beam, on the
faint-gleaming deep. With morning Erin rose
in mist. We came into the bay of Moi-lena,
where its blue waters tumbled, in the bosom of
echoing woods. Here Cormac, in his secret hall,
avoids the strength of Colc-ulla. Nor he alone
avoids the foe. The blue eye of Ros-crána is
there: Ros-crána, white-handed maid, the
daughter of the king!”
“Grey, on his pointless spear, came forth the
aged steps of Cormac. He smiled, from his waving
locks; but grief was in his soul. He saw
us few before him, and his sigh arose. “I see
the arms of Trenmor,” he said; “and these are
the steps of the king! Fingal! thou art a beam
of light to Cormac's darkened soul. Early is
thy fame, my son; but strong are the foes of
Erin. They are like the roar of streams in the
land, son of car-borne Comhal!” “Yet they
may be rolled away,” I said, in my rising soul.
“We are not of the race of the feeble, king of
blue-shielded hosts! Why should fear come
among us, like a ghost of night? The soul of
the valiant grows, when foes increase in the field.
Roll no darkness, king of Erin, on the young in
war!”
“The bursting tears of the king came down.
He seized my hand in silence. “Race of the
daring Trenmor!” at length he said, “I roll no
cloud before thee. Thou burnest in the fire of
thy fathers. I behold thy fame. It marks thy
course in battle, like a stream of light. But wait
the coming of Cairbar; my son must join thy
sword. He calls the sons of Erin, from all their
distant streams.”
“We came to the hall of the king, where it
rose in the midst of rocks, on whose dark sides
were the marks of streams of old. Broad oaks
bend around with their moss. The thick birch
is waving near. Half-hid, in her shady grove,
Ros-crána raises the song. Her white hands
move on the harp. I beheld her blue rolling
eyes. She was like a spirit of heaven half-folded
in the skirt of a cloud!
“Three days we feasted at Moi-lena. She rises
bright in my troubled soul. Cormac beheld me
dark. He gave the white-bosomed maid. She
comes with bending eye, amid the wandering of
her heavy locks. She came! Straight the battle
roared. Colc-ulla appeared: I took my spear.
My sword rose, with my people, against the ridgy
foe. Alnecma fled. Colc-ulla fell. Fingal
returned with fame.
“Renowned is he, O Fillan, who fights in the
strength of his host. The bard pursues his steps,
through the land of the foe. But he who fights
alone, few are his deeds to other times! He
shines, to-day, a mighty light. To-morrow, he
is low.
One song contains his fame. His name
is on
one dark field. He is forgot; but where
his tomb sends forth the tufted grass.”
Such are the words of Fingal, on Mora of the
roes. Three bards, from the rock of Cormul, pour
down the pleasing song. Sleep descends, in the
sound, on the broad-skirted host. Carril returned,
with the bards, from the tomb of Dunlora's
chief. The voice of Morning shall not
come, to the dusky bed of Duth-caron. No more
shalt thou hear the tread of roes, around thy
narrow-house!
As roll the troubled clouds round a meteor of
night, when they brighten their sides with its
light, along the heaving sea; so gathers Erin,
around the gleaming form of Cathmor.
He, tall
in the midst, careless lifts, at times, his spear:
as swells or falls the sound of Fonar's distant
harp. Near him leaned, against a rock, Sul-malla
of blue eyes, the white-bosomed daughter of
Conmor, king of Inis-huna. To his aid came
blue-shielded Cathmor, and rolled his foes away.
Sul-malla beheld him stately in the hall of feasts.
Nor careless rolled the eyes of Cathmor on the
long-haired maid!
The third day arose, when Fithil came from
Erin of the streams. He told of the lifting up
of the shield in Selma: He told of the danger
of Cairbar. Cathmor raised the sail at Cluba:
but the winds were in other lands. Three days
he remained on the coast, and turned his eyes on
Conmor's halls. He remembered the daughter
of strangers, and his sigh arose. Now when the
winds awaked the wave: from the hill came a
youth in arms; to lift the sword with Cathmor,
in his echoing fields. It was the white-armed
Sul-malla. Secret she dwelt beneath her helmet.
Her steps were in the path of the king; on him
her blue eyes rolled with joy, when he lay by
his roaring streams! But Cathmor thought, that,
on Lumon, she still pursued the roes. He thought,
that fair on a rock, she stretched her white hand
to the wind, to feel its course from Erin, the
green dwelling of her love. He had promised
to return, with his white-bosomed sails. The
maid is near thee, O Cathmor! leaning on her
rock.
The tall forms of the chiefs stand around; all
but dark-browed Foldath. He leaned against a
distant tree, rolled into his haughty soul. His
bushy hair whistles in wind. At times, bursts
the hum of a song. He struck the tree, at length,
in wrath; and rushed before the king! Calm
and stately, to the beam of the oak, arose the
form of young Hidalla. His hair falls round his
blushing cheek, in wreaths of waving light. Soft
was his voice in Clon-ra, in the valley of his fathers.
Soft was his voice when he touched the
harp, in the hall, near his roaring streams!
“King of Erin,” said Hidalla, “now is the
time to feast. Bid the voice of bards arise. Bid
them roll the night away. The soul returns,
from song, more terrible to war. Darkness settles
on Erin. From hill to hill bend the skirted
clouds. Far and grey, on the heath, the dreadful
strides of ghosts are seen: the ghosts of those
who fell bend forward to their song. Bid, O
Cathmor, the harps to rise, to brighten the dead,
on their wandering blasts.”
“Be all the dead forgot,” said Foldath's bursting
wrath. “Did not I fail in the field! Shall
I then hear the song? Yet was not my course
harmless in war. Blood was a stream around my
steps. But the feeble were behind me. The foe
has escaped from my sword. In Clonra's vale
touch thou the harp. Let Dura answer to the
voice of Hidalla. Let some maid look, from the
wood, on thy long yellow locks. Fly from Lubar's
echoing plain. This is the field of heroes!”
“King of Erin,” Malthos said, “it is thine
to lead in war. Thou art a fire to our eyes, on
the dark-brown field. Like a blast thou hast
past over hosts. Thou hast laid them low in
blood. But who has heard thy words returning
from the field? The wrathful delight in
death: Their remembrance rests on the wounds
of their spear. Strife is folded in their thoughts:
their words are ever heard. Thy course, chief
of Moma, was like a troubled stream. The dead
were rolled on thy path: but others also lift the
spear.
We were not feeble behind thee; but the
foe was strong.”
Cathmor beheld the rising rage, and bending
forward of either chief: for, half-unsheathed,
they held their swords, and rolled their silent
eyes. Now would they have mixed in horrid
fray, had not the wrath of Cathmor burned’.
He drew his sword: it gleamed through night, to
the high-flaming oak! “Sons of pride,” said the
king, “allay your swelling souls. Retire in night.
Why should my rage arise? Should I contend
with both in arms? It is no time for strife!
Retire, ye clouds, at my feast. Awake my soul
no more.”
They sunk from the king on either side; like
two columns of morning mist, when the sun rises,
between them, on his glittering rocks. Dark is
their rolling on either side; each towards its
reedy pool!
Silent sat the chiefs at the feast. They look,
at times, on Atha's king, where he strode, on his
rock, amid his settling soul. The host lie along
the field. Sleep descends on Moi-lena. The
voice of Fonar ascends alone, beneath his distant
tree. It ascends in the praise of Cathmor, son
of Larthon of Lumon. But Cathmor did not
hear his praise. He lay at the roar of a stream.
The rustling breeze of night flew over his whistling
locks.
His brother came to his dreams, half-seen
from his low-hung cloud. Joy rose darkly in
his face. He had heard the song of Carril.
A blast sustained his dark-skirted cloud; which
he seized in the bosom of night, as he rose, with
his fame, towards his airy hall. Half-mixed
with the noise of the stream, he poured his feeble
words.
“Joy meet the soul of Cathmor. His voice
was heard on Moi-lena. The bard gave his song
to Cairbar. He travels on the wind. My form
is in my father's hall, like the gliding of a terrible
light, which darts across the desert in a stormy
night. No bard shall be wanting at thy
tomb, when thou art lowly laid. The sons of
song love the valiant. Cathmor, thy name is a
pleasant gale. The mournful sounds arise! On
Lubar's field there is a voice! Louder still, ye
shadowy ghosts! The dead were full of fame!
Shrilly swells the feeble sound. The rougher
blast alone is heard! Ah, soon is Cathmor low!”
Rolled into himself he flew, wide on the bosom
of winds. The old oak felt his departure, and
shook its whistling head. Cathmor starts from
rest. He takes his deathful spear. He lifts
his eyes around. He sees but dark-skirted
night.
“It was the voice of the king,” he said.
“But now his form is gone. Unmarked is your
path in the air, ye children of the night. Often,
like a reflected beam, are ye seen in the desert
wild: but ye retire in your blasts, before
our steps approach. Go then, ye feeble race!
Knowledge with you there is none! Your joys
are weak, and like the dreams of our rest, or
the light-winged thought, that flies across the
soul. Shall Cathmor soon be low? Darkly
laid in his narrow house? Where no morning
comes, with her half-opened eyes? Away,
thou shade! to fight is mine! All further
thought away! I rush forth, on eagle's wings,
to seize my beam of fame. In the lonely vale
of streams, abides the narrow soul. Years roll
on, seasons return, but he is still unknown.
In a blast comes cloudy death, and lays his grey
head low. His ghost is folded in the vapour of
the fenny field. Its course is never on hills, nor
mossy vales of wind. So shall not Cathmor depart.
No boy in the field was he, who only
marks the bed of roes, upon the echoing hills.
My issuing forth was with kings. My joy in
dreadful plains: where broken hosts are rolled
away, like seas before the wind.”
So spoke the king of Alnecma, brightening in
his rising soul. Valour, like a pleasant flame, is
gleaming within his breast. Stately is his
stride on the heath! The beam of east is poured
around. He saw his grey host on the field,
wide-spreading their ridges in light. He rejoiced,
like a spirit of heaven, whose steps come
forth on the seas, when he beholds them peaceful
round, and all the winds are laid. But
soon he awakes the waves, and rolls them large
to some echoing shore.
On the rushy bank of a stream, slept the
daughter of Inis-huna. The helmet had fallen
from her head. Her dreams were in the lands
of her fathers.
There morning is on the field.
Grey streams leap down from the rocks. The
breezes, in shadowy waves, fly over the rushy
fields.
There is the sound that prepares for
the chace.
There the moving of warriors from
the hall. But tall above the rest is seen the hero
of streamy Atha. He bends his eye of love
on Sul-malla, from his stately steps.
She turns,
with pride, her face away, and careless bends
the bow.
Such were the dreams of the maid, when
Cathmor of Atha came. He saw her fair face
before him, in the midst of her wandering locks.
He knew the maid of Lumon. What should
Cathmor do? His sighs arise. His tears come
down. But straight he turns away. “This is
no time, king of Atha, to awake thy secret soul.
The battle is rolled before thee, like a troubled
stream.”
He struck the warning boss, wherein dwelt
the voice of war. Erin rose around him, like
the sound of eagle-wings. Sul-malla started from
sleep, in her disordered locks. She seized the
helmet from earth. She trembled in her place.
“Why should they know in Erin of the daughter
of Inis-huna?” She remembered the race of
kings. The pride of her soul arose! Her steps
are behind a rock, by the blue-winding stream
of a vale: where dwelt the dark-brown hind ere
yet the war arose. Thither came the voice of
Cathmor, at times, to Sul-malla's ear. Her soul
is darkly sad. She pours her words on wind.
“The dreams of Inis-huna departed. They
are dispersed from my soul. I hear not the chace
in my land. I am concealed in the skirt of war.
I look forth from my cloud. No beam appears
to light my path. I behold my warrior low;
for the broad-shielded king is near, he that overcomes
in danger, Fingal from Selma of spears!
Spirit of departed Conmor! are thy steps on the
bosom of winds? Comest thou, at times, to
other lands, father of sad Sul-malla? Thou dost
come! I have heard thy voice at night; while
yet I rose on the wave to Erin of the streams.
The ghost of fathers, they say, call away the
souls of their race, while they behold them lonely
in the midst of woe. Call me, my father,
away! When Cathmor is low on earth. Then
shall Sul-malla be lonely in the midst of woe!”