BOOK VII.
ARGUMENT.
This book begins about the middle of the third night from the
opening of the poem. The poet describes a kind of mist,
which rose, by night, from the lake of Lego, and was the
usual residence of the souls of the dead, during the interval
between their decease and the funeral song. The appearance
of the ghost of Fillan above the cave where his body lay.
His voice comes to Fingal, on the rock of Cormul. The king
strikes the shield of Trenmor, which was an infallible sign
of his appearing in arms himself. The extraordinary effect
of the sound of the shield. Sul-malla, starting from sleep,
awakes Cathmor. Their affecting discourse. She insists
with him to sue for peace; he resolves to continue the war.
He directs her to retire to the neighbouring valley of Lona,
which was the residence of an old Druid, until the battle of
the next day should be over. He awakes his army with the
sound of his shield. The shield described. Fonar, the bard,
at the desire of Cathmor, relates the first settlement of the
Fir-bolg in Ireland, under their leader Larthon. Morning
comes. Sul-malla retires to the valley of Lona. A lyric song
concludes the book.
Macpherson.
From the wood-skirted waters of Lego, ascend,
at times, grey-bosomed mists; when the gates
of the west are closed, on the sun's eagle-eye.
Wide, over Lara's stream, is poured the vapour
dark and deep: the moon, like a dim shield, is
swimming through its folds. With this, clothe
the spirits of old their sudden gestures on the
wind, when they stride, from blast to blast,
along the dusky night. Often, blended with the
gale, to some warrior's grave, they roll the
mist, a grey dwelling to his ghost, untill the
songs arise.
A sound came from the desert; it was Conar,
king of Inis-fail. He poured his mist on the
grave of Fillan, at blue-winding Lubar. Dark
and mournful sat the ghost, in his grey ridge of
smoke. The blast, at times, rolled him together:
but the form returned again. It returned with
bending eyes, and dark winding of locks of mist.
It was dark. The sleeping host were still,
in the skirts of night. The flame decayed, on
the hill of Fingal; the king lay lonely on his
shield. His eyes were half-closed in sleep, the
voice of Fillan came. “Sleeps the husband of
Clatho? Dwells the father of the fallen in rest?
Am I forgot in the folds of darkness; lonely in
the season of night!”
“Why dost thou mix,” said the king, “with
the dream of thy father? Can I forget thee,
my son, or thy path of fire in the field! Not such
come the deeds of the valiant on the soul of
Fingal. They are not there a beam of lightning,
which is seen, and is then no more. I
remember thee, O Fillan, and my wrath begins
to rise.”
The king took his deathful spear, and struck
the deep-sounding shield: his shield that hung
high in night, the dismal sign of war! Ghosts
fled on every side, and rolled their gathered
forms on the wind. Thrice from the winding
vale arose the voice of deaths. The harps of
the bards, untouched, sound mournful over
the hill.
He struck again the shield; battles rose in the
dreams of his host. The wide-tumbling strife
is gleaming over their souls. Blue-shielded kings
descend to war. Backward-looking armies fly;
and mighty deeds are half-hid, in the bright
gleams of steel.
But when the third sound arose, deer started
from the clefts of their rocks. The screams of
fowl are heard, in the desert, as each flew, frighted
on his blast. The sons of Selma half rose,
and half assumed their spears. But silence rolled
back on the host; they knew the shield of
the king. Sleep returned to their eyes; the field
was dark and still.
No sleep was thine in darkness, blue-eyed
daughter of Conmor! Sul-malla heard the dreadful
shield, and rose, amid the night. Her steps
are towards the king of Atha. “Can danger
shake his daring soul!” In doubt she stands,
with bending eyes. Heaven burns with all its
stars.
Again the shield resounds! She rushed. She
stopt. Her voice half rose. It failed. She saw
him, amidst his arms, that gleamed to heaven's
fire. She saw him dim in his locks, that rose
to nightly wind. Away, for fear, she turned her
steps. “Why should the king of Erin awake?
Thou art not a dream to his rest, daughter of
Inis-huna.”
More dreadful rings the shield. Sul-malla
starts. Her helmet falls. Loud echoes Lubar's
rock, as over it rolls the steel. Bursting from
the dreams of night, Cathmor half rose, beneath
his tree. He saw the form of the maid, above
him, on the rock. A red star, with twinkling
beam, looked through her floating hair.
“Who comes through night to Cathmor, in
the season of his dreams? Bringest thou aught
of war? Who art thou, son of night? Standest
thou before me, a form of the times of old? A
voice from the fold of a cloud, to warn me of the
danger of Erin?”
“Nor lonely scout am I, nor voice from folded
cloud,” she said; “but I warn thee of the
danger of Erin. Dost thou hear that sound? It
is not the feeble, king of Atha, that rolls his signs
on night.”
“Let the warrior roll his signs,” he replied;
“to Cathmor they are the sounds of harps. My
joy is great, voice of night, and burns over all my
thought. This is the music of kings, on lonely
hills, by night; when they light their daring
souls, the sons of mighty deeds! The feeble dwell
alone, in the valley of the breeze; where mists
lift their morning skirts, from the blue-winding
streams.”
“Not feeble, king of men, were they, the fathers
of my race. They dwelt in the folds of
battle, in their distant lands. Yet delights not
my soul, in the signs of death! He, who never
yields, comes forth: O send the bard of
peace!”
Like a dropping rock, in the desert, stood
Cathmor in his tears. Her voice came, a
breeze, on his soul, and awaked the memory of
her land; where she dwelt by her peaceful
streams, before he came to the war of Conmor.
“Daughter of strangers,” he said; (she trembling
turned away) “long have I marked thee in
thy steel, young pine of Inis-huna. But my
soul, I said, is folded in a storm. Why should
that beam arise, till my steps return in peace?
Have I been pale in thy presence, as thou bidst
me to fear the king? The time of danger, O
maid, is the season of my soul; for then it swells,
a mighty stream, and rolls me on the foe.
“Beneath the moss-covered rock of Lona,
near his own loud stream; grey in his locks of
age, dwells Clonmal, king of harps. Above him
is his echoing tree, and the dun bounding of roes.
The noise of our strife reaches his ear, as he
bends in the thoughts of years. There let thy
rest be, Sul-malla, until our battle cease. Until
I return, in my arms, from the skirts of the
evening mist, that rises, on Lona, round the
dwelling of my love.”
A light fell on the soul of the maid; it rose
kindled before the king. She turned her face to
Cathmor, from amidst her waving locks. “Sooner
shall the eagle of heaven be torn, from the
stream of his roaring wind, when he sees the
dun prey, before him, the young sons of the
bounding roe, than thou, O Cathmor, be turned
from the strife of renown. Soon may I see thee,
warrior, from the skirts of the evening mist,
when it is rolled around me, on Lona of the
streams. While yet thou art distant far, strike,
Cathmor, strike the shield, that joy may return
to my darkened soul, as I lean on the mossy
rock. But if thou shouldst fall, I am in the
land of strangers; O send thy voice, from thy
cloud, to the maid of Inis-huna.”
“Young branch of green-headed Lumon, why
dost thou shake in the storm? Often has Cathmor
returned, from darkly-rolling wars. The
darts of death are but hail to me; they have often
rattled along my shield. I have risen brightened
from battle, like a meteor from a stormy
cloud. Return not, fair beam, from thy vale,
when the roar of battle grows. Then might the
foe escape, as from my fathers of old.
“They told to Son-mor, of Clunar, who was
slain by Cormac in fight. Three days darkened
Son-mor over his brother's fall. His spouse
beheld the silent king, and foresaw his steps to
war. She prepared the bow, in secret, to attend
her blue-shielded hero. To her dwelt darkness,
at Atha, when he was not there. From their
hundred streams, by night, poured down the
sons of Alnecma. They had heard the shield of
the king, and their rage arose. In clanging
arms they moved along, towards Ullin of the
groves. Son-mor struck his shield, at times, the
leader of the war.
“Far behind followed Sul-allin, over the
streamy hills. She was a light on the mountain,
when they crossed the vale below. Her steps
were stately on the vale, when they rose on the
mossy hill. She feared to approach the king,
who left her in echoing Atha. But when the
roar of battle rose; when host was rolled on
host; when Son-mor burnt, like the fire of heaven
in clouds, with her spreading hair came Sul-allin;
for she trembled for her king. He stopt
the rushing strife to save the love of heroes. The
foe fled by night; Clunar slept without his
blood; the blood which ought to be poured
upon the warrior's tomb.
“Nor rose the rage of Son-mor; but his days
were silent and dark. Sul-allin wandered, by
her grey streams, with her tearful eyes. Often
did she look, on the hero, when he was folded
in his thoughts. But she shrunk from his eyes,
and turned her lone steps away. Battles rose,
like a tempest, and drove the mist from his soul.
He beheld, with joy, her steps in the hall, and
the white rising of her hands on the harp.”
In his arms strode the chief of Atha, to where
his shield hung, high, in night: high on a mossy
bough, over Lubar's streamy roar. Seven bosses
rose on the shield; the seven voices of the king,
which his warriors received, from the wind, and
marked over all their tribes.
On each boss is placed a star of night; Canmathon
with beams unshorn; Col-derna rising
from a cloud: Uloicho robed in mist; and the
soft beam of Cathling glittering on a rock. Smiling,
on its own blue wave, Reldurath half sinks
its western light. The red eye of Berthin looks,
through a grove, on the hunter, as he returns,
by night, with the spoils of the bounding roe.
Wide, in the mist, arose the cloudless beams of
Ton-théna, that star which looked, by night, on
the course of the sea-tossed Larthon: Larthon,
the first of Bolga's race, who travelled on the
winds. White-bosomed spread the sails of the
king, towards streamy Inis-fail; dun night was
rolled before him, with its skirts of mist. Unconstant
blew the winds, and rolled him from
wave to wave. Then rose the fiery-haired Ton-théna,
and smiled from her parted cloud. Larthon
blessed the well-known beam, as it faint-gleamed
on the deep.
Beneath the spear of Cathmor, rose that voice
which awakes the bards. They came, dark-winding,
from every side; each with the sound
of his harp. Before them rejoiced the king, as
the traveller, in the day of the sun; when he
hears, far-rolling around, the murmur of mossy
streams; streams that burst, in the desert, from
the rock of roes.
“Why,” said Fonar, “hear we the voice of
the king, in the season of his rest? Were the dim
forms of thy fathers bending in thy dreams?
Perhaps they stand on that cloud, and wait for
Fonar's song; often they come to the fields
where their sons are to lift the spear. Or shall
our voice arise for him who lifts the spear no
more; he that consumed the field, from Moma
of the groves?”
“Not forgot is that cloud in war, bard of
other times. High shall his tomb rise, on Moilena,
the dwelling of renown. But now, roll
back my soul to the times of my fathers; to the
years when first they rose, on Inis-huna's waves.
Nor alone pleasant to Cathmor is the remembrance
of wood-covered Lumon. Lumon of the
streams, the dwelling of white-bosomed maids.
“Lumon of the streams, thou risest on Fonar's
soul! Thy sun is on thy side, on the rocks
of thy bending trees. The dun roe is seen from
thy furze; the deer lifts his branchy head; for
he sees, at times, the hound on the half-covered
heath. Slow, on the vale, are the steps of maids;
the white-armed daughters of the bow: they
lift their blue eyes to the hill, from amidst their
wandering locks. Not there is the stride of Larthon,
chief of Inis-huna. He mounts the wave
on his own dark oak, in Cluba's ridgy bay. That
oak which he cut from Lumon, to bound along
the sea. The maids turn their eyes away, lest
the king should be lowly-laid; for never had
they seen a ship, dark rider of the wave!
“Now he dares to call the winds, and to mix
with the mist of ocean. Blue Inis-fail rose, in
smoke; but dark-skirted night came down. The
sons of Bolga feared. The fiery-haired Ton-théna
rose. Culbin's bay received the ship, in the
bosom of its echoing woods. There, issued a
stream, from Duthuma's horrid cave; where spirits
gleamed, at times, with their half-finished
forms.
“Dreams descended on Larthon: he saw seven
spirits of his fathers. He heard their half-formed
words, and dimly beheld the times to
come. He beheld the kings of Atha, the sons
of future days. They led their hosts, along
the field, like ridges of mist, which winds pour,
in autumn, over Atha of the groves.
“Larthon raised the hall of Samla, to the
music of the harp. He went forth to the roes
of Erin, to their wonted streams. Nor did he
forget green-headed Lumon; he often bounded
over his seas, to where white-handed Flathal
looked from the hill of roes. Lumon of the
foamy streams, thou risest on Fonar's soul!”
Morning pours from the east. The misty
heads of the mountains rise. Vallies shew, on
every side, the grey-winding of their streams.
His host heard the shield of Cathmor: at once
they rose around; like a crowded sea, when first
it feels the wings of the wind. The waves know
not whither to roll; they lift their troubled
heads.
Sad and slow retired Sul-malla to Lona of the
streams. She went, and often turned; her blue
eyes rolled in tears. But when she came to the
rock, that darkly-covered Lona's vale, she looked,
from her bursting soul, on the king; and
sunk, at once, behind.
Son of Alpin, strike the string. Is there
aught of joy in the harp? Pour it then on the
soul of Ossian: it is folded in mist. I hear thee,
O bard, in my night. But cease the lightly-trembling
sound. The joy of grief belongs to
Ossian, amidst his dark-brown years.
Green thorn of the hill of ghosts, that shakest
thy head to nightly winds! I hear no sound in
thee; is there no spirit's windy skirt now rustling
in thy leaves? Often are the steps of the
dead, in the dark-eddying blasts; when the
moon, a dun shield, from the east, is rolled along
the sky.
Ullin, Carril, and Ryno, voices of the days of
old! Let me hear you, while yet it is dark, to
please and awake my soul. I hear you not, ye
sons of song; in what hall of the clouds is your
rest? Do you touch the shadowy harp, robed
with morning mist, where the rustling sun comes
forth from his green-headed waves?