BOOK VIII.
ARGUMENT.
The fourth morning, from the opening of the poem, comes on.
Fingal, still continuing in the place to which he had retired
on the preceding night, is seen, at intervals, through the mist
which covered the rock of Cormul. The descent of the king
is described. He orders Gaul, Dermid, and Carril the bard,
to go to the valley of Cluna, and conduct from thence, to
the Caledonian army, Ferad-artho, the son of Cairbre, the
only person remaining of the family of Conor, the first king
of Ireland. The king takes the command of the army, and
prepares for battle. Marching towards the enemy, he comes
to the cave of Lubar, where the body of Fillan lay. Upon
seeing his dog Bran, who lay at the entrance of the cave, his
grief returns. Cathmor arranges the Irish army in order of
battle. The appearance of that hero. The general conflict
is described. The actions of Fingal and Cathmor. A storm.
The total rout of the Firbolg. The two kings engage, in a
column of mist, on the banks of Lubar. Their attitude and
conference after the combat. The death of Cathmor. Fingal
resigns the spear of Trenmor to Ossian. The ceremonies
observed on that occasion. The spirit of Cathmor, in the
mean time, appears to Sul-malla, in the valley of Lona. Her
sorrow. Evening comes on. A feast is prepared. The coming
of Ferad artho is announced by the songs of a hundred
bards. The poem closes with a speech of Fingal.
Macpherson.
As when the wintry winds have seized the waves
of the mountain-lake, have seized them, in stormy
night, and clothed them over with ice;
white, to the hunter's early eye, the billows still
seem to roll. He turns his ear to the sound of
each unequal ridge. But each is silent, gleaming,
strewn with boughs and tufts of grass, which
shake and whistle to the wind, over their grey
seats of frost. So silent shone to the morning
the ridges of Morven's host, as each warrior
looked up from his helmet towards the hill of
the king; the cloud-covered hill of Fingal, where
he strode, in the folds of mist. At times is the
hero seen, greatly dim in all his arms. From
thought to thought rolled the war, along his
mighty soul.
Now is the coming forth of the king. First
appeared the sword of Luno; the spear half issuing
from a cloud, the shield still dim in mist.
But when the stride of the king came abroad,
with all his grey, dewy locks in the wind; then
rose the shouts of his host over every moving
tribe. They gathered, gleaming, round, with all
their echoing shields. So rise the green seas round
a spirit, that comes down from the squally wind.
The traveller hears the sound afar, and lifts his
head over the rock. He looks on the troubled
bay, and thinks he dimly sees the form. The
waves sport, unwieldy, round, with all their backs
of foam.
Far-distant stood the son of Morni, Duthno's
race, and Cona's bard. We stood far-distant;
each beneath his tree. We shunned the eyes of
the king; we had not conquered in the field. A
little stream rolled at my feet: I touched its
light wave, with my spear. I touched it with
my spear; nor there was the soul of Ossian. It
darkly rose, from thought to thought, and sent
abroad the sigh.
“Son of Morni,” said the king, “Dermid,
hunter of roes! why are ye dark, like two rocks,
each with its trickling waters? No wrath gathers
on Fingal's soul, against the chiefs of men.
Ye are my strength in battle; the kindling of
my joy in peace. My early voice has been a pleasant
gale to your ears, when Fillan prepared the
bow. The son of Fingal is not here, nor yet
the chace of the bounding roes. But why should
the breakers of shields stand, darkened, far
away?”
Tall they strode towards the king: they saw
him turned to Mora's wind. His tears came
down, for his blue-eyed son, who slept in the
cave of streams. But he brightened before them,
and spoke to the broad-shielded kings.
“Crommal, with woody rocks, and misty top,
the field of winds, pours forth, to the sight, blue
Lubar's streamy roar. Behind it rolls clear-winding
Lavath, in the still vale of deer. A
cave is dark in a rock; above it strong-winged
eagles dwell; broad-headed oaks, before it sound
in Cluna's wind. Within, in his locks of youth,
is Ferad-artho, blue-eyed king, the son of
broad-shielded Cairbar, from Ullin of the roes.
He listens to the voice of Condan, as, grey, he
bends in feeble light. He listens; for his foes
dwell in the echoing halls of Temora. He comes,
at times, abroad, in the skirts of mist, to pierce
the bounding roes. When the sun looks on the
field, nor by the rock, nor stream, is he! He
shuns the race of Bolga, who dwell in his father's
hall. Tell him, that Fingal lifts the spear,
and that his foes, perhaps, may fail.
“Lift up, O Gaul, the shield before him.
Stretch, Dermid, Temora's spear. Be thy voice
in his ear, O Carril, with the deeds of his fathers.
Lead him to green Moi-lena, to the dusky field
of ghosts; for there, I fall forward, in battle, in
the folds of war. Before dun night descends,
come to high Dunmora's top. Look, from the
grey skirts of mist, on Lena of the streams. If
there my standard shall float on wind, over Lubar's
gleaming stream, then has not Fingal failed
in the last of his fields.”
Such were his words; nor aught replied the
silent striding kings. They looked, side-long,
on Erin's host, and darkened, as they went.
Never before had they left the king, in the midst
of the stormy field. Behind them, touching at
times his harp, the grey-haired Carril moved.
He foresaw the fall of the people, and mournful
was the sound! It was like a breeze that comes,
by fits, over Lego's reedy lake; when sleep half-descends
on the hunter, within his mossy cave.
“Why bends the bard of Cona,” said Fingal,
“over his secret stream? Is this a time for sorrow,
father of low-laid Oscar? Be the warriors
remembered in peace; when echoing shields are
heard no more. Bend, then, in grief, over the
flood, where blows the mountain breeze. Let
them pass on thy soul, the blue-eyed dwellers of
the tomb. But Erin rolls to war; wide-tumbling,
rough, and dark. Lift, Ossian, lift the
shield. I am alone, my son!”
As comes the sudden voice of winds to the
becalmed ship of Inis-huna, and drives it large,
along the deep, dark rider of the wave; so
the voice of Fingal sent Ossian, tall, along the
heath. He lifted high his shining shield, in
the dusky wing of war: like the broad, blank
moon, in the skirt of a cloud, before the storms
arise.
Loud, from moss-covered Mora, poured down
at once the broad-winged war. Fingal led his
people forth, king of Morven of streams. On
high spreads the eagle's wing. His grey hair is
poured on his shoulders broad. In thunder are
his mighty strides. He often stood, and saw
behind, the wide-gleaming rolling of armour.
A rock he seemed, grey over with ice, whose
woods are high in wind. Bright streams leap
from its head, and spread their foam on blasts.
Now he came to Lubar's cave, where Fillan
darkly slept. Bran still lay on the broken
shield: the eagle-wing is strewed by the winds.
Bright, from withered furze, looked forth the
hero's spear. Then grief stirred the soul of the
king, like whirlwinds blackening on a lake.
He turned his sudden step, and leaned on his
bending spear.
White-breasted Bran came bounding with joy
to the known path of Fingal. He came, and
looked towards the cave, where the blue-eyed
hunter lay, for he was wont to stride, with
morning, to the dewy bed of the roe. It was
then the tears of the king came down, and all
his soul was dark. But as the rising wind rolls
away the storm of rain, and leaves the white
streams to the sun, and high hills with their
heads of grass: so the returning war brightened
the mind of Fingal. He bounded, on his
spear, over Lubar, and struck his echoing shield.
His ridgy host bend forward, at once, with all
their pointed steel.
Nor Erin heard, with fear, the sound: wide
they came rolling along. Dark Malthos, in the
wing of war, looks forward from shaggy brows.
Next rose that beam of light Hidalla; then the
side-long-looking gloom of Maronnan. Blue-shielded
Clonar lifts the spear; Cormar shakes
his bushy locks on the wind. Slowly, from behind
a rock, rose the bright form of Atha. First
appeared his two pointed spears, then the half of
his burnished shield: like the rising of a nightly
meteor, over the vale of ghosts. But when he
shone all abroad: the hosts plunged, at once,
into strife. The gleaming waves of steel are
poured on either side.
As meet two troubled seas, with the rolling of
all their waves, when they feel the wings of contending
winds, in the rock-sided firth of Lumon;
along the echoing hills is the dim course
of ghosts: from the blast fall the torn groves
on the deep, amidst the foamy path of whales.
So mixed the hosts! Now Fingal; now Cathmor
came abroad. The dark tumbling of death
is before them: the gleam of broken steel is
rolled on their steps, as, loud, the high-bounding
kings hewed down the ridge of shields.
Maronnan fell, by Fingal, laid large across a
stream. The waters gathered by his side, and
leapt grey over his bossy shield. Clonar is pierced
by Cathmor: nor yet lay the chief on earth.
An oak seized his hair in his fall. His helmet
rolled on the ground. By its thong, hung his
broad shield; over it wandered his streaming
blood. Tla-min shall weep, in the hall, and
strike her heaving breast.
Nor did Ossian forget the spear, in the wing
of his war. He strewed the field with dead.
Young Hidalla came. “Soft voice of streamy
Clonra! Why dost thou lift the steel? O that
we met, in the strife of song, in thy own rushy
vale!” Malthos beheld him low, and darkened
as he rushed along. On either side of a stream,
we bend in the echoing strife. Heaven comes
rolling down: around burst the voices of squally
winds. Hills are clothed, at times, in fire.
Thunder rolls in wreaths of mist. In darkness
shrunk the foe: Morven's warriors stood
aghast. Still I bent over the stream, amidst my
whistling locks.
Then rose the voice of Fingal, and the sound
of the flying foe. I saw the king, at times, in
lightning, darkly-striding in his might. I struck
my echoing shield, and hung forward on the
steps of Alnecma: the foe is rolled before me,
like a wreath of smoke.
The sun looked forth from his cloud. The
hundred streams of Moi-lena shone. Slow rose
the blue columns of mist, against the glittering
hill. “Where are the mighty kings? Nor by
that stream, nor wood, are they! I hear the
clang of arms! Their strife is in the bosom of
that mist. Such is the contending of spirits
in a nightly cloud, when they strive for the
wintry wings of wind, and the rolling of the
foam-covered waves.
I rushed along. The grey mist rose. Tall,
gleaming, they stood at Lubar. Cathmor leaned
against a rock. His half-fallen shield received
the stream, that leapt from the moss above.
Towards him is the stride of Fingal: he saw the
hero's blood. His sword fell slowly to his side.
He spoke, midst his darkening joy.
“Yields the race of Borbar-duthul? Or still
does he lift the spear? Not unheard is thy
name, at Atha, in the green dwelling of strangers.
It has come, like the breeze of his desert,
to the ear of Fingal. Come to my hill of feasts:
the mighty fail, at times. No fire am I to low-laid
foes: I rejoice not over the fall of the brave.
To close the wound is mine: I have known
the herbs of the hills. I seized their fair heads,
on high, as they waved by their secret streams.
Thou art dark and silent, king of Atha of strangers.
“By Atha of the stream,” he said, “there rises
a mossy rock. On its head is the wandering of
boughs, within the course of winds. Dark, in
its face, is a cave with its own loud rill. There
have I heard the tread of strangers, when they
passed to my hall of shells. Joy rose, like a
flame, on my soul: I blest the echoing rock.
Here be my dwelling, in darkness; in my grassy
vale. From this I shall mount the breeze, that
pursues my thistle's beard; or look down, on
blue-winding Atha, from its wandering mist.”
“Why speaks the king of the tomb? Ossian!
the warrior has failed! Joy meet thy soul, like
a stream, Cathmor, friend of strangers! My son,
I hear the call of years; they take my spear as
they pass along. Why does not Fingal, they
seem to say, rest within his hall? Dost thou always
delight in blood? In the tear of the sad?
No: ye dark-rolling years, Fingal delights not
in blood. Tears are wintry streams that waste
away my soul. But, when I lie down to rest,
then comes the mighty voice of war. It awakes
me, in my hall, and calls forth all my steel. It
shall call forth no more; Ossian, take thou thy
father's spear. Lift it, in battle, when the proud
arise.
“My fathers, Ossian, trace my steps; my
deeds are pleasant to their eyes. Wherever I
come forth to battle, on my field, are their
columns of mist. But mine arm rescued the
feeble; the haughty found my rage was fire.
Never over the fallen did mine eye rejoice. For
this, my fathers shall meet me, at the gates of
their airy halls, tall, with robes of light, with
mildly-kindled eyes. But, to the proud in
arms, they are darkened moons in heaven, which
send the fire of night, red-wandering over their
face.
“Father of heroes, Trenmor, dweller of eddying
winds! I give thy spear to Ossian, let thine
eye rejoice. Thee have I seen, at times, bright
from between thy clouds; so appear to my son,
when he is to lift the spear: then shall he remember
thy mighty deeds, though thou art now
but a blast.”
He gave the spear to my hand, and raised at
once a stone on high, to speak to future times,
with its grey head of moss. Beneath he placed
a sword in earth, and one bright boss from his
shield. Dark in thought, a-while, he bends:
his words, at length, came forth.
“When thou, O stone, shalt moulder down,
and lose thee, in the moss of years, then shall
the traveller come, and, whistling, pass away.
Thou knowest not, feeble man, that fame once
shone on Moi-lena. Here Fingal resigned his
spear, after the last of his fields. Pass away,
thou empty shade; in thy voice there is no renown.
Thou dwellest by some peaceful stream;
yet a few years, and thou art gone. No one remembers
thee, thou dweller of thick mist! But
Fingal shall be clothed with fame, a beam of
light to other times; for he went forth, in echoing
steel, to save the weak in arms.”
Brightening in his fame, the king strode to
Lubar's sounding oak, where it bent, from its
rock, over the bright-tumbling stream. Beneath
it is a narrow plain, and the sound of the fount of the
rock. Here the standard of Morven
poured its wreaths on the wind, to mark
the way of Ferad-artho, from his secret vale.
Bright, from his parted west, the sun of heaven
looked abroad. The hero saw his people, and
heard their shouts of joy. In broken ridges
round, they glittered to the beam. The king rejoiced,
as a hunter in his own green vale, when,
after the storm is rolled away, he sees the
gleaming sides of the rocks. The green thorn
shakes its head in their face; from their top look
forward the roes.
Grey, at his mossy cave, is bent the aged
form of Clonmal. The eyes of the bard had
failed. He leaned forward, on his staff. Bright,
in her locks, before him, Sul-malla listened to
the tale; the tale of the kings of Atha, in the
days of old. The noise of battle had ceased in
his ear: he stopt, and raised the secret sigh.
The spirits of the dead, they said, often lightened
along his soul. He saw the king of Atha
low, beneath his bending tree.
“Why art thou dark,” said the maid? “The
strife of arms is past. Soon shall he come to thy
cave, over thy winding streams. The sun looks
from the rocks of the west. The mists of the
lake arise. Grey, they spread on that hill, the
rushy dwelling of roes. From the mist shall
my king appear! Behold he comes in his arms.
Come to the cave of Clonmal, O my best beloved!”
It was the spirit of Cathmor, stalking, large,
a gleaming form. He sunk by the hollow stream
that roared between the hills. “It was but the
hunter,” she said, “who searches for the bed
of the roe. His steps are not forth to war; his
spouse expects him with night. He shall, whistling,
return with the spoils of the dark-brown
hinds.” Her eyes were turned to the hill; again
the stately form came down. She rose, in the
midst of joy. He retired again in mist. Gradual
vanish his limbs of smoke, and mix with
the mountain-wind. Then she knew that he
fell! “King of Erin, art thou low!” Let Ossian
forget her grief; it wastes the soul of age.
Evening came down on Moi-lena. Grey rolled
the streams of the land. Loud came forth the
voice of Fingal: the beam of oaks arose. The
people gathered round with gladness; with gladness
blended with shades. They sidelong looked
to the king, and beheld his unfinished joy.
Pleasant, from the way of the desert, the voice
of music came. It seemed, at first, the noise of
a stream far-distant on its rocks. Slow it rolled
along the hill, like the ruffled wing of a
breeze, when it takes the tufted beard of the
rocks, in the still season of night. It was the
voice of Condan, mixed with Carril's trembling
harp. They came, with blue-eyed Ferad-artho,
to Mora of the streams.
Sudden bursts the song from our bards, on
Lena: the host struck their shields midst
the sound. Gladness rose brightening on the king,
like the beam of a cloudy day, when it rises, on
the green hill, before the roar of winds. He
struck the bossy shield of kings; at once they
cease around. The people lean forward, from
their spears, towards the voice of their land.
“Sons of Morven, spread the feast; send the
night away in song. Ye have shone around me,
and the dark storm is past. My people are the
windy rocks, from which I spread my eagle-wings,
when I rush forth to renown, and seize
it on its field. Ossian, thou hast the spear of
Fingal: it is not the staff of a boy, with which
he strews the thistle round, young wanderer of
the field. No: it is the lance of the mighty, with
which they stretched forth their hands to death.
Look to thy fathers, my son; they are awful
beams. With morning lead Ferad-artho forth
to the echoing halls of Temora. Remind him
of the kings of Erin; the stately forms of old.
Let not the fallen be forgot, they were mighty
in the field. Let Carril pour his song, that the
kings may rejoice in their mist. To-morrow I
spread my sails to Selma's shaded walls; where
streamy Duthula winds through the seats of
roes.”
