CATHLIN OF CLUTHA:
A POEM.
ARGUMENT.
An address to Malvina, the daughter of Toscar. The poet relates
the arrival of Cathlin in Selma, to solicit aid against
Duth-carmor of Cluba, who had killed Cathmol, for the sake
of his daughter Lanul. Fingal declining to make a choice
among his heroes, who were all claiming the command of the
expedition; they retired each to his hill of ghosts; to be determined
by dreams. The spirit of Trenmor appears to Ossian
and Oscar: they sail from the bay of Carmona, and, on
the fourth day, appear off the valley of Rathcol, in Inis-huna,
where Duth-carmor had fixed his residence. Ossian dispatches
a bard to Duth-carmor to demand battle. Night
comes on. The distress of Cathlin of Clutha. Ossian devolves
the command on Oscar, who, according to the custom
of the kings of Morven, before battle, retired to a neighbouring
hill. Upon the coming on of day, the battle joins.
Oscar and Duth-carmor meet. The latter falls. Oscar carries
the mail and helmet of Duth-carmor to Cathlin, who
had retired from the field. Cathlin is discovered to be the
daughter of Cathmol, in disguise, who had been carried off,
by force, by, and had made her escape from, Duth-carmor.
Macpherson.
The traditions which accompany this poem inform us, that it went, of old, under the name of Laoi-Oi-lutha; i. e. the hymn of the maid of Lutha. They pretend also to fix the time of its composition, to the third year after the death of Fingal; that is, during the expedition of Fergus the son of Fingal, to the banks of Uisca-duthon. In support of this opinion, the Highland senachies have prefixed to this poem, an address of Ossian, to Congal the young son of Fergus, which I have rejected, as having no manner of connection with the rest of the piece. It has poetical merit; and, probably, it was the opening of one of Ossian's other poems, though the bards injudiciously transferred it to the piece now before us.
“Congal, son of Fergus of Durath, thou light between thy locks, ascend to the rock of Selma, to the oak of the breaker of shields. Look over the bosom of night, it is streaked with the red paths of the dead: look on the night of ghosts, and kindle, O Congal, thy soul. Be not, like the moon on a stream, lonely in the midst of clouds: darkness closes around it; and the beam departs. Depart not, son of Fergus, ere thou markest the field with thy sword. Ascend to the rock of Selma; to the oak of the breaker of shields.”
Macpherson.
Come, thou beam that art lonely
Come, thou beam that art lonely, from watching
in the night! The squally winds are around
thee, from all their echoing hills. Red, over my
hundred streams, are the light-covered paths of
the dead. They rejoice, on the eddying winds,
in the still season of night. Dwells there no joy
in song, white hand of the harps of Lutha?
Awake the voice of the string; and roll my soul
to me. It is a stream that has failed. Malvina,
pour the song.
I hear thee, from thy darkness, in Selma, thou
that watchest, lonely, by night! Why didst thou
with-hold the song, from Ossian's failing soul?
As the falling brook to the ear of the hunter,
descending from his storm-covered hill; in a
sun-beam rolls the echoing stream; he hears,
and shakes his dewy locks: such is the voice of
Lutha, to the friend of the spirits of heroes. My
swelling bosom beats high. I look back on the
days that are past. Come, thou beam that art
lonely, from watching in the night!
In the echoing bay of Carmona, we saw, one
day, the bounding ship. On high, hung a broken
shield; it was marked with wandering blood.
Forward came a youth, in arms, and stretched
his pointless spear. Long, over his tearful eyes,
hung loose his disordered locks. Fingal gave
the shell of kings. The words of the stranger
arose. “In his hall lies Cathmol of Clutha, by
the winding of his own dark streams. Duth-carmor
saw white-bosomed Lanul, and pierced
her father's side. In the rushy desert were my
steps. He fled in the season of night. Give
thine aid to Cathlin to revenge his father. I
sought thee not as a beam, in a land of clouds.
Thou, like the sun, art known, king of echoing
Selma!”
Selma's king looked around. In his presence
we rose in arms. But who should lift the shield?
for all had claimed the war. The night came
down; we strode, in silence; each to his hill of
ghosts: that spirits might descend, in our dreams,
to mark us for the field. We struck the shield
of the dead; we raised the hum of songs. We
thrice called the ghosts of our fathers. We laid
us down in dreams. Trenmor came, before mine
eyes, the tall form of other years! His blue hosts
were behind him in half-extinguished rows.
Scarce seen is their strife in mist, or their stretching
forward to deaths. I listened; but no sound
was there. The forms were empty wind!
I started from the dream of ghosts. On a
sudden blast flew my whistling hair. Low-sounding,
in the oak, is the departure of the
dead. I took my shield from its bough. Onward
came the rattling of steel. It was Oscar of Lego.
He had seen his fathers. “As rushes forth
the blast, on the bosom of whitening waves;
so careless shall my course be, through ocean, to
the dwelling of foes. I have seen the dead, my
father! My beating soul is high! My fame is
bright before me, like the streak of light on a
cloud, when the broad sun comes forth, red traveller
of the sky!”
“Grandson of Branno,” I said; “not Oscar
alone shall meet the foe. I rush forward, through
ocean, to the woody dwelling of heroes. Let
us contend, my son, like eagles, from one rock;
when they lift their broad wings, against the
stream of winds.” We raised our sails in Carmona.
From three ships, they marked my shield
on the wave, as I looked on nightly Tonthena,
red traveller between the clouds. Four days
came the breeze abroad. Lumon came forward
in mist. In winds were its hundred groves. Sunbeams
marked, at times, its brown side. White,
leapt the foamy streams, from all its echoing
rocks.
A green field, in the bosom of hills, winds silent
with its own blue stream. Here, midst the
waving of oaks, were the dwellings of kings of
old. But silence, for many dark-brown years,
had settled in grassy Rath-col; for the race of
heroes had failed, along the pleasant vale. Duth-carmor
was here, with his people, dark rider of
the wave. Ton-thena had hid her head in the
sky. He bound his white-bosomed sails. His
course is on the hills of Rath-col, to the seats of
roes. We came. I sent the bard, with songs, to
call the foe to fight. Duth-carmor heard him,
with joy. The king's soul was a beam of fire;
a beam of fire, marked with smoke, rushing,
varied, through the bosom of night. The deeds
of Duth-carmor were dark, though his arm was
strong.
Night came, with the gathering of clouds.
By the beam of the oak we sat down. At a distance
stood Cathlin of Clutha. I saw the changeful
soul of the stranger. As shadows fly over
the field of grass; so various is Cathlin's cheek.
It was fair, within locks, that rose on Rath-col's
wind. I did not rush, amidst his soul, with my
words. I bade the song to rise.
“Oscar of Lego,” I said, “be thine the secret
hill to-night. Strike the shield, like Morven's
kings. With day, thou shalt lead in war. From
my rock I shall see thee, Oscar, a dreadful form
ascending in fight, like the appearance of ghosts,
amidst the storms they raise. Why should mine
eyes return to the dim times of old, ere yet the
song had bursted forth, like the sudden rising of
winds? But the years, that are past, are marked
with mighty deeds. As the nightly rider of
waves looks up to Tonthena of beams; so let
us turn our eyes to Trenmor, the father of
kings.
“Wide, in Caracha's echoing field, Carmal
had poured his tribes. They were a dark ridge
of waves. The grey-haired bards were like moving
foam on their face. They kindled the strife
around, with their red-rolling eyes. Nor alone
were the dwellers of rocks; a son of Loda was
there; a voice, in his own dark land, to call the
ghosts from high. On his hill, he had dwelt, in
Lochlin, in the midst of a leafless grove. Five
stones lifted, near, their heads. Loud roared his
rushing stream. He often raised his voice to the
winds, when meteors marked their nightly wings;
when the dark-robed moon was rolled behind
her hill. Nor unheard of ghosts was he! They
came with the sound of eagle wings. They turned
battle, in fields, before the kings of men.
“But, Trenmor, they turned not from battle.
He drew forward the troubled war; in its dark
skirt was Trathal, like a rising light. It was
dark; and Loda's son poured forth his signs, on
night. The feeble were not before thee, son of
other lands! Then rose the strife of kings about
the hill of night; but it was soft as two summer
gales, shaking their light wings, on a lake.
Trenmor yielded to his son; for the fame of the
king had been heard. Trathal came forth before
his fame, and the foes failed, in echoing Caracha.
The years that are past, my son, are marked
with mighty deeds.”
In clouds rose the eastern light. The foe
came forth in arms. The strife is mixed on
Rath-col, like the roar of streams. Behold the
contending of kings! They meet before the oak.
In gleams of steel the dark forms are lost; such
is the meeting of meteors, in a vale by night:
red light is scattered round, and men foresee the
storm! Duth-carmor is low in blood! The son
of Ossian overcame! Not harmless in battle was
he, Malvina, hand of harps!
Nor, in the field, were the steps of Cathlin.
The stranger stood by a secret stream, where
the foam of Rath-col skirted the mossy stones.
Above, bends the branchy birch, and strews its
leaves, on wind. The inverted spear of Cathlin
touched, at times, the stream. Oscar brought
Duth-carmor's mail: his helmet with its eagle-wing.
He placed them before the stranger, and
his words were heard. “The foes of thy father
have failed. They are laid in the field of ghosts.
Renown returns to Morven, like a rising wind.
Why art thou dark, chief of Clutha! Is there
cause for grief?
“Son of Ossian of harps, my soul is darkly sad.
I behold the arms of Cathmol, which he raised
in war. Take the mail of Cathlin, place it high
in Selma's hall, that thou mayst remember the
hapless in thy distant land.” From white breasts
descended the mail. It was the race of kings;
the soft-handed daughter of Cathmol, at the
streams of Clutha! Duth-carmor saw her bright
in the hall; he had come, by night, to Clutha.
Cathmol met him, in battle, but the hero fell.
Three days dwelt the foe with the maid. On the
fourth she fled in arms. She remembered the
race of kings, and felt her bursting soul!
Why, maid of Toscar of Lutha, should I tell
how Cathlin failed? Her tomb is at rushy Lumon,
in a distant land. Near it were the steps
of Sul-malla, in the days of grief. She raised the
song, for the daughter of strangers, and touched
the mournful harp.
Come, from the watching of night, Malvina,
lonely beam!