OINA-MORUL:
A POEM.
ARGUMENT.
After an address to Malvina, the daughter of Toscar, Ossian
proceeds to relate his own expedition to Fuärfed, an island
of Scandinavia. Mal-orchol, king of Fuärfed, being hard
pressed in war, by Ton-thormod, chief of Sar-dronlo (who
had demanded, in vain, the daughter of Mal-orchol in marriage),
Fingal sent Ossian to his aid. Ossian, on the day after
his arrival, came to battle with Ton-thormod, and took
him prisoner. Mal-orchol offers his daughter Oina-morul
to Ossian; but he, discovering her passion for Ton-thormod,
generously surrenders her to her lover, and brings about a reconciliation
between the two kings.
Macpherson.
As flies the inconstant sun
As flies the inconstant sun, over Larmon's grassy
hill; so pass the tales of old, along my soul,
by night! When bards are removed to their
place; when harps are hung in Selma's hall; then
comes a voice to Ossian, and awakes his soul!
It is the voice of years that are gone! they roll
before me, with all their deeds! I seize the
tales, as they pass, and pour them forth in song.
Nor a troubled stream is the song of the king,
it is like the rising of music from Lutha of the
strings. Lutha of many strings, not silent are
thy streamy rocks, when the white hands of
Malvina move upon the harp! Light of the
shadowy thoughts, that fly across my soul,
daughter of Toscar of helmets, wilt thou not
hear the song! We call back, maid of Lutha,
the years that have rolled away.
It was in the days of the king, while yet my
locks were young, that I marked Con-cathlin,
on high, from ocean's nightly wave. My course
was towards the isle of Fuärfed, woody dweller
of seas! Fingal had sent me to the aid of Mal-orchol,
king of Fuärfed wild: for war was around
him, and our fathers had met, at the feast.
In Col-coiled, I bound my sails; I sent my
sword to Mal-orchol of shells. He knew the
signal of Albion, and his joy arose. He came
from his own high hall, and seized my hand in
grief. “Why comes the race of heroes to a
falling king? Ton-thormod of many spears is
the chief of wavy Sar-dronlo. He saw and loved
my daughter, white-bosomed Oina-morul. He
sought; I denied the maid; for our fathers had
been foes. He came, with battle, to Fuärfed;
my people are rolled away. Why comes the race
of heroes to a falling king?”
“I come not,” I said, “to look, like a boy, on
the strife. Fingal remembers Mal-orchol, and
his hall for strangers. From his waves, the warrior
descended, on thy woody isle. Thou wert
no cloud before him. Thy feast was spread with
songs. For this my sword shall rise; and thy
foes perhaps may fail. Our friends are not forgot
in their danger, though distant is our land.”
“Descendant of the daring Trenmor, thy
words are like the voice of Cruth-loda, when he
speaks, from his parting cloud, strong dweller of
the sky! Many have rejoiced at my feast; but
they all have forgot Mal-orchol. I have looked
towards all the winds; but no white sails were
seen. But steel resounds in my hall; and not
the joyful shells. Come to my dwelling, race
of heroes; dark-skirted night is near. Hear the
voice of songs, from the maid of Fuärfed wild.”
We went. On the harp arose the white hands
of Oina-morul. She waked her own sad tale,
from every trembling string. I stood in silence;
for bright in her locks was the daughter of many
isles! Her eyes were two stars, looking forward
through a rushing shower. The mariner
marks them on high, and blesses the lovely
beams. With morning we rushed to battle, to
Tormul's resounding stream: the foe moved to
the sound of Ton-thormod's bossy shield. From
wing to wing the strife was mixed. I met Ton-thormod
in fight. Wide flew his broken steel.
I seized the king in war. I gave his hand,
bound fast with thongs, to Mal-orchol, the giver
of shells. Joy rose at the feast of Fuärfed; for
the foe had failed. Ton-thormod turned his face
away, from Oina-morul of isles!
“Son of Fingal,” begun Mal-orchol, “not forgot
shalt thou pass from me. A light shall dwell
in thy ship, Oina-morul of slow-rolling eyes.
She shall kindle gladness, along thy mighty soul.
Nor unheeded shall the maid move in Selma,
through the dwelling of kings!”
In the hall I lay in night. Mine eyes were
half-closed in sleep. Soft music came to mine
ear: it was like the rising breeze, that whirls,
at first, the thistle's beard; then flies, dark-shadowy,
over the grass. It was the maid of Fuärfed
wild! she raised the nightly song; she
knew that my soul was a stream, that flowed at
pleasant sounds. “Who looks,” she said, “from
his rock, on ocean's closing mist? His long
locks, like the raven's wing, are wandering on
the blast. Stately are his steps in grief! The
tears are in his eyes! His manly breast is heaving
over his bursting soul! Retire, I am distant
far; a wanderer in lands unknown. Though
the race of kings are around me, yet my soul is
dark. Why have our fathers been foes, Ton-thormod,
love of maids!”
“Soft voice of the streamy isle,” I said, “why
dost thou mourn by night? The race of daring
Trenmor are not the dark in soul. Thou shalt
not wander, by streams unknown, blue-eyed
Oina-morul! Within this bosom is a voice; it
comes not to other ears: it bids Ossian hear the
hapless, in their hour of woe. Retire, soft
singer by night; Ton-thormod shall not mourn
on his rock!”
With morning I loosed the king. I gave the
long-haired maid. Mal-orchol heard my words,
in the midst of his echoing halls. “King of
Fuärfed wild, why should Ton-thormod mourn?
He is of the race of heroes, and a flame in war.
Your fathers have been foes, but now their dim
ghosts rejoice in death. They stretch their hands
of mist to the same shell in Loda. Forget their
rage, ye warriors, it was the cloud of other
years.”
Such were the deeds of Ossian, while yet his
locks were young: though loveliness, with a robe
of beams, clothed the daughter of many isles.
We call back, maid of Lutha, the years that
have rolled away!