VII. [Why openest thou afresh the spring of my grief]
Why openest thou afresh the spring of my grief
Why openest thou afresh the spring of my grief, O son of
Alpin, inquiring how Oscur fell? My eyes are blind with tears;
but memory beams on my heart. How can I relate the mournful
death of the head of the people! Prince of the warriors,
Oscur, my son, shall I see thee no more!
He fell as the moon in a storm; as the sun from the midst
of his course, when clouds rise from the waste of the waves,
when the blackness of the storm inwraps the rocks of Ardannidder.
I, like an ancient oak on Morven, I moulder alone in
my place. The blast hath lopped my branches away; and I
tremble at the wings of the north. Prince of the warriors,
Oscur, my son! shall I see thee no more!
Dermid and Oscur were one: They reaped the battle together.
Their friendship was strong as their steel; and death
walked between them to the field. They came on the foe like
two rocks falling from the brows of Ardven. Their swords
were stained with the blood of the valiant: warriors fainted at
their names. Who was a match for Oscur but Dermid? and
who for Dermid, but Oscur?
They killed mighty Dargo in the field; Dargo before invincible.
His daughter was fair as the morn; mild as the beam
of night. Her eyes, like two stars in a shower: her breath,
the gale of spring: her breasts, as the new-fallen snow floating
on the moving heath. The warriors saw her, and loved; their
souls were fixed on the maid. Each loved her as his fame;
each must possess her or die. But her soul was fixed on Oscur;
my son was the youth of her love. She forgot the blood
of her father; and loved the hand that slew him.
Son of Oscian, said Dermid, I love; O Oscur, I love this
maid. But her soul cleaveth unto thee; and nothing can heal
Dermid. Here, pierce this bosom, Oscur; relieve me, my
friend, with thy sword.
My sword, son of Morny, shall never be stained with the
blood of Dermid.
Who then is worthy to slay me, O Oscur, son of Oscian?
Let not my life pass away unknown. Let none but Oscur slay
me. Send me with honour to the grave, and let my death be
renowned.
Dermid, make use of thy sword; son of Morny, wield thy
steel. Would that I fell with thee! that my death came from
the hand of Dermid!
They fought by the brook of the mountain, by the streams
of Branno. Blood tinged the silvery stream, and curdled round
the mossy stones. Dermid the graceful fell; fell, and smiled
in death.
And fallest thou, son of Morny, fallest thou by Oscur's hand!
Dermid invincible in war, thus do I see thee fall!—He went,
and returned to the maid whom he loved; returned, but she
perceived his grief.
Why that gloom, son of Oscian? what shades thy mighty
soul?
Though once renowned for the bow, O maid, I have lost my
fame. Fixed on a tree by the brook of the hill, is the shield of
Gormur the brave, whom in battle I slew. I have wasted the
day in vain, nor could my arrow pierce it.
Let me try, son of Oscian, the skill of Dargo's daughter.
My hands were taught the bow: my father delighted in my
skill.
She went. He stood behind the shield. Her arrow flew
and pierced his breast.
Blessed be that hand of snow; and blessed thy bow of yew!
I fall resolved on death: and who but the daughter of Dargo
was worthy to slay me? Lay me in the earth, my fair one, lay
me by the side of Dermid.
Oscur! I have the blood, the soul of the mighty Dargo.
Well pleased I can meet death. My sorrow I can end thus.—
She pierced her white bosom with steel. She fell; she trembled;
and died.
By the brook of the hill their graves are laid; a birch's unequal
shade covers their tomb. Often on their green earthen
tombs the branchy sons of the mountain feed, when mid-day is
all in flames, and silence is over all the hills.
