VIII. [By the side of a rock]
By the side of a rock on the hill
By the side of a rock on the hill, beneath the aged tree, old
Oscian sat on the moss; the last of the race of Fingal. Sightless
are his aged eyes; his beard is waving in the wind. Dull
through the leafless trees he heard the voice of the north. Sorrow
revived in his soul: he began and lamented the dead.
How hast thou fallen like an oak, with all thy branches
round thee! Where is Fingal the king? where is Oscur my
son? where are all my race? Alas! in the earth they lie. I
feel their tombs with my hands. I hear the river below murmuring
hoarsely over the stones. What dost thou, O river, to
me? Thou bringest back the memory of the past.
The race of Fingal stood on thy banks, like a wood in a fertile
soil. Keen were their spears of steel. Hardy was he who
dared to encounter their rage. Fillan the great was there.
Thou Oscur wert there, my son! Fingal himself was there,
strong in the grey locks of years. Full rose his sinewy limbs;
and wide his shoulders spread. The unhappy met his arm,
when the pride of his wrath arose.
The son of Morny came; Gaul, the tallest of men. He stood
on the hill like an oak! his voice was like the streams of the
hill. Why reigneth alone, he cries, the son of the mighty Corval?
Fingal is not strong to save; he is no support for the
people. I am strong as a storm in the ocean; as a whirlwind
on the hill. Yield, son of Corval; Fingal, yield to me.
He
came like a rock from the hill, resounding in his arms.
Oscur stood forth to meet him; my son would meet the foe.
But Fingal came in his strength, and smiled at the vaunter's
boast. They threw their arms round each other; they struggled
on the plain. The earth is ploughed with their heels.
Their bones crack as a boat on the ocean, when it leaps from
wave to wave. Long did they toil; with night, they fell on
the sounding plain; as two oaks, with their branches mingled,
fall crashing from the hill. The tall son of Morny is bound;
the aged overcame.
Fair with her locks of gold, her smooth neck, and her breasts
of snow; fair, as the spirits of the hill when at silent noon they
glide along the heath; fair, as the rainbow of heaven; came
Minvane the maid. Fingal! she softly saith, loose me my brother
Gaul. Loose me the hope of my race, the terror of all
but Fingal. Can I, replies the king, can I deny the lovely
daughter of the hill? Take thy brother, O Minvane, thou fairer
than the snow of the north!
Such, Fingal! were thy words; but thy words I hear no
more. Sightless I sit by thy tomb. I hear the wind in the
wood; but no more I hear my friends. The cry of the hunter
is over. The voice of war is ceased.