BOOK II.
ARGUMENT TO BOOK II.
The ghost of Crugal, one of the Irish heroes who was killed in
battle, appearing to Connal, foretells the defeat of Cuthullin
in the next battle; and earnestly advises him to make peace
with Swaran. Connal communicates the vision; but Cuthullin
is inflexible; from a principle of honour, he would
not be the first to sue for peace, and he resolved to continue
the war. Morning comes; Swaran proposes dishonourable
terms to Cuthullin, which are rejected. The battle begins,
and is obstinately fought for some time, until, upon the
flight of Grumal, the whole Irish army gave way. Cuthullin
and Connal cover their retreat: Carril leads them to
a neighbouring hill, whither they are soon followed by Cuthullin
himself, who descries the fleet of Fingal making towards
the coast; but night coming on, he lost sight of it
again. Cuthullin, dejected after his defeat, attributes his
ill success to the death of Ferda, his friend, whom he had
killed some time before. Carril, to shew that ill success did
not always attend those who innocently killed their friends,
introduces the episode of Comal and Galvina.
Macpherson.
Connal lay by the sound of the mountain
stream, beneath the aged tree. A stone, with
its moss, supported his head. Shrill through
the heath of Lena, he heard the voice of night.
At distance from the heroes he lay; the son of
the sword feared no foe! The hero beheld, in
his rest, a dark-red stream of fire rushing down
from the hill. Crugal sat upon the beam, a
chief who fell in fight. He fell by the hand of
Swaran, striving in the battle of heroes. His
face is like the beam of the setting moon. His
robes are of the clouds of the hill. His eyes
are two decaying flames! Dark is the wound
of his breast! “Crugal,” said the mighty Connal,
“son of Dedgal famed on the hill of hinds!
Why so pale and sad, thou breaker of the
shields? Thou hast never been pale for fear!
What disturbs the departed Crugal?” Dim, and
in tears, he stood, and stretched his pale hand
over the hero. Faintly he raised his feeble
voice, like the gale of the reedy Lego!
“My spirit, Connal, is on my hills: my corse
on the sands of Erin. Thou shalt never talk
with Crugal, nor find his lone steps in the
heath. I am light as the blast of Cromla. I
move like the shadow of mist! Connal, son of
Colgar, I see a cloud of death: it hovers dark
over the plains of Lena. The sons of green
Erin must fall. Remove from the field of
ghosts.” Like the darkened moon he retired,
in the midst of the whistling blast. “Stay,”
said the mighty Connal, “stay, my dark-red
friend. Lay by that beam of heaven, son of
the windy Cromla! What cave is thy lonely
house? What green-headed hill the place of
thy repose? Shall we not hear thee in the storm?
In the noise of the mountain-stream? When
the feeble sons of the wind come forth, and,
scarcely seen, pass over the desert?”
The soft-voiced Connal rose, in the midst of
his sounding arms. He struck his shield above
Cuthullin. The son of battle waked. “Why,”
said the ruler of the car, “comes Connal
through my night? My spear might turn against
the sound; and Cuthullin mourn the
death of his friend. Speak, Connal; son of
Colgar, speak, thy council is the sun of heaven!”
“Son of Semo!” replied the chief, “the ghost
of Crugal came from his cave. The stars dim-twinkled
through his form. His voice was like
the sound of a distant stream. He is a messenger
of death! He speaks of the dark and narrow
house! Sue for peace, O chief of Erin! or
fly over the heath of Lena.”
“He spoke to Connal,” replied the hero,
“though stars dim-twinkled through his form!
Son of Colgar, it was the wind that murmured
across thy ear. Or if it was the form of Crugal,
why didst thou not force him to my sight?
Hast thou enquired where is his cave? The
house of that son of wind? My sword might
find that voice, and force his knowledge from
Crugal. But small is his knowledge, Connal;
he was here to-day. He could not have gone
beyond our hills! who could tell him there of
our fall?” “Ghosts fly on clouds, and ride on
winds,” said Connal's voice of wisdom. “They
rest together in their caves, and talk of mortal
men.”
“Then let them talk of mortal men; of every
man but Erin's chief. Let me be forgot in their
cave. I will not fly from Swaran! If fall I
must, my tomb shall rise, amidst the fame of
future times. The hunter shall shed a tear on
my stone; sorrow shall dwell round the high-bosomed
Bragèla. I fear not death, to fly I
fear! Fingal has seen me victorious! Thou dim
phantom of the hill, shew thyself to me! come
on thy beam of heaven, shew me my death in
thine hand; yet I will not fly, thou feeble son
of the wind! Go, son of Colgar, strike the
shield. It hangs between the spears. Let my
warriors rise to the sound, in the midst of the
battles of Erin. Though Fingal delays his
coming with the race of the stormy isles; we
shall fight, O Colgar's son, and die in the battle
of heroes!”
The sound spreads wide. The heroes rise,
like the breaking of a blue-rolling wave. They
stood on the heath, like oaks, with all their
branches round them; when they echo to the
stream of frost, and their withered leaves are
rustling to the wind! High Cromla's head of
clouds is grey. Morning trembles on the half-enlightened
ocean. The blue mist swims slowly
by, and hides the sons of Inis-fail!
“Rise ye,” said the king of the dark-brown
shields, “ye that came from Lochlin's waves.
The sons of Erin have fled from our arms; pursue
them over the plains of Lena! Morla, go
to Cormac's hall. Bid them yield to Swaran;
before his people sink to the tomb; and silence
spread over his isle.” They rose, rustling like a
flock of sea-fowl, when the waves expel them
from the shore. Their sound was like a thousand
streams that meet in Cona's vale, when,
after a stormy night, they turn their dark eddies
beneath the pale light of the morn.
As the dark shades of autumn fly over the
hills of grass, so gloomy, dark, successive came
the chiefs of Lochlin's echoing woods. Tall as
the stag of Morven, moved stately before them,
the king. His shining shield is on his side,
like a flame on the heath at night. When the
world is silent and dark, and the traveller sees
some ghost sporting in the beam!
Dimly gleam
the hills around, and shew indistinctly their
oaks! A blast from the troubled ocean, removed
the settled mist. The sons of Erin appear, like
a ridge of rocks on the coast;
when mariners
on shores unknown, are trembling at veering
winds!
“Go, Morla, go,” said the king of Lochlin,
“offer peace to these! Offer the terms we give
to kings, when nations bow down to our swords.
When the valiant are dead in war; when virgins
weep on the field!” Tall Morla came, the son
of Swarth, and stately strode the youth along!
He spoke to Erin's blue-eyed chief, among the
lesser heroes. “Take Swaran's peace,” the warrior
spoke, “the peace he gives to kings, when
nations bow to his sword. Leave Erin's streamy
plains to us, and give thy spouse and dog. Thy
spouse high-bosomed, heaving fair! Thy dog
that overtakes the wind! Give these to prove
the weakness of thine arm; live then beneath
our power!”
“Tell Swaran, tell that heart of pride, Cuthullin
never yields. I give him the dark-rolling
sea; I give his people graves in Erin. But
never shall a stranger have the pleasing sunbeam
of my love. No deer shall fly on Lochlin's
hills, before swift-footed Luath.” “Vain ruler
of the car,” said Morla, “wilt thou then fight
the king? The king, whose ships of many groves
could carry off thine isle? So little is thy greenhilled
Erin to him who rules the stormy waves!”
“In words I yield to many, Morla. My sword
shall yield to none. Erin shall own the sway
of Cormac, while Connal and Cuthullin live! O
Connal, first of mighty men, thou hearest the
words of Morla. Shall thy thoughts then be
of peace, thou breaker of the shields? Spirit
of fallen Crugal! why didst thou threaten us
with death? The narrow house shall receive me,
in the midst of the light of renown. Exalt, ye
sons of Erin, exalt the spear and bend the bow:
rush on the foe in darkness, as the spirits of
stormy nights!”
Then dismal, roaring, fierce, and deep, the
gloom of battle poured along; as mist that is
rolled on a valley, when storms invade the silent
sun-shine of heaven! Cuthullin moves before,
in arms, like an angry ghost before a cloud;
when meteors inclose him with fire; when the
dark winds are in his hand. Carril, far on the
heath, bids the horn of battle sound. He raises
the voice of song, and pours his soul into the
minds of the brave.
“Where,” said the mouth of the song, “where
is the fallen Crugal? He lies forgot on earth;
the hall of shells is silent. Sad is the spouse of
Crugal! She is a stranger in the hall of her grief.
But who is she, that, like a sun-beam, flies before
the ranks of the foe? It is Degrena, lovely
fair, the spouse of fallen Crugal. Her hair is
on the wind behind. Her eye is red; her voice
is shrill. Pale, empty is thy Crugal now! His
form is in the cave of the hill. He comes to the
ear of rest; he raises his feeble voice; like the
humming of the mountain-bee; like the collected
flies of the eve! But Degrena falls like a
cloud of the morn; the sword of Lochlin is
in her side. Cairbar, she is fallen, the rising
thought of thy youth. She is fallen, O Cairbar,
the thought of thy youthful hours!”
Fierce Cairbar heard the mournful sound. He
rushed along like ocean's whale. He saw the
death of his daughter: He roared in the midst
of thousands. His spear met a son of Lochlin;
battle spreads from wing to wing! As a
hundred winds in Lochlin's groves; as fire in
the pines of a hundred hills; so loud, so ruinous,
so vast the ranks of men are hewn down.
Cuthullin cut off heroes like thistles; Swaran
wasted Erin. Curach fell by his hand, Cairbar
of the bossy shield! Morglan lies in lasting
rest! Ca-olt trembles as he dies! His white
breast is stained with blood; his yellow hair
stretched in the dust of his native land! He
often had spread the feast where he fell. He
often there had raised the voice of the harp:
when his dogs leapt around for joy, and the
youths of the chace prepared the bow!
Still Swaran advanced, as a stream, that bursts
from the desart. The little hills are rolled in its
course; the rocks are half sunk by its side!
But Cuthullin stood before him, like a hill that
catches the clouds of heaven. The winds
contend on its head of pines; the hail rattles
on its rocks. But, firm in its strength, it stands,
and shades the silent vale of Cona! So Cuthullin
shaded the sons of Erin, and stood in the
midst of thousands. Blood rises like the fount
of a rock, from panting heroes around. But
Erin falls on either wing, like snow in the day
of the sun.
“O sons of Erin,” said Grumal, “Lochlin
conquers on the field. Why strive we as reeds
against the wind? Fly to the hill of dark-brown
hinds.” He fled like the stag of Morven; his
spear is a trembling beam of light behind him.
Few fled with Grumal, chief of the little soul:
they fell in the battle of heroes, on Lena's echoing
heath. High on his car, of many gems, the
chief of Erin stood. He slew a mighty son of
Lochlin, and spoke, in haste, to Connal. “O
Connal, first of mortal men, thou hast taught
this arm of death! Though Erin's sons have
fled, shall we not fight the foe? Carril, son of
other times, carry my friends to that bushy hill.
Here, Connal, let us stand like rocks, and save
our flying friends.”
Connal mounts the car of gems. They stretch
their shields, like the darkened moon, the daughter
of the starry skies, when she moves, a dun
circle, through heaven; and dreadful change
is expected by men. Sithfadda panted up the
hill, and Sronnal, haughty steed. Like waves
behind a whale behind them rushed the foe.
Now, on the rising side of Cromla stood Erin's
few sad sons; like a grove through which the flame
had rushed, hurried on by the winds of the
stormy night;
distant, withered, dark they stand,
with not a leaf to shake in the gale.
Cuthullin stood beside an oak. He rolled his
red eye in silence, and heard the wind in his
bushy hair; the scout of ocean came, Moran,
the son of Fithil. “The ships,” he cried, “the
ships of the lonely isles. Fingal comes, the first
of men, the breaker of the shields! The waves
foam before his black prows! His masts with
sails are like groves in clouds!” “Blow,” said
Cuthullin, “blow, ye winds, that rush along
my isle of mist! Come to the death of thousands,
O king of resounding Selma! Thy sails, my
friend, are to me the clouds of the morning;
thy ships the light of heaven; and thou thyself
a pillar of fire, that beams on the world by
night. O Connal, first of men, how pleasing,
in grief, are our friends! But the night is gathering
around! Where now are the ships of
Fingal? Here let us pass the hours of darkness;
here wish for the moon of heaven.”
The winds come down on the woods. The torrents
rush from the rocks. Rain gathers round
the head of Cromla. The red stars tremble between
the flying clouds. Sad, by the side of
a stream, whose sound is echoed by a tree, sad
by the side of a stream the chief of Erin sits.
Connal, son of Colgar, is there, and Carril of
other times. “Unhappy is the hand of Cuthullin,”
said the son of Semo, “unhappy is the
hand of Cuthullin, since he slew his friend!
Ferda, son of Damman, I loved thee as myself!”
“How, Cuthullin, son of Semo! how fell the
breaker of the shields? Well I remember,” said
Connal, “the son of the noble Damman. Tall
and fair he was, like the rain-bow of heaven.”
“Ferda from Albion came, the chief of a hundred
hills. In Muri's hall he learned the
sword, and won the friendship of Cuthullin.
We moved to the chace together: one was our
bed in the heath!”
“Deugala was the spouse of Cairbar, chief of
the plains of Ullin. She was covered with the
light of beauty, but her heart was the house of
pride. She loved that sun-beam of youth, the
son of noble Damman. “Cairbar,” said the
white-armed Deugala, “give me half of the
herd. No more will I remain in your halls. Divide
the herd, dark Cairbar!” “Let Cuthullin,”
said Cairbar, “divide my herd on the hill. His
breast is the seat of justice. Depart, thou light
of beauty!” I went and divided the herd. One
snow-white bull remained. I gave the bull to
Cairbar. The wrath of Deugala rose!”
“Son of Damman,” begun the fair, “Cuthullin
hath pained my soul. I must hear of his
death, or Lubar's stream shall roll over me. My
pale ghost shall wander near thee, and mourn
the wound of my pride. Pour out the blood of
Cuthullin, or pierce this heaving breast.” “Deugala,”
said the fair-haired youth, “how shall I
slay the son of Semo? He is the friend of my
secret thoughts. Shall I then lift the sword?”
She wept three days before the chief, on the
fourth he said he would fight. “I will fight my
friend, Deugala! but may I fall by his sword!
Could I wander on the hill alone? Could I behold
the grave of Cuthullin?” We fought on the
plain of Muri. Our swords avoid a wound.
They slide on the helmets of steel; or sound on
the slippery shields. Deugala was near with a
smile, and said to the son of Damman: “Thine
arm is feeble, sun-beam of youth! Thy years
are not strong for steel. Yield to the son of
Semo. He is a rock on Malmor.”
The tear is in the eye of youth. He faultering
said to me: “Cuthullin, raise thy bossy
shield. Defend thee from the hand of thy friend.
My soul is laden with grief: for I must slay the
chief of men!” I sighed as the wind in the cleft
of a rock. I lifted high the edge of my steel.
The sun-beam of battle fell: the first of Cuthullin's
friends! Unhappy is the hand of Cuthullin
since the hero fell!
“Mournful is thy tale, son of the car,” said
Carril of other times. “It sends my soul back
to the ages of old, to the days of other years.
Often have I heard of Comal, who slew the
friend he loved; yet victory attended his steel:
the battle was consumed in his presence!
Comal was a son of Albion; the chief of an
hundred hills! His deer drunk of a thousand
streams. A thousand rocks replied to the
voice of his dogs. His face was the mildness
of youth. His hand the death of heroes. One
was his love, and fair was she! the daughter of
mighty Conloch. She appeared like a sun-beam
among women. Her hair was the wing of the
raven. Her dogs were taught to the chace.
Her bow-string sounded on the winds. Her
soul was fixed on Comal. Often met their eyes
of love. Their course in the chace was one.
Happy were their words in secret. But Grumal
loved the maid, the dark chief of the gloomy
Ardven. He watched her lone steps in the heath;
the foe of unhappy Comal!
One day, tired of the chace, when the mist
had concealed their friends, Comal and the
daughter of Conloch met, in the cave of Ronan.
It was the wonted haunt of Comal. Its sides
were hung with his arms. A hundred shields of
thongs were there; a hundred helms of sounding
steel. “Rest here,” he said, “my love, Galbina:
thou light of the cave of Ronan! A deer
appears on Mora's brow. I go; but I will soon
return.” “I fear,” she said, “dark Grumal my
foe: he haunts the cave of Ronan! I will rest
among the arms; but soon return, my love!”
He went to the deer of Mora. The daughter
of Conloch would try his love. She cloathed
her fair sides with his armour; she strode from
the cave of Ronan! He thought it was his foe.
His heart beat high. His colour changed, and
darkness dimmed his eyes. He drew the bow.
The arrow flew. Galbina fell in blood! He run
with wildness in his steps: he called the daughter
of Conloch. No answer in the lonely rock.
“Where art thou, O my love?” He saw, at length,
her heaving heart, beating around the arrow he
threw. “O Conloch's daughter, is it thou?” He
sunk upon her breast! The hunters found the
hapless pair; he afterwards walked the hill. But
many and silent were his steps round the dark
dwelling of his love. The fleet of the ocean came.
He fought, the strangers fled. He searched for
death along the field. But who could slay the
mighty Comal! He threw away his dark-brown
shield. An arrow found his manly breast. He
sleeps with his loved Galbina, at the noise of the
sounding surge! Their green tombs are seen by
the mariner, when he bounds on the waves of
the north.
