BOOK IV.
ARGUMENT TO BOOK IV.
The action of the poem being suspended by night, Ossian takes
that opportunity to relate his own actions at the lake of Lego,
and his courtship of Evirallin, who was the mother of
Oscar, and had died some time before the expedition of Fingal
into Ireland. Her ghost appears to him, and tells him that
Oscar, who had been sent, the beginning of the night, to observe
the enemy, was engaged with an advanced party, and
almost overpowered. Ossian relieves his son, and an alarm
is given to Fingal of the approach of Swaran. The king rises,
calls his army together, and, as he had promised the preceding
night, devolves the command on Gaul, the son of Morni,
while he himself, after charging his sons to behave gallantly,
and defend his people, retires to a hill, from whence he
could have a view of the battle. The battle joins; the poet
relates Oscar's great actions. But when Oscar, in conjunction
with his father, conquered in one wing, Gaul, who was
attacked by Swaran in person, was on the point of retreating
in the other. Fingal sends Ullin his bard to encourage him
with a war song, but notwithstanding Swaran prevails; and
Gaul and his army are obliged to give way. Fingal, descending
from the hill, rallies them again: Swaran desists from the
pursuit, possesses himself of a rising ground, restores the
ranks, and waits the approach of Fingal. The king, having
encouraged his men, gives the necessary orders, and renews
the battle. Cuthullin, who, with his friend Connal, and Carril,
his bard, had retired to the cave of Tura, hearing the
noise, came to the brow of the hill, which overlooked the
field of battle, where he saw Fingal engaged with the enemy.
He, being hindered by Connal from joining Fingal, who was
himself upon the point of obtaining a complete victory, sends
Carril to congratulate that hero on his success.
Macpherson.
Who comes with her songs from the hill, like
the bow of the showery Lena? It is the maid
of the voice of love! The white-armed daughter
of Toscar! Often hast thou heard my song;
often given the tear of beauty. Dost thou come
to the wars of thy people? to hear the actions
of Oscar? When shall I cease to mourn, by the
streams of resounding Cona? My years have
passed away in battle. My age is darkened with
grief!
Daughter of the hand of snow! I was not
so mournful and blind. I was not so dark and
forlorn, when Evirallin loved me! Evirallin
with the dark-brown hair, the white-bosomed
daughter of Branno! A thousand heroes sought
the maid, she refused her love to a thousand.
The sons of the sword were despised: for graceful
in her eyes was Ossian! I went, in suit of
the maid, to Lego's sable surge. Twelve of my
people were there, the sons of streamy Morven!
We came to Branno, friend of strangers! Branno
of the sounding mail! “From whence,” he
said, “are the arms of steel? Not easy to win is
the maid, who has denied the blue-eyed sons of
Erin! But blest be thou, O son of Fingal! Happy
is the maid that waits thee! Though twelve
daughters of beauty were mine, thine were the
choice, thou son of fame!”
He opened the hall of the maid, the dark-haired
Evirallin. Joy kindled in our manly
breasts. We blest the maid of Branno. Above
us on the hill appeared the people of stately Cormac.
Eight were the heroes of the chief. The
heath flamed wide with their arms. There Colla;
there Durra of wounds, there mighty Toscar,
and Tago, there Frestal the victorious stood;
Dairo of the happy deeds: Dala, the battle's bulwark
in the narrow way! The sword flamed in
the hand of Cormac. Graceful was the look of
the hero! Eight were the heroes of Ossian.
Ullin stormy son of war. Mullo of the generous
deeds. The noble, the graceful Scelacha. Oglan,
and Cerdal, the wrathful. Dumariccan's
brows of death! And why should Ogar be the
last; so wide renowned on the hills of Ardven?
Ogar met Dala the strong, face to face, on
the field of heroes. The battle of the chiefs was,
like wind, on ocean's foamy waves. The dagger
is remembered by Ogar; the weapon which
he loved. Nine times he drowned it in Dala's
side. The stormy battle turned. Three times
I broke on Cormac's shield: three times he
broke his spear. But, unhappy youth of love!
I cut his head away. Five times I shook it by
the lock. The friends of Cormac fled. Whoever
would have told me, lovely maid, when
then I strove in battle; that blind, forsaken,
and forlorn, I now should pass the night; firm
ought his mail to have been; unmatched his
arm in war!
“On Lena's gloomy heath, the voice of music
died away. The unconstant blast blew hard.
The high oak shook its leaves around. Of
Evirallin were my thoughts, when in all the
light of beauty she came. Her blue eyes rolling
in tears. She stood on a cloud before my sight,
and spoke with feeble voice! “Rise, Ossian,
rise and save my son; save Oscar, prince of
men. Near the red oak of Luba's stream, he
fights with Lochlin's sons.” She sunk into her
cloud again. I covered me with steel. My
spear supported my steps; my rattling armour
rung. I hummed, as I was wont in danger,
the songs of heroes of old. Like distant thunder
Lochlin heard. They fled; my son pursued.
I called him like a distant stream. “Oscar,
return over Lena! No further pursue the
foe,” I said, “though Ossian is behind thee.”
He came; and pleasant to my ear was Oscar's
sounding steel. “Why didst thou stop my
hand,” he said, “till death had covered all?
For dark and dreadful by the stream they met
thy son and Fillan! They watched the terrors
of the night. Our swords have conquered some.
But as the winds of night pour the ocean, over
the white sands of Mora, so dark advance the
sons of Lochlin, over Lena's rustling heath!
The ghosts of night shriek afar: I have seen
the meteors of death. Let me awake the king
of Morven, he that smiles in danger! He that
is like the son of heaven, rising in a storm!”
Fingal had started from a dream, and leaned
on Trenmor's shield; the dark brown shield of
his fathers, which they had lifted of old in war.
The hero had seen, in his rest, the mournful
form of Agandecca. She came from the way
of the ocean. She slowly, lonely, moved over
Lena. Her face was pale like the mist of Cromla.
Dark were the tears of her cheek. She often
raised her dim hand from her robe: her
robe, which was of the clouds of the desart:
she raised her dim hand over Fingal, and turned
away her silent eyes! “Why weeps the
daughter of Starno?” said Fingal, with a sigh;
“why is thy face so pale, fair wanderer of the
clouds?” She departed on the wind of Lena.
She left him in the midst of the night. She
mourned the sons of her people, that were to fall
by the hand of Fingal.
The hero started from rest. Still he beheld her
in his soul. The sound of Oscar's steps approached.
The king saw the grey shield on his side:
For the faint beam of the morning came over the
waters of Ullin. “What do the foes in their
fear?” said the rising king of Morven; “or fly
they through ocean's foam, or wait they the battle
of steel? But why should Fingal ask? I
hear their voice on the early wind! Fly over
Lena's heath: O Oscar, awake our friends!”
The king stood by the stone of Lubar. Thrice
he reared his terrible voice. The deer started
from the fountains of Cromla. The rocks shook
on all their hills. Like the noise of a hundred
mountain-streams, that burst, and roar, and
foam! like the clouds, that gather to a tempest
on the blue face of the sky! so met the sons
of the desart, round the terrible voice of Fingal.
Pleasant was the voice of the king of Morven to
the warriors of his land. Often had he led them
to battle; often returned with the spoils of the
foe!
“Come to battle,” said the king, “ye children
of echoing Selma! Come to the death of
thousands. Comhal's son will see the fight.
My sword shall wave on the hill, the defence of
my people in war. But never may you need it,
warriors: while the son of Morni fights, the
chief of mighty men! He shall lead my battle;
that his fame may rise in song! O ye ghosts of
heroes dead! ye riders of the storm of Cromla!
receive my falling people with joy, and bear
them to your hills. And may the blast of Lena
carry them over my seas, that they may come to
my silent dreams, and delight my soul in rest!
Fillan and Oscar, of the dark-brown hair! fair
Ryno, with the pointed steel! advance with valour
to the fight. Behold the son of Morni!
Let your swords be like his in strife: behold the
deeds of his hand. Protect the friends of your
father. Remember the chiefs of old. My children,
I will see you yet, though here ye should
fall in Erin. Soon shall our cold, pale ghosts
meet in a cloud on Cona's eddying winds.”
Now, like a dark and stormy cloud, edged
round with the red lightning of heaven; flying
westward from the morning's beam, the king
of Selma removed. Terrible is the light of his
armour; two spears are in his hand. His grey
hair falls on the wind. He often looks back on
the war. Three bards attend the son of fame,
to bear his words to the chiefs. High on Cromla's
side he sat, waving the lightning of his
sword, and as he waved we moved.
Joy rises in Oscar's face. His cheek is red.
His eye sheds tears. The sword is a beam of
fire in his hand. He came, and smiling, spoke
to Ossian. “O ruler of the fight of steel! my
father, hear thy son! Retire with Morven's
mighty chief. Give me the fame of Ossian. If
here I fall: O chief, remember that breast of
snow, the lonely sun-beam of my love, the
white-handed daughter of Toscar! For, with
red cheek from the rock, bending over the
stream, her soft hair flies about her bosom, as
she pours the sigh for Oscar. Tell her I am on
my hills, a lightly-bounding son of the wind;
tell her, that in a cloud, I may meet the lovely
maid of Toscar.” “Raise, Oscar, rather raise my
tomb. I will not yield the war to thee. The
first and bloodiest in the strife, my arm shall
teach thee how to fight. But, remember, my
son, to place this sword, this bow, the horn of
my deer, within that dark and narrow house,
whose mark is one grey stone! Oscar, I have no
love to leave to the care of my son. Evirallin
is no more, the lovely daughter of Branno!”
Such were our words, when Gaul's loud voice
came growing on the wind. He waved on high
the sword of his father. We rushed to death
and wounds. As waves, white-bubbling over
the deep, come swelling, roaring on; as rocks
of ooze meet roaring waves: so foes attacked
and fought. Man met with man, and steel with
steel. Shields sound, and warriors fall. As a
hundred hammers on the red son of the furnace,
so rose, so rung their swords!
Gaul rushed on, like a whirlwind in Ardven.
The destruction of heroes is on his sword.
Swaran was like the fire of the desart in the
echoing heath of Gormal! How can I give to
the song the death of many spears? My sword
rose high, and flamed in the strife of blood.
Oscar, terrible wert thou, my best, my greatest
son! I rejoiced in my secret soul, when his
sword flamed over the slain. They fled amain
through Lena's heath. We pursued and slew.
As stones that bound from rock to rock; as
axes in echoing woods; as thunder rolls from
hill to hill, in dismal broken peals; so blow succeeded
to blow, and death to death, from the
hand of Oscar and mine.
But Swaran closed round Morni's son, as the
strength of the tide of Inistore. The king half-rose
from his hill at the sight. He half-assumed
the spear. “Go, Ullin, go, my aged bard,”
begun the king of Morven. “Remind the
mighty Gaul of war. Remind him of his fathers.
Support the yielding fight with song;
for song enlivens war.” Tall Ullin went, with
step of age, and spoke to the king of swords.
“Son of the chief of generous steeds! high-bounding
king of spears. Strong arm in every
perilous toil. Hard heart that never yields.
Chief of the pointed arms of death. Cut down
the foe; let no white sail bound round dark
Inistore. Be thine arm like thunder. Thine
eyes like fire, thy heart of solid rock. Whirl
round thy sword as a meteor at night; lift thy
shield like the flame of death. Son of the chief
of generous steeds, cut down the foe. Destroy!”
The hero's heart beat high. But Swaran came
with battle. He cleft the shield of Gaul in
twain. The sons of Selma fled.
Fingal at once arose in arms. Thrice he
reared his dreadful voice. Cromla answered around.
The sons of the desart stood still.
They bent their blushing faces to earth, ashamed
at the presence of the king. He came, like a
cloud of rain in the day of the sun, when slow
it rolls on the hill, and fields expect the shower.
Silence attends its slow progress aloft; but the
tempest is soon to arise. Swaran beheld the terrible
king of Morven. He stopped in the midst
of his course. Dark he leaned on his spear, rolling
his red eyes around. Silent and tall he seemed
as an oak on the banks of Lubar, which had
its branches blasted of old by the lightning of
heaven. It bends over the stream: the grey
moss whistles in the wind: so stood the king.
Then slowly he retired to the rising heath of
Lena. His thousands pour around the hero.
Darkness gathers on the hill!
Fingal, like a beam from heaven, shone in the
midst of his people. His heroes gather around
him. He sends forth the voice of his power.
“Raise my standards on high; spread them on
Lena's wind, like the flames of an hundred hills!
Let them sound on the winds of Erin, and remind
us of the fight. Ye sons of the roaring
streams, that pour from a thousand hills, be
near the king of Morven! attend to the words
of his power! Gaul strongest arm of death! O
Oscar, of the future fights! Connal son of the
blue shields of Sora! Dermid of the dark-brown
hair! Ossian king of many songs, be near your
father's arm!” We reared the sun-beam of
battle; the standard of the king! Each hero
exulted with joy, as, waving, it flew on the
wind. It was studded with gold above, as the
blue wide shell of the nightly sky. Each
hero had his standard too; and each his gloomy
men!
“Behold,” said the king of generous shells,
“how Lochlin divides on Lena! they stand
like broken clouds on a hill; or an half-consumed
grove of oaks: when we see the sky
through its branches, and the meteor passing
behind! Let every chief among the friends of
Fingal take a dark troop of those that frown so
high: Nor let a son of the echoing groves
bound on the waves of Inistore!
“Mine,” said Gaul, “be the seven chiefs,
that came from Lano's lake.” “Let Inistore's
dark king,” said Oscar, “come to the sword of
Ossian's son.” To mine the king of Iniscon,”
said Connal, “heart of steel!” “Or Mudan's
chief or I,” said brown-haired Dermid, “shall
sleep on clay-cold earth.” My choice, though
now so weak and dark, was Terman's battling
king; I promised with my hand to win the hero's
dark-brown shield. “Blest and victorious
be my chiefs,” said Fingal of the mildest look.
“Swaran, king of roaring waves, thou art the
choice of Fingal!”
Now, like a hundred different winds, that
pour through many vales; divided, dark the
sons of Selma advanced. Cromla echoed around!
How can I relate the deaths, when
we closed in the strife of arms! O daughter of
Toscar! bloody were our hands! The gloomy
ranks of Lochlin fell, like the banks of the roaring
Cona! Our arms were victorious on Lena:
each chief fulfilled his promise! Beside the murmur
of Branno thou didst often sit, O maid!
thy white bosom rose frequent like the down of
the swan when slow she swims on the lake, and
sidelong winds
blow on her ruffled wing. Thou
hast seen the sun retire, red and slow behind his
cloud; night gathering round on the mountain,
while the unfrequent blast roared in the
narrow vales. At length the rain beats hard:
thunder rolls in peals. Lightning glances on
the rocks! Spirits ride on beams of fire! The
strength of the mountain-streams comes roaring
down the hills. Such was the noise of battle,
maid of the arms of snow! Why, daughter
of Toscar, why that tear? The maids of Lochlin
have cause to weep! The people of their country
fell. Bloody were the blue swords of the
race of my heroes! But I am sad, forlorn, and
blind: no more the companion of heroes. Give,
lovely maid, to me thy tears. I have seen the
tombs of all my friends!
It was then, by Fingal's hand, a hero fell, to
his grief! Grey-haired he rolled in the dust.
He lifted his faint eyes to the king. “And is
it by me thou hast fallen,” said the son of Comhal,
“thou friend of Agandecca! I have seen
thy tears for the maid of my love in the halls of
the bloody Starno! Thou hast been the foe of
the foes of my love, and hast thou fallen by my
hand? Raise, Ullin, raise the grave of Mathon;
and give his name to Agandecca's song. Dear
to my soul hast thou been, thou darkly-dwelling
maid of Ardven!”
Cuthullin, from the cave of Cromla, heard
the noise of the troubled war. He called to
Connal, chief of swords; to Carril of other times.
The grey-haired heroes heard his voice. They
took their pointed spears. They came, and saw
the tide of battle, like ocean's crowded waves:
when the dark wind blows from the deep, and
rolls the billows through the sandy vale!
Cuthullin kindled at the sight. Darkness gathered
on his brow. His hand is on the sword
of his fathers: his red-rolling eyes on the foe.
He thrice attempted to rush to battle. He
thrice was stopt by Connal. “Chief of the isle
of mist,” he said, “Fingal subdues the foe. Seek
not a part of the fame of the king; himself is
like the storm!”
“Then, Carril, go,” replied the chief, “go,
greet the king of Morven. When Lochlin falls
away like a stream after rain: when the noise
of the battle is past. Then be thy voice sweet
in his ear to praise the king of Selma! Give
him the sword of Caithbat. Cuthullin is not
worthy to lift the arms of his fathers! Come,
O ye ghosts of the lonely Cromla! ye souls of
chiefs that are no more! be near the steps of
Cuthullin; talk to him in the cave of his grief.
Never more shall I be renowned, among the
mighty in the land. I am a beam that has
shone; a mist that has fled away: when the
blast of the morning came, and brightened the
shaggy side of the hill! Connal! talk of arms
no more: departed is my fame. My sighs shall
be on Cromla's wind; till my footsteps cease to
be seen. And thou, white-bosomed Bragela,
mourn over the fall of my fame: vanquished, I
will never return to thee, thou sun-beam of my
soul!”