The Battle of Lora :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Battle of Lora

A Poem. With Some Fragments written in the Erse, or Irish Language, By Ossian, the Son of Fingal. Translated into English Verse By Mr. Derrick

Derrick, Samuel (1724-1769)

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Quis talia fando temperet a Lachrymis? Virg.

TO THE EARL of POMFRET.

THE BATTLE of LORA.

A POEM.

The ARGUMENT.

Fingal , King of Morven, returning Home victorious from the Expedition in Ireland, which is celebrated in the Epic Poem bearing his Name, made a Feast, to which all his Chiefs, Ma-ronnan and Aldo excepted, were invited. The Neglect seems to have been accidental; however they resented it so strongly as to abandon their native Country, and enter into the Service of Erragon, King of Sora, a Name given to some Part of Scandinavia. Here Lorma, the beautiful Wife of Erragon, seeing Aldo by chance, his Reputation as a Warrior being very high, fell in Love with him. He return'd her Passion, and they fled into Morven. Erragon pursuing them, invaded that Kingdon with a powerful Force, and slew Aldo in single Combat, but was himself slain by Gaul, the Son of Morni, and his Army defeated. This is the Subject of the ensuing Poem, which is beautiful, sentimental, and interesting. It was deliver'd by Ossian, after becoming blind, to a Culdee, or Christian Hermit, who led a recluse Life near him, and whose Sacred Hymns he imagined were composed in Honour of his deceased Chiefs, or Addresses to the Spirits in the Air.

Son of the distant Land, within whose Cell,
Calm Peace and Heavenly Contemplation dwell,
What Notes of warbling Melody are these,
That pierce thy Grove and sigh upon the Breeze?

Tho' loud th'impetuous Torrent in mine Ear,
The Voice of Songs, a tuneful Voice I hear.
Perhaps you call your Country's Chiefs to mind;
Or praise the Spirits in the posting Wind.

Son of the Rock, cast o'er the Plain thine Eyes;
Among the Heath thou see'st green Tombs arise,
The rank Grass whistles round, and rising Stones,
Mark the sad Spot where lie the Heroe's Bones.

Thou, lonely Dweller of the Rock, can'st see;
But ah! that Blessing is not left to me;
In vain these Eyes roll round in search of Light,
For Ossian's Eyes are quench'd in endless Night.
Down pours the Mountain Stream from yonder Source,
And round the green Hill forms its winding Course;

Tufted with Moss, four Stones their Tops uprear,
Above the wither'd Grass; two Trees are near,
Their heavy Branches bent beneath the Storm;
Here sleeps, dread Erragon, thy mould'ring Form!
Thee, Erragon, this narrow House contains!
No more thy Shell resounds thro' Sora's Plains;
No more wilt thou the Sword in Battle wield;
Dark in thy Hall, and useless hangs thy Shield;
Scarce is thy Blood upon our Mountains dry,
Sovereign of Ships—and low the Valiant lie.

Lov'st thou the Song, Son of the secret Cell;
Attend, while Lora's bloody Fight I tell;
Tho' long forgotten on the spacious Plain,
And scarce the Marks of ruthless War remain;
So when hoarse Thunders bellow thro' the Sky,
A thousand Spirits from the Caves reply,
Blue Lightnings round the Hills of Morven play,
Gleaming pale Horrors on the doubtful Day;
Gradual the Storm subsides, the Horizon clears,
A settled Calm the faded Landscape cheers,
The golden Sun revives the drooping Isle,
The rough Rocks glitter and the Mountains smile.

From Ullin's rolling Waves we steer'd our Way,
Our Ships now enter'd Cona's spacious Bay;
Loose hung our Sails; we spurn'd the foaming Flood,
And heard the Tempest howl thro' Morven's Wood.
The King's Horn sounds,—at once the startled Deer,
Rous'd from their Coverts, fled the Danger near.

Thick pour'd our Arrows, and the festal Board
Was soon with Choice of smoaking Viands stor'd;
Blith on the Rocks we revel'd in Delight,
Swaran, our mortal Foe, had fallen in Fight.

Two Heroes at the Feast had been forgot,
Their bosoms burn'd with Rage and blackening Thought;
In secret round they glanc'd their kindled Eyes,
Their Indignation spoke in bursting Sighs.
Close they conferr'd, they threw their Spears to Earth;
Obscuring, like two murky Clouds, our Mirth.
So on the settled Sea blue Mists arise.
In vapory Volumes darkening to the Skies;
They glitter in the Sun; but Seamen fear
The Lustre short, and rising Tempests near.
“Loose my white Sails, we'll catch the Western Breeze.”
Maronnan spoke, “We'll plough the Northern Seas,
“We fought his Battles,—Aldo yet forgot
“At Fingal's Feast.—Since such our injur'd Lot
“To Foreign Lands, we'll bear our martial Might,
“And strengthen Erragon in dubious Fight;
“His Post is Terror, and his Eyes are Flame,
“War points his Spear, and Death attends his Name,
“His ecchoing Battles shall our Swords renown,
“And with immortal Wreaths of Glory crown.”

Snatching their Swords and Shields, they quickly sought,
Lumar's wish'd Bay, and to the Shore were brought,
Just as returning from the Chace was seen,
The chief of bounding Steeds, of haughty Mein.

Gloom wrapp'd his Face, he murm'ring as he went,
A smother'd Song, seem'd lost in dark Intent.
Gladly the Strangers at his Feasts he saw,
And to his Foes their glittering Arms gave Law.

Brave Aldo once returning from the Fight,
Was seen by Lorma, Erragon's Delight,
His beauteous Wife,—and then in luckless Hour,
She first acknowledg'd Love's imperious Power.
Aldo she saw, but like an Evening Sun,
Glancing an upward Beam, his Race now run;
Her Head she lean'd on her right Arm reclin'd;
Her dark-brown Locks loose floated in the Wind;
Still as she look'd, high heav'd her Breasts of Snow,
Quick throbb'd her Heart, and Tears unbidden flow;
The pearly Drop her new-born Passion spoke,
And in the Air in Sighs her Sorrows broke.
Three Days she pin'd; dissembled Joy her Grief
Conceal'd; the Fourth came wing'd with kind Relief,
The Hero clasp'd her in his vigorous Arms,
And o'er the briny Flood convey'd her Charms,
To Cona's Bay, to Fingal's lofty Tower;
There safe from Erragon's vindictive Power.
When lo! in Wrath, the King of Morven rose,
And said, “Shall I defend thee from thy Foes?
“What! shall Fingal a Ravisher befriend?
“Proud-hearted Aldo, how can I defend?
“Who will my People in their Halls receive?
“The Feast of Strangers who hereafter give?

“Hence, Youth of feeble Hand, avoid the Brave!
“Thy Guilt conceal in some deserted Cave,
“While we prepare with Sora's King to fight,
“Who threatens like black Tempests in the Night.

“Spirit of noble Trenmor, say shall Peace
“Ne'er bless my Age? Shall Fingal never cease
“From War's Alarms? but born amid the Fight
“Must Blood his Progress mark to endless Night?
“Yet never were the Weak by me distrest,
“Never my Sword the unequal Combat prest.
“Oh! Morven, yes, thy raging Storms I know,
“In Time my stately Towers shall overthrow,
“When of my Children all in Battle slain,
“Nought but their Tombs shall on the Heath remain;
“When none survive the noble Youths to mourn,
“When none in Selma's mouldering Shades sojourn;
“Feeble in Arms, perhaps, a Race may come,
“Who scarce will know where rises Fingal's Tomb;
“Yet in the Song shall flourish his Renown;
“In Song to future Times transmitted down.”

As round the turbid Spirits of the Night,
Are summon'd to convene on Morven's Height,
The gath'ring Tempests in vindictive Hour,
Which he prepares on foreign Realms to pour.
Round Erragon, now landed on the Coast,
Embodied close so roll'd his martial Host,
While to the King of Shields his Bard he sent,
Charging him thus to utter his Intent:

“Tell him the Fight of Thousands we demand;
“Or else Possession of his hilly Land.”

The Sovereign sitting in his Hall was found,
The grave Companions of his Youth around;
For the young Heroes, Thunderbolts of War,
Were at the Chace, or in the Desart far.
The Sages told what other Times had seen,
And what their Deeds in earlier Days had been:
When Narthmor, King of streamy Lora came,
Strong, tho' in Years, and of illustrious Name.
“This is no Time,” began the Chief, “to hear
“The Song of other Days, the Foe so near;
“Fierce Erragon advances on the Strand,
“And lifts ten thousand Swords against the Land;
“Among his Chiefs he stalks with gloomy Pace,
“Like the dark Moon when Meteors shroud her Face.”

“Come Daughter of my Love,” then said Fingal,
“Bosmina come from thy sequester'd Hall.
“The rough War threatens; be it thine to save
“The Land from Blood, the Soldier from the Grave.
“To gallant Erragon this Message bear,
“Say, “we for him the festal Board prepare;
“The Peace of Heroes we request; and say,
“The Wealth of Aldo at his Feet we lay;
“Take thou the Stranger's Steeds,—they are not slow,
“Narthmor, and with the Maid of Morven go.
“Bosmina haste, our Youths are distant far,
“And bending Age unequal is to War.”

To Sora's gazing Bands Bosmina bright
Shone forth, as on a Cloud a Beam of Light;
Her left Hand with a sparkling Shell was grac'd,
A Golden Arrow in her Right was plac'd.
As when the Solar Rays a Passage find,
Thro' envious Clouds, rent by the rising Wind,
The Vale rejoices in the genial Heat,
Smiling the King advanced the Maid to meet.

Thus, mildly blushing, she began to speak,
“Thy Royal Presence we in Selma seek;
“For thee the Feast is spread by Morven's King;
“I'll be thy Guide, provided Peace you bring.
“Listen, fam'd Warrior, then to our Request,
“Of Peace accept, and let the dark Sword rest.
“The Wealth of Kings we offer, if you chuse;
“Nor you to hear what Aldo says refuse.
“An hundred Steeds he gives that own the Rein,
“Never a swifter Race devour'd the Plain.
“An hundred Maids from distant Lands he gives,
“Beneath the Sky not brighter Beauty lives.
“An hundred Hawks, all well inur'd to Game,
“Of which none Haggard, ever miss'd their Aim.
“An hundred Girdles also shall be thine;
“Such when they round high-bosom'd Women twine,
“Gives sudden Ease to Travails' fiercest Throes,
“And their vast Virtue every Matron knows.
“Ten Shells with Gems inlaid, which ours we call,
“Shall Lustre beam thro' Sora's lofty Hall;

“Trembling upon their Stars, blue Waters shine,
“And to the Eye appear like sparkling Wine.
“The World's great Kings, Lords of the distant Seas,
“Once quaff'd delicious Beverage from these.
“They all are thine;—or Lorma fair shall grace,
“Thy Tower again, and pant in thy Embrace.
“Tho' much Fingal the gen'rous Aldo loves,
“Thus Erragon, his Wish for Peace he proves;
“Fingal, who never did a Hero wrong,
“Never Injustice, tho' his Arm be strong.”

“Soft Voice of Cona,” Sora's King reply'd,
“Tell him he does in vain the Feast provide,
“Unless he bow to my superior Sway,
“And at my Feet his Spoils submissive lay;
“The Shields of other Times let him resign,
“And let me all his Fathers Swords call mine;
“These, in my Hall, so shall my Sons behold,
“And say, “those Arms were once Fingal's the bold.”

“Never shall they behold them in thy Hall;
“Never so low shall Morven's Monarch fall;
“Still are they grasp'd by the firm Hand of Might,
“By Heroes who ne'er yielded in the Fight.”
Bosmina spoke, by Patriot Pride alarm'd,
And kindling Passion all her Visage warm'd.
“King of re-ecchoing Sora, too,” she said,
“Thou art to Death by this thy Pride betray'd;
“For on our Hills the Storms begin to lower,
“Which must thy numerous Ranks and thee devour.”

Now Selma's towering Walls Bosmina sought,
Silent she went, and Fingal read her Thought.
In Strength he rose, his Silver Locks he shook;
The sounding Mail of Trenmor then he took,
His Father's Shield.—Darkness o'er Selma spread,
When on his Spear his out-stretch'd Hand he laid.
Myriads of howling Ghosts around were heard,
And many a gallant Hero's Fall was fear'd.
Stern Joy in each old Warrior's Visage glows,
While on they press'd to meet their Country's Foes;
The Feats of former Times their Minds employ,
The Fame which those who fall in War enjoy.
When, lo! the panting Dogs upon the Plain,
Were seen, where Trathail long in Dust had lain.
Fingal then knew his youthful Heroes near,
And stopt the Thunder of his bold Career.

First Oscar,—Morni's Son,—and Nemis' Race,
Then Fercuth shew'd his cloudy Form and Face;
Dermid, his dark Hair sporting in the Wind,
And Ossian last, O! Stranger, came behind;
Propt by my Spear, I leapt each little Stream,
And sung,—old Times and Actions past my Theme;
Of mighty Men I thought,—when near at Hand,
War's dismal Din was eccho'd thro' the Land;
For hardy Fingal struck his bossy Shield,
A thousand Swords unsheath'd wave o'er the Field;
Three grey-hair'd Sons of Song then lift the Voice
Of Harmony; a mournful Theme their Choice.

With sounding Step, in youthful Prowess strong,
Tremendous to the View, we rush'd along;
So pours impetuous thro' the narrow Vale,
The drifting Storm of Sleet, and driving Hail.

On the green Hill Fingal now sat reclin'd,
His glittering Standard flutter'd in the Wind;
The tough Companions of his Youth were near,
Graceful their waving Locks of Age appear.
Now he beheld his Sons in War arise,
And heart-felt Pleasure sparkled in his Eyes;
For, midst the Lightning of their Swords, he saw
From their Forefathers Deeds they took their Law.

Like the fierce Torrent of a Wintry Night,
Stout Erragon advanc'd, of matchless Might,
Death track'd his Footsteps, wheresoe'er he came,
The Ranks were thin'd, as Heath's consum'd by Flame.
“Who,” says Fingal, “comes like the bounding Roe?
“The Hart which we in ecchoing Cona know?
“His bright Shield glitters on his manly Side,
“His Armor clangs, but mournful is his Pride.
“He meets with Erragon!—How big the Strife!—
“The Battle of the Chiefs!—they toil for Life!—
“So when in Air high rules the Tempest's Rage,
“In Combat fierce appalling Ghosts engage.
“Son of the Hill, thou fall'st, distain'd with Blood;
“From thy white Bosom streams Life's crimson Flood.
“Ah! hapless Lorma, thy hard Fate deplore;
“Weep, wretched Woman, Aldo is no more.”

The Hero's Spear the King of Sora took,
And on his Body cast a pitying Look;
Round on the Foe his deathful Eyes then threw,
When Gaul came forth, to Virtue ever true.
Who can the Conflict of the Heroes tell?
Their wonderous Deeds!—the royal Stranger fell.
“Sons of lov'd Cona,” loud brave Fingal cried,
“Hold Death's red Hand, and stop the purple Tide.
“For ah! the Great his last in Dust has groan'd,
“And much in Sora is his Fall bemoan'd.
“The Traveller shall to his Hall repair,
“And wonder at the Silence reigning there;
“Stranger, the King is levell'd with the Dust!
“His House's Joy;—Who in their Strength may trust!
“Hark!—a shrill Voice! quick thro' his Woods it pass'd,
“Perhaps his Spirit that bestrides the Blast.
“But he is distant far,—on Morven, low
“Fell Erragon beneath a foreign Foe.”

Thus spoke Fingal; the tuneful Song of Peace
The Bard rais'd high,—the Swords from Slaughter cease.
The feeble Foe was spar'd for better Days,
While added Glories round the Sunbeam blaze.
Within that Tomb the conquer'd Chief we laid,
And I the Song of Lamentation made.
Oft o'er the Sky, when Night's dark Vapours come,
The Hero's mourning Ghost appears to some;

Pale Sorrow, say they, on his Face impress'd,
And half-form'd Sighs seem labouring in his Breast.
Blest Sora's King, be thy departed Soul,
Thine Arm the Tide of Battle could controul.

Fair Lorma sat, and fast descended Night,
Thro' Aldo's Hall; a flaming Oak gave Light.
With Expectation big her Bosom burn'd,
Sad she look'd out, but saw him not return'd.

“Where can my Joy, my Comfort, thus remain?
“Cona's lov'd Hunter! what can thee detain?
“You promis'd to return e'er setting Day,
“Has then the Deer been distant far away?
“Do the bleak Winds sigh round thee on the Heath,
“Where murmuring Spirits guard their Bones beneath?
“Where is my Friend? Where, where my Aldo gone?
“Wherefore am I with Strangers left alone?
“My Aldo never yet neglectful prov'd!
“Come from thy ecchoing Hills, my best belov'd.”

Oft to the Gate she turns her swimming Eyes;
Oft listens as the rustling Breezes rise;—
'Tis Aldo's Tread;—Joy lightens in her Face.—
It is not he!—How short the smiling Space.
Now anxious Thoughts again her Visage shroud,
As the pale Moon behind a watery Cloud.
“Return, my Love, nor thus my Hopes defraud,—
“Return, my Love.—Again I'll look abroad.
“Soft in the East the Queen of Stars is bright,
“And the calm Lake reflects her Silver Light.

“Shall I not see his faithful Dogs appear?
“His faithful Dogs would tell my Hero near.
“When shall his well-known Accents, on the Wind,
“Tho' distant, loud, revive my pensive Mind?
“Come from thy towering Hills,—my Love, appear;—
“Thy Lorma calls;—he's silent—much I fear!”—

As when a Midnight Shower invests the Plain,
The Moon a dusky Beam darts thro' the Rain;
His shivering Ghost upon a Rock was seen,
The Shade she follow'd o'er the gloomy Green;
For now she knew the Hero was no more;
I heard her in the Wind her Fate deplore:
I heard her Mourning, like the Gales that pass
Over yon Cave, that sigh among the Grass.
She came, she found the Spot where Aldo lay,
Her Voice grew faint, and gradual died away:
Pale as the Vapor rising o'er the Lake,
She roll'd her heavy Eyes, nor more she spake.
Few were her Days in Cona, when she died,
And Beauty's Blossom wither'd in its Pride.

Fingal commanded, and his Bards proclaim,
In melancholy Song her deathless Fame.
Morven's fair Daughters, once in every Year,
Drop o'er her Clay-cold Grave a pitying Tear,
When Autumn's Blasts upon the Hills appear.

Son of the Land, far distant from our own,
Whose Dwelling is the Field of fair Renown,

O let thy Song be sometimes tun'd to those
Who fell in Battle; thence their Fame arose.
So their thin Ghosts around thee shall rejoice,
And on a Moon-beam Lorma hear thy Voice;
When in thy Cave thou lay'st thee down by Night,
Thou shalt behold her in the humid Light,
And thou wilt own, that she indeed was fair,
Tho' wet her Cheek, and wan her Face with Care.

The Standard of Fingal was called the Sunbeam, from its being richly adorned with Jewels.

MORAR.

A Fragment.

The Rain's dispers'd, the Storm of Wind is past,
No more I shiver in the dreary Blast.
Calm is the Noon. The burning Lamp of Day
From Hill to Hill pursues his circling Way;
A rising Rain-bow bends across the Skies,
And fleecy Clouds display their varying Dies;
Red pours the sudden Stream o'er yonder Steep,
And thro' the Valley spreads with murm'ring Sweep:
How softly plaintive sounds it on mine Ear,
Yet softer far yon mourning Voice I hear.
'Tis Alpin's,—he in sadly soothing Strain,
Laments some gallant Youth untimely slain.
Alpin, the Son of Song, his Head of Snow,
Bends under Age, and Tears his Eyes o'erflow.

Say, Son of Song, why on the silent Hill,
These lonely Bounds thy sad Complainings fill?
Why, like the Wave upon the desart Shore,
Or Blasts thro' wintry Woods do'st thou thy Fate deplore?

ALPIN.

Ryno! my Friend! these heart-sprung Tears are shed,
This Voice of Woe is rais'd, for Morar dead:
Tho' tall thy Stature on the Hill is seen,
And fair thy Beauty on the level Green,
Yet thou must fall like him, while all around
Thy Tomb—the Voice of Sorrow shall resound:
Unstrung thy Bow shall lie within the Hall,
Nor Echo from the Hills her Huntsman call.

Swift wer't thou, Morar, as the Mountain Roe,
Wrath o'er thy Face diffus'd a fiery Glow.
Descending furious as December Storm,
Thy Sword like Light'ning could the Field deform;
Thy Voice express'd the Torrent after Rain,
And echo'd with Heaven's Thunder thro' the Plain.

Beneath his warrior Arm what Numbers fell,
Thou can'st, O Genius of my Country, tell!
His Arm mow'd down the Valiant and the Great,
As falls before the Scythe the ripen'd Wheat.

But how serene thy Brow, beheld afar
Returning mildly glorious from the War?
Thy Face appear'd the Sun when Rains subside,
Or shone the gentler Moon at Midnight Tide;
Calm as the Bosom of the lucid Lake,
When not a whisp'ring Breeze remains awake.

Alas! how narrow is thy Place become!
How low! how darksome thine eternal Home!
Three Paces round out-measure now thy Grave,
O Morar! late the Mighty and the Brave.

No other Witness of his Fame is seen,
Save three rude Stones, whose Tops are moss'd with Green.

Beneath yon leafless solitary Tree,
Sad Emblem of decay'd Mortality,
Thro' the long Grass, where moans the passing Wind,
The Grave of gallant Morar there you'll find.

Morar, the Mighty's fallen—he is no more—
No Mother's Sighs his hapless Fate deplore!
No Maid his Loss bewails in plaintive Strains,
Nor pours out Tears of Love upon his cold Remains;
For Ah! the Dame is dead that gave him Birth,
And Morglan's lovely Daughter laid in Earth.

Who! who is he comes tott'ring o'er the Plain!
Scarce can his Staff his feeble Limbs sustain!
Grief marks his furrow'd Face, his hoary Head
Is white with Age, his Eyes with Tears are red.

It is thy Father, Morar,—yes—'tis he—
Thy hopeless Father—he had none but thee—
Oft' when thy gallant Actions Fame has sung
How o'er the Tale enraptur'd has he hung;
Yet Ah! 'till now he heard not of the Wound
That brought his Darling breathless to the Ground.
Long, like an Oak, he flourish'd on the Plains,
Ah! why this Blow to shatter his Remains?

Thy Son is deaf—weep, wretched Father weep—
Low lie the Dead, and heavy is their Sleep;
Their Pillow Earth, with them thro' one long Night
He sleeps for ever ravish'd from thy Sight.
For ever gone,—no more thy Voice to hear:
That Voice that us'd his warlike Soul to cheer.

When will the Morning of the Grave arrive,
To bid the Slumberer in the Dust revive?

Thou bravest of the Sons of Men, farewel!
Who could the First in every Field excel.
The Field no more shall find thy Sword display'd,
Whose Edge beam'd Lightning thro' the darkest Shade.

Thy Race is fallen,—no Son preserves thy Name,
Yet shall this Verse immortalize thy Fame!
And thy fair Deeds shall unborn Ages tell,
How mighty Morar liv'd! How fought! How fell!

The DIRGE.

A Fragment.

Dark Autumn rests upon the Mountain's Brow,
While grey Mists hover on the Hills below;
Loud o'er the barren Heath the Whirlwind howls,
Hoarse thro' the narrow Plain the River rolls.

On yonder Mount, beneath the lonely Shade
Of that old Oak, are Connal's Ashes laid:
The wither'd Leaf, first whirl'd awhile in Air,
Quits the light Breeze, and, mourning, settles there.

Round, when the Silver Regent of the Night
Rules Heav'n's high Vault, and pours her softer Light,
In her pale Beams departed Spirits play,
Too weak to bear the stronger Blaze of Day,
And by the lonely Hunter oft are seen,
As, musing, slow he stalks along the Green.

Who, Connal, to their Source, thy Sires can trace?
Who can recount the Fathers of thy Race?

Like the stout Oak, that on the Mountain Side,
Meets the loud Storm, and braves its furious Pride,
Firm stood their Ranks upon the burnish'd Field,
And taught the boldest of their Foes to yield.

Uptorn thy Root, beneath the Turf you lie,—
Who, mighty Connal, shall thy Place supply?
Here clash'd the warrior Arms, and here around
The Dying groan'd, who strew'd the guilty Ground.
Here Connal fell,—with Mourning and Dismay
The Wars of Fingal mark'd the bloody Day.

Thy Arm was like a Tempest from the North;
Like Lightning gleam'd thy Falchion when drawn forth;
Thy Height, a Rock did on the Plain appear;
Thine Eyes, a fiery Furnace flaming near:
Louder than fighting Winds thy Voice was found,
Scattering Confusion wild the Vallies round.
The Strongest by thy Valour were o'erthrown,
As a Boy's Staff hews tender Thistles down.
Dargo, the Chief, ambitious, fierce, and proud,
Advanc'd, like an impending Thunder-Cloud;
Dargo the Strong, who never miss'd his Blow,
Dark and contracted was his sullen Brow;
His Eyes were like two Caves within a Rock;
Bright rose their Swords, and fearful was the Shock.

Behind, in Armour bright, Crimora fair,
Came watchful on, old Rinval's Orphan-Care;
Bent was her Bow, and loose her curling Hair.
Long had she sigh'd for Connal's manly Charms
And him she sought amid the Din of Arms;

At Dargo's Heart she aim'd the erring Shaft,
And her lov'd Connal's dearest Blood it quaff'd.
He falls,—as on the Plain a mighty Oak,
Or a rough Rock from its Foundation broke.

He bleeds,—unhappy Maid!—yet no Relief!
Her Connal dies!—Verse cannot paint her Grief!
What shall she do?—the long, long Night she mourns,—
Detested Day, all comfortless, returns.

“My Love, my Friend,” she cries,—“his Soul is fled,
“In vain you weep! no Tears awake the Dead.’

Woe-worn, at length Death gives her Anguish rest,
And her last Breath she pours on Connal's Breast.
Inclos'd they peaceful lie within this Tomb,
Both in the Pride of Youth, and Beauty's Bloom:
Upsprings the Grass beneath the unletter'd Stone,
While mournful in the Shade I fit alone,
And hear the sighing Wind their Fate bemoan:
Full, then, their Memory pours upon my Mind;
Where shall the Muse, alas! their Fellow find?
Now undisturb'd, together ye may sleep,
Sacred the Mountain Tomb your Bones shall keep.

CONNAL and CRIMORA.

An Elegy.

CRIMORA.
Who, who is he, that skirts the Hill afar,
In Course effulgent as the Morning Star;
Or as a Western Cloud in bright Array,
Ting'd by the Flame of fast-descending Day?

Loud as the hollow Wind his Voice I hear!
Sweet as the Song of Carryl to the Ear!
It is my Love, encas'd with shining Steel;
What Joys, what Bliss ineffable, I feel!
Short-liv'd, I fear; for Sorrow shades his Face,—
Say, Connal, lives great Fingal's hardy Race?
Why the dark Brow?—To me thy Woes impart;—
Ah! they already tear my troubled Heart?

CONNAL.

They live, my Love.—Two Hours had pass'd of Morn,
When I beheld them from the Chace return.
They cross'd like streaming Light o'er yonder Fields,
The Solar Ray reflected from their Shields:
I saw them in a Line the Hill descend.—
Some sad Event, my Love, the Times portend:
Fate has this melancholy Gloom impress'd,
And Sighs unwonted heave my boding Breast!

Give me my Arms;—The Task of War be mine,—
Our Youth are up; in Armour clasp'd they shine.
To-morrow Dargo comes to try our Force;
Dire will the Conflict be, and red the warring Course.
Enormous Dargo comes, renown'd for Might,
He calls the Race of Fingal to the Fight;
The Sons of Wounds and Battle he defies,
And clashing Arms shall thunder thro' the Skies.

CRIMORA.
As grey Mists thicken in autumnal Air,
On the big Waves I saw his Sails appear;

I saw his Vessels anchor near the Strand,
And soon the mighty Dargo came to Land,
And all his warlike Train, a num'rous Band.

CONNAL.
They shall repent they touch'd this warlike Shore;
Bring me the Shield the Soldier Rinval wore;
Thy Father's Buckler.—Thus with livid Light,
The Moon full orb'd, gleams thro' the wintry Night.

CRIMORA.
This Shield, O Connal, to thine Arm I bind;
Yet, oh! retain old Rinval's Fate in mind:
For no Defence in this my Father found,
But bit in Agonies of Death the Ground.
Here pierc'd stern Gauror's Spear,—the Warrior fell!
And who, my Connal, who thy Fate can tell?

CONNAL.

Yes,—I may fall, indeed; if such my Fate:
Remember, Glory shorten'd Connal's Date.
Raise thou my Tomb,—so shall my Fame survive,
Kept by the gentle Hand of Love alive.
A Mound of Earth, or rustic Pile of Stones,
May mark the Grave that covers Connal's Bones.

Tho' thou, Crimora, to my doating Sight,
Art dearer far than to the Blind is Light;
Tho' far less Pleasure wafts the Summer Gale,
To him who toils incessant at the Flail;

Tho' the parch'd Pilgrim in the Chrystal Brook,
Less Comfort finds than I in one dear Look;
Yet I will go,—my Country calls to Arms,—
Her Parent Voice more strong than Beauty's Charms.
Adieu, Crimora!—hence, appalling Gloom,—
If I should fall,—Crimora, raise my Tomb.

CRIMORA.

The martial Glow I sympathetic feel;
Give me those Arms, the Sword, the Lace of Steel.
I'll face, my Love, with thee, fierce Dargo's Pow'r;
And aid my Connal in the doubtful Hour.
Farewel, ye Rocks of Ardven!—I no more
Shall from your Summit hear the Ocean roar;
No more shall hear the Hunter's chearing Horn,
Rousing dull Eccho with the rising Morn.
Farewel, ye Deer, that on the Mountain Side
Crop the brown Heath, or in the Fern abide.
Farewel, ye numerous Streams, that down the Hill
Sooth'd my sad Hours with many a pleasing Rill.

No more shall we return.—The Voice of War
Loud calls to Arms:—Our Tombs are distant far.

The APPARITION.

An Elegy.

Upon this Hill, where constant raves the Wind,
Close by a Fountain's Murmur sweet reclin'd,
I listening lie, while o'er my drooping Head
A single Tree spreads solitary Shade.

Deep rolls the River thro' the blasted Heath;
The Lake with troubled Waters swell beneath:
Swift down the Hill the motly Tribe descend;
No whistling Cowherds nigh at hand attend.
No Hunter's Horn alarms the distant Hill;
Tho' Noon, the Scene is silent all and still.
Sad as the Dove, when by its Mate forlorn,
Alone I sit, the long, long Day, and mourn.
How pleasant would the barren Heath appear,
If the lov'd Mistress of my Heart were near,
With her curl'd Tresses floating loose behind;
While her soft Bosom kiss'd the passing Wind,
But, ah! the Wind, unwilling thence to part,
Might bolt with treble Bars of Ice her Heart.
She mourns her Friends that lie beneath the Hill;
The Tears I'll wipe that from thine Eyes distil;
And to thy Father's House while thee I bring,
Sweet Comfort in my Charmer's Ear I'll sing.

Ha! is it she that yonder beams like Light,
Or the full Lunar Orb in Autumn bright?
The Sun, just rising o'er a Summer Storm,
Less splendid seems than her delicious Form.
She speaks,—but, ah! her Voice how weak and low!
As thro' the marshy Reeds soft Breezes blow.

SHE.
Return'st thou safe, my Shilric, from the War?
Where are thy Friends, my Love? they travell'd far.
Of thy Destruction on the Hill they tell;
I heard, and wept incessant that you fell.

HE.
Yes, I return, my Love, and I alone;
Of all my Race beside surviveth none.
No more they'll bless them in your sunny Eyes!
Their Graves I pil'd,—on yonder Plain they rise.
But on the barren Turf, why, prithee, say,
Why o'er the desart Hill alone do'st stray?

SHE.
Tho', Shilric, o'er the Hill thou see'st me roam,
My Bones are hears'd in their eternal Home:
Clos'd in the wintry House of Death I lie;
Grief, for thy Loss, drank all my Vitals dry.

HE.

Yet hear, Vinella, ah! she glides away,
Like the grey Dawn before the rising Day.
But one Word more, my Love, and then depart,—
Behold these Tears, the Offspring of my Heart;
I fear 'twill break,—'tis wrung with constant Grief,—
A Look, a Word, will waft some kind Relief.
When living, fairer than the Light wer't thou;
But pale and ghastly are thy Beauties now.
Her brooding. Wings should awful Silence spread,
Dwell in the Gale suspended o'er my Head,
Thence my sad Soul with softest Accents chear;
Thy well-known Voice I could for ever hear;
Come on the Mountain Blast, and with the Sound,
Disperse the Mid-Day Silence hovering round.

For on the Summit will I sit alone,
And by the mossy murmuring Fountain moan.

FINIS.