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 |
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CONNAL and CRIMORA.
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 | The Battle of Lora |  |
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?
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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!
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.
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;
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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.
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.
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;
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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.
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.
Loud calls to Arms:—Our Tombs are distant far.
| The Battle of Lora | |