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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The DIRGE.
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 | The Battle of Lora |  |
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.
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.
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.
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.
Who can recount the Fathers of thy Race?
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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.
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.
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.
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;
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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.
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.’
“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.
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.
| The Battle of Lora | |