OSSIAN
Edited by
GORGE EYRE TODD
828
M172
1888

ARTES
LIBRARY
1817
VERITAS
E PLURIBUS
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
UNUM
TUEBOR
SI QUERIS PENINSULAM·AMŒNAM
CIRCUMSPICE
UNISIAIS KUSH51.5) (G
SCIENTIA
OF THE
JIHURTUVI
JZA STIRIISTA) ($1,518)37
Estate of
Bessie White Kenyon
1
Laye
The Canterbury Poets.
POEMS OF OSSIAN.
FOR FULL LIST OF THE VOLUMES IN THIS series,
SEE CATALOGUE AT END OF BOOK.

P
OEMS OF OSSIAN.
TRANSLATED BY JAMES
MACPHERSON. WITH AN
INTRODUCTION, HISTORICAL
AND CRITICAL, BY GEORGE
EYRE-TODD.
TIIE WALTER SCOTT PUBLISHING CO., LTD.,
LONDON AND FELLING-ON-TYNE.
NEW YORK: 3 EAST 14TH STREET.
828
MI72
1888
013 523 702
..
Mx Leb
5 Ala241
CONTENTS.
INTRODUCTION
CATH-LODA: A POEM---
DUAN FIRST
DUAN SECOND
DUAN THIRD
COMALA: A DRAMATIC POEM
CARRIC-THURA: A POEM
1
CARTHO A POEM
OINA-MORUL: A POEM
COLNA-DONA: A POEM
OITHONA: A POEM
CROMA: A POEM.
CALTHON AND COLMAL: A POEM
THE WAR OF CAROS: A POEM
·
•
·
PAGE
ix
3
13
21
29
39
57
75
81
87
97
105
113
viii
CONTENTS.
CATHLIN OF CLUTHA: A POEM .
SUB-MALLA OF LUMON: A POEM
THE WAR OF INIS-THONA: A POEM
THE SONGS OF SELMA
FINGAL: AN ANCIENT EPIC POEM-
I.
Book
BOOK II..
BOOK III.
Book IV.
BOOK V.
Book VI..
LATHMON A POEM
DAR-THULA: A POEM
THE DEATH OF CUTHULLIN: A POEM
.
·
·
·
•
PAGE
125
135
143
151
163
183
197
213
227
241
255
271
289
INTRODUCTION.

ROM the earliest ages mankind
have been lovers of song and
tale. To their singers in times of
old men looked for comfort in
sorrow, for inspiration in battle,
and for renown after death. Of
these singers were the prophets of Israel, the poets
and rhapsodes of ancient Greece, the skalds of the
Scandinavian sea-kings, and the bards of the
Celtic race. The office was always most honour-
able, the bard coming next the hero in esteem; and
thus, first of the fine arts, was cultivated the art
of song.
Down to quite a recent time the household of no
Highland chief was complete without its bard, to
sing the great deeds of the race's ancestors. And
to the present day, though the locomotive and the
printing press have done much to kill these
customs of a more heroic age, it is not difficult to
find in the Highland glens those who can still
recite a
"tale of the times of old."
X
INTRODUCTION.
During the troubles of the Reformation in the
sixteenth century, of the Civil Wars and Revolu-
tion in the seventeenth, and of the Parliamentary
Union and Jacobite Rebellions in the early part of
the eighteenth, the mind of Scotland was entirely
engrossed with politics, and the Highlands them-
selves were continually unsettled. No thought,
therefore, could be given to the possibility of
literary remains existing among the clans. It was
only in the latter half of last century that secure
government began to allow leisure for the growth
of that culture which a few years later was to earn
for Edinburgh the title of "The Modern Athens ;"
and then it occurred to some of the men of letters
in the Scottish capital to examine the value of the
traditional lore which was known to survive in the
Highlands and western isles.
At length, however, the Rev. John Home, author
of the tragedy of "Douglas," found a means of
furthering his enquiries on the subject of Celtic
poetry. At the little watering-place of Moffat,
among the Dumfriesshire hills, in the summer of
1759, he met a young Highland schoolmaster
named James Macpherson, who was travelling as
tutor to Mr. Graham the younger, of Balgowan,
and who had in his possession several transcripts
of Gaelic poems taken down from the recital of old
people in the north. Mr. Home obtained trans-
INTRODUCTION.
xi
lations of one or two of these poems, and finding
them to be of high and singular beauty, forwarded
the manuscripts to Dr. Hugh Blair, Professor>
of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres at Edinburgh
University. The latter gentleman was at once
deeply interested in the discovery, and pressed
Macpherson to furnish translations of the remain-
ing pieces in his possession. This, Dr. Blair has
recorded, Macpherson was very unwilling to do,
declaring that they were so entirely different from
the style of modern poetry as to have little chance
of gaining attention, while the fire and force of the
original Gaelic must be altogether lost in any
translation he might be able to make. These
objections, however, were finally overcome, and as
a result Dr. Blair published at Edinburgh, in 1760,
a small volume entitled, Fragments of Ancient
Poetry, collected in the Highlands of Scotland, and
translated from the Gaelic or Erse language.
By this publication an intense interest was at
once excited among the literati of Edinburgh.
Forthwith, at a dinner of the patrons and professors
of literature and antiquities in the Scottish metro-
polis, it was resolved to institute a search for
further poetic remains, and a subscription was
made for the purpose. Upon enquiry the young
schoolmaster was found likely to prove a suitable
agent for the enterprise. Born at Kingussie in
xii
INTRODUCTION.
Inverness-shire in 1738, he was sufficiently familiar
with the Celtic language and character, while an
education for the kirk at the universities of
Aberdeen and Edinburgh had furnished him with
the scholarship necessary for the selection and
translation of such works of merit as might be
discovered. He had also already shewn some
evidence of literary taste. A few poetical pieces
by him had appeared in the Scots Magazine;
he had published in 1758 a poem in six cantos,
entitled The Highlander; and he had written
an ode upon the arrival of the Earl Marischal in
Scotland. All these facts pointed him out as
qualified in a marked degree for the task, and
accordingly he was commissioned to undertake a
tour through the Highlands for the purpose of
collecting and preserving the remains of Gaelic
poetry.
Before the rebellion of 1745 the chief amusement
of the Highlanders during the long dark nights of
winter had been the recital of ancient tales and
poems; and many old people who remembered
these still survived when Macpherson made his
enquiries. He travelled through such remote parts
of north-west Inverness-shire, Skye, and the western
isles as were most likely to retain these traditionary
remains in their most perfect form; and it was not
long before he discovered that the finest of the
INTRODUCTION.
xiil
compositions were attributed to Ossian, the son of
Fingal, a warrior bard of distant antiquity. For
the collation and translation of the poems, and for
the determining of obsolete words, the collector
engaged the assistance of Mr. Gallie, afterwards
minister in Badenoch, as well as of Mr.
Macpherson of Strathmashie. Presently, by the
advice of friends, he removed to London; and
there, in 1762, under the patronage of Lord Bute,
he published the first results of his labour. These
were two volumes of literal prose translations
entitled Fingal, an Ancient Epic Poem, in Six
Books, with other lesser poems.
At that time the dominating figure among the
literary coteries of the metropolis was Dr. Samuel
Johnson, the eminent dictionary maker; and his
violent prejudices against everything Scottish were
greatly in fashion. Londoners, besides, had not
forgotten or forgiven the panic into which they had
been thrown seventeen years previously by the
march to Derby of the Highland host under the
young Chevalier. The fact, therefore, that a book
hailed from the north side of the Border was by
no means, just then, a passport to its kindly recep-
tion. The coldness with which Hume, the most
illustrious historian of his time, had lately been
received, and the furious attacks which were killing
poor Smollett, the greatest novelist of the day,
xiv
INTRODUCTION.
sufficiently indicate the existing attitude of the Lon-
don critics towards Scottish men of letters. When,
therefore, a translator appeared, professing to have
found among the mountaineers of Scotland, whom
it was the fashion of the hour to ridicule, the remains
of a bard who should take rank among the greatest
of the world's singers, it was not at all likely that his
work would pass unchallenged. It was, indeed, as
if a waterspout had suddenly discharged itself into
the red-hot crater of a volcano. For a short time
there was the silence of utter astonishment, and
then the whole energies of literary London arose
to destroy and expel the intruder. To Dr. Johnson
and his anti-Scottish friends the discovery of such
works of genius among the people of the "bar-
barous north" was so astonishing that they flatly
declared it impossible; and at once there arose
upon the subject as great a controversy, probably,
as has ever raged in the arena of letters.
In the following year Macpherson printed a
second instalment of translations- Temora, an
Epic Poem in eight books, with other poems;
and, as a specimen of the materials upon which
his work was based, he annexed the original Gaelic
to one of its divisions. With this publication
Macpherson's contribution to the controversy may
be said to have ended. It is true, he published a
revised and rearranged version of the translations
INTRODUCTION.
XV
in 1773. But, disgusted by the treatment he had
received, he refused during his life to print another
word of the originals. Only at his death it was
found that he had left a thousand pounds to defray
the cost of their publication. From various causes
the appearance of the Gaelic text was delayed, and
its issue, which would have gone far to set the
question at rest, was only effected by the Highland
Society of London, in 1807. By that time the
forgeries of Chatterton had prejudiced the public
mind, the war of words was over, and the ear of
England was throbbing with the greater thunders
of Trafalgar Bay.
The rest of Macpherson's career may be briefly
sketched. In 1764 he went out to Pensacola as
private secretary to the Governor there. A differ-
ence, however, arising, he gave up the position,
made a tour through the West India Islands, and
returned to London in 1766 with a pension of £200
a-year. In 1771 a volume of Gaelic antiquities
which he published under the title of An Intro-
duction to the History of Great Britain and
Ireland, was most bitterly attacked upon its
appearance. This, with the similar abusive recep-
tion accorded his prose translation of the Iliad of
Homer, published in two volumes in 1773, serves to
shew that the attitude towards him of the literary
cliques of London had not altered in ten years
xvi
INTRODUCTION.
Better fortune must have attended the publication
in 1775 of his History of Great Britain, from the
Restoration to the Accession of the House of
Hanover, with its companion volumes of Original
Papers; for he is said to have received for this
work the sum of £3000. The Government also
employed him to write two pamphlets in defence
of their action in the dispute and rupture with
America. And on being appointed agent in
Britain for the Nabob of Arcot he was provided
with a seat in Parliament. Failing in health at
last, he retired to Belleville, a mansion he had
built in Alvie, Inverness-shire, where he died on
the 17th February 1796. He was buried in West-
minster Abbey.
Upon the first appearance of Macpherson's
translations of Ossian, the foremost, naturally, in
the attack upon their authenticity was Dr. Samuel ·
Johnson. The great lexicographer was followed,
however, by such a northern supporter as Dr.
Smith of Campbelltown. The natural sceptic
bias of Hume's mind led him to take the same
side. And Mr. Malcolm Laing, author of a set of
"Notes and Illustrations" to Ossian, printed at
Edinburgh in 1805, finally professed to set the
question at rest by showing how everything in
Macpherson's translations had been stolen from
such sources as the Bible and Homer.
An
INTRODUCTION.
xvii
Enquiry into the Authenticity of the Poems of
Ossian, by W. Shaw, A.M., published in London
in 1781, also condemned Macpherson's work as
spurious; while Pinkerton, finding that the authen-
ticity of Ossian would disprove some of his
cherished theories regarding the early races of
Scotland, made occasion in the second volume of
his history to discredit the poems as forgeries. Of
later writers Lord Macaulay has inherited the anti-
Scottish prejudices of Dr. Johnson with doubled
virulence, and this to the suppression of fact in at
least one instance. In the thirteenth chapter of
his history he forgets the existence of Johnson,
and describes an enthusiasm for things Scot-
tish existing at the time of Ossian's publication.
That enthusiasm only arose forty years later
with the rising star of Walter Scott.
Time itself has answered many of these attacks.
Dr. Johnson's declaration in his Journey to the
Western Islands that "the poems of Ossian never
existed in any other form than that which we have
seen," and that "the editor or author never could
show the original, nor can it be shewn by any
other," was refuted by the publication, already
referred to, of the Gaelic originals in 1807.* Mr.
* The Rev. M. Clerk of Kilmallie in the introduction to
his new translation of Ossian (1870), quotes an advertise-
xviii
INTRODUCTION.
Alexander Macdonald, in a volume on the subject
published at Liverpool in 1805, sufficiently met
Laing's sweeping assertions and unhesitating infer-
ences. And the "dissertations" of Dr. Blair, Dr.
Graham, Sir John Sinclair, and many others,
offered abundant argument supporting the authen-
ticity of the Ossianic poems.
The alternative objection urged both by Johnson
and Hume against the bona-fide character of
Macpherson's translations, was that the human
memory is incapable of retaining compositions of
such length. And in these days of printed books,
almanacs, and universal note-taking, the objection
presents some plausibility. The same argument
was urged in 1795 by the German professor, F. A.
Wolf, and others, against the authenticity of the
Iliad and Odyssey of Homer. But Macpherson, it
should be remembered, did not profess to have
gathered his materials complete from the recitation
of a single individual. He found them in scattered
fragments, and exercised his judgment in piecing
them together. A parallel case might be cited in
the Kalewala of Finland, an epic poem of which
Dr. E. Lönnrost collected and published in 1849
ment from the Literary Journal of 1784, in which Mr.
Beckett, Macpherson's publisher, certifies that the Gaelic
MSS. of Ossian have been exposed for public inspection
during twelve months at his shop in the Strand.
INTRODUCTION.
xix
no fewer than 22,793 verses which had been
preserved by memory alone from the remotest
antiquity. Even had the case been otherwise, the
prodigious memories of Scott and Macaulay, well
known in later years, are enough to prove such a
feat as the remembrance of Ossian's entire poems
by one mind possible. Among the humbler classes,
too, "long" memories are by no means uncommon.
If the curious will turn to the diary kept by Robert
Burns during his Border tour in 1787, they will
find that upon the poet's visiting Jedburgh he was
taken to see a certain "Esther," who could repeat
Pope's Homer from beginning to end. No one
doubts now that immense powers of memory can
be attained by practice. To this day, in remote
Scottish kirks the members are accustomed to hear
every Sunday from the pulpit one and sometimes
more sermons of an hour's duration, which have
been committed to memory during the previous
week by the minister. To these instances should
be added the fact noticed by more than one critic,
that the sequence and cadence of the Gaelic verses
afforded a help to the memory equalled by the
compositions of no other race. There is proof,
besides, that an organisation existed for the express
purpose of preserving these poems. Julius Cæsar
(De Bel. Gal. vi. 13) and other historians have left
it on record that, for the purpose of getting their
b
XX
INTRODUCTION.
traditional lore "by heart," a probation of from
nine to twenty years had to be served to the Druid
priesthood, of whom the bards were a branch.
The Spartans, it will be remembered, disdaining
writing, preserved their laws for centuries by a
similar method. The objection upon the score of
memory may therefore very fairly be considered
disposed of.
The unsettled state of the Highlands, which Dr.
Johnson urged as an additional hindrance to the
authentic preservation of oral traditions for long
periods, possesses even less force at the present
day as an argument. The survival of the unwritten
Iliad and Odyssey through the troubles of early
Greece might be matter for equal scepticism.
Rather were these lonely and secluded glens,
inaccessible to enemies, and the home of an
unmixed race, proud of its antiquity, the most
likely places for such traditions to be preserved.
It would be an interesting study, indeed, to
discover how much of the world's romance has
come out of mountainous countries. In flat and
peaceful lands life is easy and eventless and
commonplace. The art of Holland deals largely
with eating and drinking. But among the hills
men dwell alone with nature. The plunging roar
of the torrent, valley answering valley with the
reverberations of the thunder, the mountains
INTRODUCTION.
xxi
themselves rolling their purple billows upward into
the blue-all fill the soul with the sublime; and
life under the Bens grows sombre and sweet,
and keeps and gathers memories. To the present
day in the Highlands are to be heard recited
compositions of undoubted beauty, descended from
the remotest antiquity. The Dean of Lismore's
Book was engrossed before 1537, yet the
editor of the printed edition of 1862 was able to
append to one of its contents (p. 42) a
version of the poem, "taken down from the
oral recitation of a Cristina Sutherland, an old
woman in the county of Caithness, in the year
1856." And the beautiful story of Grainne and
Diarmid, a legend common to Ireland and
Scotland, also included by the worthy Dean
(p. 30), may still be heard in the traditionary
Gaelic in its native district of Benderloch.
Hume, again, in his well-known letter to Dr.
Blair, demanded proof that there existed in the
memory of the Highlands any Gaelic poem
corresponding exactly and completely to a trans-
lation by Macpherson. And it is true that with all
the researches of the Highland Society on the
subject, detailed in the "Report" of their special
committee published at Edinburgh in 1805,
no such word-for-word copy could be found.
Versions of closely similar compositions, and
xxil
INTRODUCTION.
fragments of the literal originals only, were
discovered. The same argument, however, applies
with much stronger force to such a collection of
ancient ballads as Scott's Minstrelsy of the Scottish
Border, which does not suffer the overwhelming
disadvantage of being a translation. It is certain
that no literal copy of any one of the ballads col-
lected and printed by Sir Walter Scott could have
been found by Yarrow or among the Cheviot hills.
The printed versions, as is well known, were collated
by Scott from the recitals of various persons,
and bear only part resemblance to the tradition of
each. In the same way Macpherson collated the
various copies of ancient poems which he managed
to procure. Such gaps in the poems as occur, for
instance, in "Colna-dona,” and the first duan of
"Cath-loda," offer testimony to his style of work.
This fact, together with the difficulty translation in-
evitably introduces, besides the altering of titles and
phoneticising of names which Macpherson effected,
was quite sufficient to preclude the possibility of
any of his transcripts being found complete and
exact in the original. The Report of the Highland
Society alludes to this circumstance.
It says
(p. 152), "The advantage he (Macpherson)
possessed, which the Committee began its
inquiries too late to enjoy, of collecting from the
oral recitation of a number of persons, now no
INTRODUCTION.
xxiii
more, a very great number of the same poems on
the same subjects, and then collating these
different copies or editions, if they may be so
called, rejecting what was spurious or corrupted in
one copy, and adopting from another something
more genuine and excellent in its place, afforded
him an opportunity of putting together what
might fairly enough be called an original whole,
of much more beauty, and with much fewer
blemishes, than the Committee believe it now
possible for any person, or combination of persons,
to obtain."
Presuming upon this difficulty, Macpherson's
opponents did not scruple to bring against him
charges of the basest sort. Not content with
doubting his faithfulness as a translator, they
asserted that he had stolen much of his work from
the masterpieces of ancient and modern literature.
These critics boldly attacked the finest passages of
the translations, and, upon the strength of a
fancied resemblance to passages elsewhere, de-
clared them plagiarisms. The acmé of this kind
of criticism was reached by the publication of the
edition of Ossian already alluded to with "Notes
and Illustrations" by Mr. Malcolm Laing. Of Mr.
Laing it has been said by a previous editor that
he "is one of those detectors of plagiarisms,
and discoverers of coincidences, whose exquisite
xxiv
INTRODUCTION.
penetration and acuteness can find anything any-
where." Laing asserted in his preface that he had
traced "every simile and almost every poetical
image" in Macpherson's translations "to their
source;" and his charges of minute, learned, and
painstaking ingenuity in plagiarism would, if sub-
stantiated, prove Macpherson the most marvellous
phenomenon of literary industry, sagacity, and
intelligence the world has ever seen.
An instance or two of this ingenious detective
faculty of Mr. Laing, taken quite at random, may
show the reliance to be placed on his criticism. In
the second book of "Fingal" occurs the simile,
"Faintly he raised his feeble voice like the gale of
the reedy Lego." The first part of this Laing
derived from the Iliad, xxiii., 105, "xeto tetPLYDIA
(with a faint shriek he was gone). The second
part, "the gale of reedy Lego," the critic felt
certain Macpherson had borrowed from his own
lines in "The Highlander "--
"He hissed his way along
As breezes sing through reeds their shrilly song."
Again, in the "War of Caros" occurs the simile, "It
is like the field, when darkness covers the hills
around, and the shadow grows slowly on the plain
of the sun." This Laing considered stolen from
Virgil's
INTRODUCTION.
XXV
Majoresque cadunt altis de montibus umbrae
(Fall longer shadows from the lofty hills.)
Such slender proofs, it is evident, will not bear
the superstructure their author sought to build
upon them. Closer resemblances, it is true, may
be found. Thus Laing and other critics professed
to have discovered in Milton the original of the
magnificent Address to the Sun at the end of
"Carthon." But it should be remembered that some-
thing more than mere likeness is necessary in
order to establish a charge of literary theft. As a
matter of fact, one of the correspondents of the
Highland Society, writing in April 1801, forwarded
a copy of Ossian's Address to the Sun which he had
taken down thirty years previously from the recita-
tion of an old man in Glenlyon. This old man
had learnt it in his youth, long before Macpherson
was born, from people in the same glen; and his
manuscript, when translated, proved almost word
for word identical with the passage in "Carthon."
Few people nowadays will deny that it was as
natural in Ossian to sing of "white-bosomed
Colma" as it was in Homer to describe "white-
armed Nausicaa." Yet resemblances like these
were sufficient to the minds of such critics as Mr.
Laing to prove their charges of plagiarism. Ossian
dare not note a weeping woman, because Andro-
mache once wept at Troy; and his chieftains
xxvi
INTRODUCTION.
must not be strong and valiant, since Samson once
fought at Ramath.
Nothing in literature, perhaps, is easier than to
accuse a writer of plagiarism, and to summon by
way of proof certain similarities of expression, and
even of thought. Nearly all great authors have, at
one time or another, been subjected to this kind
of detraction. It is on record that an ingenious
critic once sought to prove the Æneid Erse, from
the likeness in sound and meaning between
Arma virumque cano and 'Airm's am fear
canam. But never, probably, before did the
charges descend to so minute particulars as in the
case of Ossian. Regarding this kind of attack, Dr.
Johnson himself may be quoted. In the Rambler,
No. 143, he says- "When the excellence of a new
composition can no longer be contested, and
malice is compelled to give way to the unanimity
of applause, there is yet one expedient to be tried
by which the author may be degraded though his
work be reverenced. . . . This accusation is dan-
gerous, because, even when it is false, it may be
sometimes urged with probability." Only when
one writer makes use of ideas or language which
he could not otherwise than by theft have pro-
duced, will the charge of plagiarism hold good.
There is entire absence of such a circumstance from
the translation of Ossian.
mga ba
INTRODUCTION.
xxvii
Much detraction of Macpherson's work has been
based on the translator's own letters and on his
efforts in archæology. In a letter to Dr. Blair he
remarked “that his Highland pride was alarmed
at appearing to the world only as a translator."
Again, in the preface to the edition of 1773,
Macpherson wrote regarding improvements in his
version: "Errors in diction might have been com-
mitted at twenty-four which the experience of a
riper age may remove, and some exuberances in
imagery may be restrained with advantage by a
degree of judgment acquired in the progress of
time." Upon these words Laing insisted that
Macpherson claimed for himself the authorship of
the Ossianic poems. Less prejudiced critics can
take a more obvious meaning from them. In the
same page with the latter extract Macpherson
twice expressly alludes to himself as "the Trans-
lator." Had he been anything more than this he
would certainly have used a more distinct means
of making his merit known, since self-effacement
was by no means a conspicuous trait of his
character. Also, in his introduction to Comala,"
Macpherson asserted that the Caracul referred
to in that poem was the Caracalla of the
Roman writers. Now, Gibbon has noted that this
was a name given to Antoninus, the son of Severus,
four years after his defeat by the Caledonians in 211
CC
xxviii
INTRODUCTION.
A.D.; that it was hardly used till after his death; and
even then seldom employed. It has, therefore, been
argued that the name could not have been familiar
to a Gaelic bard of the third century. It must
be remembered, however, that Ossian was not
born when his father Fingal defeated the Roman
general; that the bard lived to converse with
Christian refugees driven into the wilds by another
Roman emperor nearly a hundred years later;
and that he had, therefore, every opportunity to be
aware of any title disparaging to his father's
enemy which might arise even long after the battle
described. The classical parallels themselves,
which Macpherson furnished in several notes by
way of illustration to the text of Ossian, were
construed as traces of forgery. When, for instance,
he likened Gaul to Ajax, and the Celtic idea of a
ghost to the eldwλov of the ancient Greeks (Fingal,
B. ii.), it was asserted that he had manufactured
warriors and ghosts upon Greek models. But it
must occur to everyone that as a forger Macpherson
would have been foolish indeed in so simply
furnishing the key to his own fraud. Such proof,
if allowed, would establish a charge of forging
Virgil against all the editors who ever wrote notes
to the Æneid. Laing made use, further, of several
reported remarks of Macpherson to infer that he
was willing to be considered author of these poems.
INTRODUCTION.
xxix
But these references were all of such third and
fourth hand authority as would only be received
by the gossip-mongers of literary back parlours.
No one nowadays sets much store on what A
feels certain B told him was once hinted to him
by C.
Happily, evidence of a different sort has become
available to prove that poems concerning Fingal
and his heroes have existed from remote antiquity
in the Scottish Highlands, and that many of these
poems are identical with Macpherson's transla-
tions.
The Albanach Duan is a versified chronicle of
the date of Malcolm III. in 1056, and regarding its
antiquity there is no dispute. It is true that it does
not mention Fingal or his heroes. But this no
more disproves the existence of the poems of
Ossian than the absence of Colonel Newcome's
name from the Army List disproves the existence of
Thackeray's novel. What the Albanach Duan
does prove is that metrical compositions existed in
Gaelic before 1056; for it bears traces of having
been formed from older records. From the earliest
dawn, however, of regular literature in Scotland
references are common enough to the Ossianic
heroes. Barbour, the historian of Robert the
Bruce, in 1375, mentions Fingal and Gaul, the son
of Morni:-
XXX
INTRODUCTION.
·
"He said, Methinks Martheoke's son
Right as Gow-mac-Morn was won
To have from Fingal his menzie.
"3
Dunbar also, in 1503, and Gawin Douglas before
1522, as well as Hector Boece in 1520, all mention
the fame of these heroes. And in 1576, in the first
book printed in Gaelic-Knox's Forms of Prayer
and Catechism-Bishop Carswell, the translator,
in his preface refers with pious severity to histories
extant and popular in the Highlands "concerning
warriors and champions and Fingal, the son of
Comhal, with his heroes." Still further, in the
Dean of Lismore's Book already mentioned, the
manuscript of which, written before 1537, is still
to be seen in the Advocates' Library at Edin-
burgh, are to be found many incidents and whole
passages which occur in Macpherson's translation.
Of these are the death of Oscar, the tales of
Cuchullin and Conloch, and Fainasollis, the Maid
of Craca, with references to many other of the
heroes of Ossian. Several of these compositions,
preserved by the Dean, are distinctly headed, "The
author of this is Ossian, the son of Finn."
The existence of the two last-named books, it
may be noted in passing, demolishes another of
Dr. Johnson's dogmatic assertions-that there was
not a book in the Gaelic language a hundred years
old.
INTRODUCTION.
xxxi
To this evidence remains to be added the specific
testimony of the committee of the Highland Society
who investigated the whole subject. In their
Report, already referred to, they explicitly state as
the result of their enquiries that "such poetry,"
as that published by Macpherson, "did exist; that
it was common, general, and in great abundance;
that it was of a most impressive and striking sort,
in a high degree eloquent, tender, sublime." The
researches of the committee resulted in the accu-
mulation of a mass of detailed evidence of which the
extracts below are fair specimens. It has to be
remembered, in examining the Report, that the
committee possessed no clue whatever to the
quarters from which Macpherson had derived his
originals. It must also be noted that the inde-
pendent versions of many of the passages were
got from people who knew no English, and who
had never heard of Macpherson.
Letter from Rev. Donald Macleod, Glenelg, to
Dr. Blair, March 26th, 1764 :-"It was in my house
that Mr. Macpherson got the description of Cuch-
ullin's horses and car in Book i, p. 2, from Allan
MacCaskie, schoolmaster, and Rory Macleod, both
of this glen. He has not taken in the whole of the
description; and his translation of it (spirited and
pretty as it appears, so far as it goes) falls so far
short of the original in the picture it exhibits of
xxxii
INTRODUCTION.
Cuchullin's horses and car, that in none of his
translations is the inequality of Macpherson's
genius to that of Ossian so very conspicuous."
Letter from Lachlan Macpherson, of Strath-
mashie, October 22, 1763:-" In the year 1760 I had
the pleasure of accompanying my friend Mr. Mac-
pherson during some part of his journey in search
of the poems of Ossian through the Highlands. I
assisted him in collecting them, and took down
from oral tradition, and transcribed from old manu-
scripts by far the greatest part of those pieces he
has published. Since the publication I have care-
fully compared the translation with the copies of
the originals in my hands, and find it amazingly
literal, even in such a degree as to preserve
in some measure the cadence of the Gaelic versi-
fication."
Letter from Rev. John Macpherson, D.D., of
Sleat, Nov. 27, 1763 :—“I have in obedience to your
request made enquiry for all the persons around
me who were able to rehearse from memory any
parts of the poems published by Mr. Macpherson,
and have made them to rehearse in my hearing the
several fragments or detached pieces of those
poems which they were able to repeat. This done,
I compared with great care the pieces rehearsed
by them with Mr. Macpherson's translation. These
pieces or fragments are the description of Cuch-
INTRODUCTION.
xxxiii
ullin's chariot-Fingal, Book i, p. 11. The rehearsers
are John Macdonald of Breakish in Strath, Isle of
Skye, gentleman; Martin Macllivray, tenant in
Slate; and Allan Macaskle, farmer in Glenelg."
Here follows a long list of passages, with the
names of the rehearsers attached.
Letter from Lieutenant Duncan MacNicol, late
of 88th Regiment, Sockrock, in Glenurchy, Jan.
1764:-" I have been at some pains in examining
several in this country about Ossian's poems, and
have found out as follows:-Fingal, B. iii., p. 45,
Oscar I was young like thee when lovely Fainea-
sollis, etc., to the end of the third book. Fingal,
B. iv., p. 50, 'Eight were the heroes of Ossian,' etc.,
mostly word for word to p. 58 or the end of the
fourth book." And an array of further passages,
among which is one beginning "Then Gaul and
Ossian sat on the green banks of Lubar," a passage
Laing asserted to be an imitation by Macpherson
of the 137th Psalm.
•
Letter from Sir John Macpherson, Lauriston, Feb-
ruary 4th, 1760 :—“ I do myself the pleasure of
presenting you with a few specimens of Ossian in
his native dress. . . The three pieces which I
have selected had each a particular title to regard.
The Address to the Evening Star* claimed
attention on account of its inimitable beauty and
* In "The Songs of Selma."
xxxiv
INTRODUCTION.
harmonious versification. The original of this
piece suffered even in the hands of Mr. Macpher-
son, though he has shewn himself inferior to no
translator. The copy or edition which he had of
this poem is very different from mine; I imagine
it will, in that respect, be agreeable to Mr. Percy.
The gentleman who gave it me copied it from an
old MS. which Mr Macpherson had no access to
before his 'Fingal' came abroad.”
The Report from which these extracts are taken
is not the only record of enquiries regarding the
existence of ancient Gaelic poetry. In the Gentle-
man's Magazine for 1782-3 appear the results of an
independent research by Mr. Thomas Hill. This
gentleman, though unacquainted with the Gaelic
language, succeeded in collecting from oral tradi-
tion and otherwise in the Highlands many
traditional compositions of the greatest beauty.
Such testimony, ancient and modern, may be left
to make its own answer to the dogmatic assertions
of Highland barbarism fulminated by Dr. Johnson.
And since many of the most beautiful passages in
Macpherson's translation are among those specifi-
cally vouched for as genuine, the value of Mr.
Laing's assurance that he had discovered the
source of "every image," etc., needs no further
comment.
After the production of so great a mass of
INTRODUCTION.
XXXV
evidence it became impossible to declare the trans-
lation of Ossian altogether spurious. It was still
possible, however, for impugners of that work to
declare that Macpherson, instead of strictly trans-
lating, had expanded and improved upon the
remains which he found. Obviously the burden
lay with the assailants of Macpherson's work to
prove their assertion true, and had their charge
been well founded, the task should not have been
difficult. They had only to point out in these
poems an image or an epithet which could not have
occurred to the Gaelic bard, in order to show that
Macpherson had used unwarranted freedom in
making his translation. In such a criticism, of
course, two facts must be kept in view: (1) that
compositions passed down from century to century
by mere word of mouth must inevitably suffer some
variation and corruption; and (2) that the version
to be criticised was a translation, liable to be varied
somewhat in complexion by the translator's choice
of phrase. But Macpherson was a man of univer-
sity education, imbued with the lore of classical
antiquity. His work, besides, was done during the
most conventional age of English poetry, fifty
years before Scott and Byron appeared to break
the fetters of Pope; and his own early poems are
strongly marked with stiff conventionality. His
verses are full of "blythsome shepherds" and
C
xxxvi
INTRODUCTION.
""
classic "swains," of personifications of "Virtue
and "Fortune," with the other stilted machinery of
his time. Had he, therefore, been inclined to
"improve" upon his text, his work could hardly
fail to smell of the lamp, to contain artificialities,
anachronisms, and allusions impossible to a dweller
in the third century. Drums, trumpets, or at least
bagpipes must have found their way into some of
the descriptions of war, and at their feasts the
heroes would surely have quaffed their drink from
some politer vessel than a cup of shell. The
difficulty of avoiding such slips may be judged
from the mistakes made even by the high priest of
imagination. Shakespeare himself makes King
Lear in the crisis of his distress beg the undoing of
a button, an article of dress unknown probably for
centuries after the date of the tragedy. One of
the most remarkable features of these translations,
however, is their entire freedom from such defects.
In all Ossian there is only one allusion to wine. It is
referred to by way of simile in "The Battle of Lora"
as a very beautiful and rare object, and probably,
like the "thousand lights from the stranger's land"
mentioned in "Carthon,” it may have been found
among the spoils of some Roman defeat.
The same kind of reasoning may be applied to
the much finer particulars of literary style. A
writer of modern days makes free use of general
INTRODUCTION.
xxxvii
"(
and abstract terms. Our poets sing broadly of
manhood and womanhood, of unnamed landscapes
and the picturesque in nature. Had Macpherson
expanded his material, his work could hardly fail
to contain some such expressions. His trans-
lations, on the contrary, remain true to the powers
of their original language. In Gaelic there are no
words for "landscape" or for "picturesque;" the
ideas, as in all primitive tongues, are concrete, and
Ossian sings only of named objects, of car-borne
Cuthullin " and "blue-eyed Comala," of "green
Erin of streams" and of "woody Morven." Allu-
sions and speech both, in these poems, suit ancient
Celtic times and no other period known to history.
The wind whistles through open dwellings, and lifts
the long locks of a people living by the chase;
and the greatest admiration is bestowed on bodily
strength, courage, and warlike qualities; while the
language supplies its lack of terms by the abundant
use of figure.
Macpherson was charged with having borrowed
from the Bible; this, apparently, upon no stronger
evidence than the fact that several passages of his
translations fell little short of the sublimity of
passages in Holy Writ. The charge, indeed,
might have presented some show of reason, had
his work betrayed any traces of the atmosphere of
a southern clime, or the details of an advanced
Xxxviii
INTRODUCTION.
civilisation. Isaiah's images, however, are of corn
and spices, of cities and shepherding and lions of
the desert. Ossian's, on the other hand, refer to
an earlier, hunter stage of society; to the roaring
winds and blazing hearths of a colder clime;
to grey mists, pale ghosts, and the sheen of the
"northern lights.”
A similar accusation of having borrowed from
Homer might be disposed of by the same
reasoning. There are many essential points of
difference. One detail only need be noticed;
Homer's heroes insult and deface the bodies of
their fallen enemies, while the warriors of Ossian
mourn over those they have slain. But the whole
spirit of the two singers is different. Homer every-
where burns with the vivacity of the Greek nature,
while Ossian is uniformly tinged with the sweet
melancholy native to his northern hills. The late
Alexander Smith argued for the authenticity of
these poems from their faithfulness to the character
of West Highland landscape. "Wordsworth's
verse," he wrote, "does not more completely
mirror the Lake Country than do the poems of
Ossian the terrible scenery of the Isles."
Notwithstanding these facts, probably in no case
in literature have the accusations of plagiarism and
forgery descended to so minute details. Perhaps
the most curious of the arguments against the
INTRODUCTION.
xxxix
genuineness of Macpherson's translations was
based upon an inversion of the foregoing system of
reasoning. It is recorded that someone in Dr.
Johnson's company drew attention to the fact that
the wolf is not mentioned in Ossian, and inferred
that the absence of mention of an animal which
must have been common enough in the Highlands
in early times was sufficient proof of forgery.
Argument of this sort, if allowed, would produce
somewhat ludicrous results. The Song of Solo-
mon" would not be genuine because it failed to
mention the house-fly, an insect which must have
been common enough in Judæa; and Goldsmith's
"Deserted Village" could have been no sort of
merit because it omitted a description of the village
pump.
((
The refinement of sentiment indicated in Mac-
pherson's translations was long objected to as im-
possible in Scotland in the early centuries of the
Christian era. This was an argument used by Laing
in the dissertation appended to the second volume
of his History, and an argument held by him to be
unanswerable. It was pointed out that the early con-
temporary poetry of neighbouring Gothic nations
had in it a more savage spirit. The funeral song
of Regner Lodbrog, for instance, a Danish poem
accurately preserved from the eighth century, is
full of such passages as the following :-"We have
xl
INTRODUCTION.
fought with our swords. I was young, when, to-
wards the east, in the bay of Orcon, we made
torrents of blood flow, to gorge the ravenous beast
of prey, and the yellow-footed bird." Dr. Blair,
however, quoted Ammianus Marcellinus, to show
that the Celts were by no means on a level with the
savage Goths and Teutons. "There flourished
among them," he translates, "the study of the
most laudable arts, introduced by the Bards, whose
office it was to sing in heroic verse the gallant
actions of illustrious men, and by the Druids, who
lived together in colleges, or societies, after the
Pythagorean manner, and, philosophising upon the
highest subjects, asserted the immortality of the
soul." The late researches, too, of Anderson,
Skene, Hill Burton, and other historians and
archæologists, prove early Celtic art to have
attained astonishing perfection, beauty, and deli-
cacy. Many examples of this art are now known
to antiquarians, but one only need be men-
tioned. At Abbotsford there is preserved a
bronze mask which was unearthed
siderable time ago on the Border.
traces of delicate and fine ornamentation, and its
shape, bearing horns, is so curious and un-
mistakable as to render its identification almost
certainly true. Mr. Anderson, in his valuable
Scotland in Pagan Times (p. 114), suggests it to
some con-
It bears
INTRODUCTION.
xli
be part of one of those helmets described by
Diodorus Siculus, writing a few years after Cæsar's
conquest of Gaul, as worn by the Celts. Further,
Dr. Wylie, in his lately published History of the
Scottish Nation, says of this prehistoric art, “From
the simplest elements it evolved effects of the most
exquisite grace and beauty. It was unique.
Celtic hands only knew to create it, and
on none but Celtic soil did it flourish." In the
sixth century, indeed, the Celtic art-faculty, as
witnessed by its relics, had developed marvellous
perfection. Westwood, in his Palæographia Pieta,
declares "there was nothing analogous to it either
of a contemporary or an earlier date in the art of
Byzantium or Italy." To this testimony might be
added the description of Caledonian towns,
quite considerable places, by the geographer
Ptolemy in the second century. Early Celtic
remains of another kind are the
are the "Auld Wives'
Lifts" on Craigmaddie moor, near Glasgow,
and other ponderous cromlechs; also such
formidable fortresses as that on the White
Caterthun in Forfarshire, with Craig-Phadric
near Inverness; the latter, as Hill Burton shows,
being the place at which Columba visited the king
of the Picts. The erection of any one of these
would be an undertaking of great difficulty even
with the aid of modern appliances. Art of such
xlii
INTRODUCTION.
refinement, and engineering works of such magni-
tude, as they are discovered, are beginning, therefore,
to show that the Caledonia of early times was by
no means the savagedom it became fashionable for
courtly Roman writers like Tacitus to make it out.
It would not have suited the purpose of Agricola's
son-in-law to write that the general was unable to
subdue the Caledonians. Both safer and pleas-
anter it was to give out that on account of their
barbarity these hill tribes were excluded from the
Roman empire." It does not follow that the de-
scription was true. In these early times the vulgar,
indeed, may have lived rude lives, as the vulgar do
at the present day. But the Bards were next to
the Chiefs in rank, and Ossian was son of the king.
The generosity displayed towards their foes by
Fingal and the other Ossianic heroes has more
than once been pointed out as an anachronism.
But critics who make this objection forget many
well-known traits of Highland character which
have descended from the remotest antiquity. As a
specimen of these it is enough to mention that
sacred regard for the obligations of hospitality
everywhere observed in the Highlands, of which
Sir Walter Scott has given an accurate portrait in
the chivalry of Roderick Dhu.
The poetic beauty, also, of the names used by
Ossian has been made subject of exception by
INTRODUCTION.
xliii
adverse writers.
Hill Burton went the length of
asserting "that the Highlanders have ever shewn
themselves peculiarly unconscious of the merits of
their native scenery, and that a passion for it is an
emotion of recent origin, growing up in the bosom
of the Saxon Lowlander who visits it as a stranger."
Happily a very slight knowledge of Highland
character suffices to refute utterly such a statement.
The chief traits of Celtic nature, in fact, are feeling
and emotion. The history of the North, with its
blood feuds and friendships, declares this at a
glance; and it is well known that no race is more
unwilling than the clansmen are to leave the
shadows of their native glens. Tangible proof,
besides, is easily found that sensitiveness to natural
beauty is inherent in the character of the Celt. No
monument of a language is more enduring than
the names it has conferred on places. Even when
a race itself has passed away, the names it gave to
lake and river and mountain remain to keep green
its memory.
Now the Highland place-names are
undoubtedly descended from the remotest anti-
quity, and every one of them describes some
natural characteristic of the spot, while very many
do so in figures of great poetic beauty. A few speci-
mens are Fionn airidh (Fiunary), the white shieling;
Dubh ghlas (Douglas), the dark river; Achadh-
nan-sian (Achnasheen), the field of tempests;
xliv
INTRODUCTION.
and Buachaill Eite (the Shepherd of Etive), the
hill watching over Glen Etive. These are but
names chosen at random, yet they will be seen to
show the aesthetic appreciation of natural circum-
stances in a marked degree. These Highland
names cannot be less ancient than the works of
Ossian. Obviously, therefore, poetic names like
Struthmor (roaring stream) or Comala (maid of
the pleasant brow), used by Ossian, are exactly such
as might be expected in compositions of early Celtic
times. If a parallel be desired, it may be found in
the Indian names translated by Longfellow in his
"Hiawatha." The American tribes exhibit to-day in
some respects the state of society existing in the Celtic
Scotland of Fingal's time. They are a people living
by the chase, knowing little of the arts of husbandry,
and without a literature. Yet the Indian chiefs
harangue their warriors in rhetoric glowing with
splendid metaphor, and the names they use are full
of poetic feeling. Names like Minnehaha (Laugh-
ing Water) or Chibiabos (the Blessed Islands) are
of similar character and origin with the names in
Ossian.
The Gaelic bard, like Homer himself, was by no
means the earliest singer of his race. He confesses
that he had models to work upon, referring to
compositions regarding Trathal, Trenmor, and
other ancestors of Fingal, as familiar in his day.
INTRODUCTION.
xlv
(C
In the fourth book of "Fingal," for instance, he hums
as was his wont in danger, the songs of heroes of
old." For this reason the high epic and dramatic art
exhibited in his works need no more be matter of ob-
jection than the same art in the Iliad and Odyssey.
But the most subtle, perhaps, of all kinds of
criticism used to prove that Macpherson added
passages of his own to the text of Ossian was that
brought to bear upon the subject by Mr. Knight.
In his Analytical Enquiry into the Principles oj
Taste, 1805, he remarks-" In describing the
common appearances of nature, the bards of
unpolished nations are scrupulously exact; so that
an extravagant hyperbole, in a matter of this kind,
is sufficient to mark as counterfeit any composition
attributed to them. . . . James Macpherson, in
the person of his blind bard, could say with
applause in the eighteenth century, 'Thus have I
seen in Cona; but Cona I behold no more; thus
have I seen two dark hills removed from their
place by the strength of the mountain stream.
They turn from side to side, and their tall oaks
meet one another on high. Then they fall together
with all their rocks and trees.'-(Fingal, B. v.) But
had a bard presumed to utter such a rhapsody of
bombast in the hall of shells, amid the savage
warriors to whom Ossian is supposed to have sung,
he would have needed all the influence of royal
xlvi
INTRODUCTION.
birth, attributed to that fabulous personage, to
restrain the audience from throwing their shells at
his head, and hooting him out of their company as
an impudent liar. They must have been sufficiently
acquainted with the rivulets of Glencoe to know
that he had seen nothing of the kind; and have
known enough of mountain torrents in general to
know that no such effects are ever produced by
them; and would therefore have indignantly
rejected such a barefaced attempt to impose on
their credulity."
Perhaps the best answer to such an attack is its
own subtlety. Mr. Knight, besides, has named
almost the only passage in all the translations
which is open to such objection. But the
critic's own statement as to the scrupulous exact-
ness in descriptions of nature by the ancient bards
may itself very well be questioned. Poets of all
eras have magnified the phenomena of nature in
their search for tremendous images; and the imag-
ination of the early ages, wild and undisciplined,
was especially prone to exaggeration. There exists
a school of students of Semetic literature and
modes of thought who consider descriptions such
as that of the Red Sea dividing before Israel, and
that of the sun standing still above Joshua, to be
simply powerful figures of speech. To remain
upon solid ground, however, does not David in the
INTRODUCTION.
xlvii
29th Psalm make Lebanon and Sirion skip “like a
young wild-ox;" while Isaiah in his 55th chapter
writes of the hills breaking forth into singing,
and the trees of the field clapping their hands?
Homer, too, relates that the pines of Calypso's
isle reached to heaven, and that in the storm which
assailed the solitary Ulysses the winds of north,
east, south, and west clashed all at once together.
Still another kind of attack assailed the English
version of Ossian before it had been long before
the world. The controversy on the subject had
been little more than opened when it was compli-
cated by a claim from the sister isle. As early as
1761 it was asserted that Fingal and his heroes,
though discovered in the Scottish Highlands, were
not really Scottish, but Irish. Shaw, in his
Enquiry already referred to, asserted that Selma
was not at all known in Scotland; that no one in
the Highlands was acquainted with the name of
Fingal; and that, while the name of the hero does
not appear in the Chronicon Scotorum, from which
the list of Scottish kings is taken, a full account of
the actions of Fingal, or Fion MacComhal, may be
found in the Irish histories of Dr. Keating and
others. A small volume making the same claim on
the subject was also published at Dusseldorf in 1787,
by one Edmond, Baron de Harold, an Irishman in
the service of the Elector Palatine. In it were
xlviii
INTRODUCTION.
printed several poems bearing close resemblance of
style to Macpherson's translations, and the sub-
stance of which the writer professed to have dis-
covered in Ireland. These and other specimens of
poetry adduced from Ireland formed in many cases
counterparts to compositions included by Mac-
pherson. It should be mentioned here, besides,
that the Ossianic Society of Dublin has printed
in six volumes (1854-61) a mass of similar poetry
which has been preserved by the Irish senachies.
Literal counterparts, like some of these, pro-
duced in the original Gaelic, and from hostile
motives, should now form strong testimony of the
authentic nature of Macpherson's translations.
Nevertheless, Laing, eager to seize any instrument
for the discrediting of Ossian, used this as an argu-
ment to prove that the poetic narratives found by
Macpherson in the Highlands were neither Scottish
nor antique, but were Irish poems of the fifteenth
century.
To the modern reader it may seem of little
moment whether Ossian were a bard of Ireland or
of Scotland. The peoples of both countries were
Celtic, and from the earliest times must have
possessed close racial and political ties. The
antiquity of the poems, however, seemed affected
by the question, and Macpherson therefore felt
himself called upon to adduce proofs of their
INTRODUCTION.
xlix
Scottish origin. Accordingly in his dissertation he
pointed out that purity of language and freedom
from anachronism marked the Scottish poems as
original and antique. In the Irish versions, on
the other hand, there occurred references to
Christianity, the Crusades, and the witchcraft
superstitions of the fifteenth century. They also
contained words and phrases borrowed from
English, a language not in existence in the Ossianic
age; and they distorted Fingal and his heroes into
mediæval giants and dwarfs. These characteris-
tics, he argued, led to the conclusion that the
poems found in Ireland were versions borrowed and
"improved upon" at a late period by the senachies
of the sister country. He also pointed out that
many of these Irish compositions themselves
referred the Ossianic heroes to Scotland, such
phrases occurring as-
Siol Albin a n' nioma caoile,
The race of Albin of many firths.
And Comhal na h' Albin, Comhal of Albion.
It must be allowed that the whole topography of
the poems themselves supports Macpherson's argu-
ment. Fingal was King of Morven, and Ossian
dwelt in Glencoe. As for Shaw's assertion that
the Highlanders were ignorant of Fingal, it has
already been answered by the references to that
1
INTRODUCTION.
hero adduced from Barbour and the old Scottish
writers. The absence of his name from the
Chronicon Scotorum need mean no more than its
absence from the Albanach Duan, which has
been accounted for. And it may be pointed out in
reply to Mr. Shaw's third objection, that a little
village in Benderloch has been called Selma by its
inhabitants from time immemorial.
Up to the year 1805 the arguments used in the
Ossianic controversy had been purely hypothetical,
and in the absence of tangible proof, had depended
entirely upon points of scholarship and ingenuity
of reasoning. Since that date, however, a mass of
evidence of another kind has become available.
And it should be noticed that the whole testimony
of facts accumulated since then has gone to prove
the authenticity of Macpherson's translation.
In 1807 was published the original Gaelic from
which the English version of Ossian had been
made, a publication by itself sufficient to destroy
the greater part of the adverse criticism. Mac-
pherson could not have written the Gaelic composi-
tions. Again and again is his awkwardness in that
language remarked by the correspondents of the
Highland Society. Mr. Ewan Macpherson of
Knock in Sleat, in his declaration before magistrates
printed in the Report (p. 94), affirms most explicitly
and positively that Macpherson was utterly unequal
INTRODUCTION.
li
to such composition, and he relates a curious anec-
dote to illustrate the translator's deficiency in
Gaelic. It was to the effect that, during Mac-
pherson's tour in 1760 a party of gentlemen were
escorting him across the Muir to Benbecula, Clan-
ronald's seat in Uist. Upon the way they fell in
with a man who was afterwards discovered to be
Mac Codrum the poet. Macpherson addressed
him with A bheil dad agad air an Fheinn? wish-
ing to ask whether he knew any poems of Ossian
regarding Fingal, but in fact asking whether Fingal
owed him anything. Whereupon Mac Codrum
wittily took advantage of the mistake, and answered
that, if the hero had been in his debt, he had lost
the bonds, and feared that any attempt to recover
them at that time of day would be unavailing-an
answer which hurt Macpherson greatly, and cut
short the colloquy. Apart from this, there are in the
printed original many archæic and obsolete words
which Macpherson evidently made out with great
difficulty, and which he certainly could not have
used or invented. Adding the fact that these
compositions are Gaelic poems of great rhythmic
beauty and technique, their publication becomes
mountain of proof of the good faith of
Macpherson's work.
Within late years students of Highland anti-
quities have identified many of the localities referred
d
a
lii
INTRODUCTION.
to by Ossian both in Scotland and Ireland. Some
of these localities were quite unknown to Mac-
pherson, and his suppositions regarding others.
have been shown to be wrong. Further, the study
of Ossian has led within the last few years to the
discovery of antiquities which would otherwise
have remained underground.
The language of the Highlands itself contains
many memorials of its great bard. Phrases like
Ossian dall, blind Ossian; fiountachk, as ancient as
Fingal; Ossian an deigh na feinne, Ossian the last
of his race, are familiar enough even at the present
day. The association, too, of Ossian's name and
the names of the heroes he celebrates with numer-
ous spots in the north has been immemorial.
Tourists through Glencoe, the Cona of the poems,
have pointed out to them the cave dwelling of the
bard high up in the mountain side; and visitors to
Killin on Loch Tay are familiar with the castle
built by the Breadalbane Campbells at Finlarig,
Fingal's Pass.
The late Dr. Angus Smith, in his interesting
book, Loch Elive and the Sons of Visnach,
draws attention to the connection between the
poem of "Darthula" (the Irish Deirdre) and many
of the localities around Loch Etive. Eitche itself,
or Etive, is the Etha of Macpherson's translation,
while the name of the vitrified fort on the shore of
INTRODUCTION.
liii
the loch distinctly identifies the spot as the home
of the poem's hero. It is Dun Mac Uisneachan,
the fort of the sons of Uisnach. Boece and his
followers and careless transcribers assigned to it
the name Beregonium, but they mistook it for the
Roman Rerigonium on Loch Ryan. The correct
situation of the latter may be made out from
Ptolemy, and its moat is still to be seen on Inver-
messan farm, near Stranraer. At Balure, near
Dun Mac Uisneachan, lies Cambus Naish, the bay
of Naisi (softened by Macpherson to "Nathos" for
English ears). Near the head of the loch the
remains of the hunting lodges used by the three
brothers are still to be seen on Eilean Uisneachan,
the isle of the sons of Uisnach (Macpherson's
Usnoth "). Half-way up Glen Etive are the
Grianan Dartheil, Darthula's sunning-place, with
Darthula's Field" close by. And near Tay-
nuilt still grows "the wood of Naisi," coille naish.
The connection is made complete when the writer
quotes Darthula's song translated by Skene from
Dean of Lismore's Book—
"Glen Etive, O Glen Etive
There I raised my earliest house,
Beautiful its woods on rising
When the sun fell on Glen Etive."
Mr. Clerk of Oban, referred to by Dr. Smith,
liv
INTRODUCTION.
also points out many memorials of Ossian's hero
Gaul or Guill in the names of localities at the head
of Glen Lonain in the same neighbourhood. There
are the wooded heights of Bar Ghuil and Barran-
a-chuil, with Tom-na-Guille between them. The
same writer suggests that Gaul's dwelling of
Strumon may still be traced in Strumonadh there;
and he puts the warrior's first battle at Ichrachan,
close by, a spot from which many cairns of the
dead have but lately been removed. From the
Galic Antiquities of Dr. Smith of Campbelltown he
quotes also a well-known parallel poem, the "Death
of Gaul,” not included by Macpherson, from which
several other localities of the district may be
identified.
Finally there remains to be quoted the book
which carries furthest this process of identifying
the topography of Ossian's poems. In Ossian and
the Clyde (Glasgow, 1875), Dr. P. Hately Waddell
applies to the subject the discoveries of the last
hundred years, in geology, geography, and anti-
quities. These throw a flood of light upon many
allusions, previously obscure, in the poems them-
selves; and by this means he has arrived at the
scene of action of nearly all these compositions.
It must be confessed that this style of proof,
demonstration by the senses, brings a kind of
conviction with it that is absent from the mere
INTRODUCTION.
lv
argument of scholarship. It is one thing to
criticise "Fingal" or "Temora" in the lamplight of
the study; another matter entirely to be taken to the
valley of the Six-mile-water in the neighbourhood
of Lough Larne, and to be told that here the
battles described in these poems were fought.
This Dr. Waddell does, and then proceeds to
trace the action of the Ossianic narratives, and to
compare the allusions and descriptions these narra-
tives contain with the actual features of the district.
For nearly every epithet and statement he finds a
corresponding fact in the landscape. A few of these
only can be mentioned here. For "the lake of
roes on Cromla, near which fell Morna (Gaelic
Muirne), the daughter of Cormac ("Fingal," B. i.),
he points to the mountain tarn Lough Mourne.
For the retreat of the Druid in the same neigh-
bourhood, in which Sulmalla took refuge, and
near which the spirit of Cathmor "sunk by the
hollow stream that roared between the hills "
("Temora," B. viii.), he suggests the circle at
Stony-glen close by the Sulla-(Sulmalla) tober or
Sallow-well, whose waters disappear with such
violence through an aperture in the ground as to
justify Ossian's title of “ Noisy" to the little vale at
the present day. The mountain itself, the Larne
and Belfast range, full of caves, with the great
cromlech near Cairngrainey at one end, Slieve-
""
Ivi
INTRODUCTION.
True (Ossian's Tura) in the middle, and the town
of Crumlin at the other extremity, he identifies
with the caverned Cromla (Gaelic Cromleach) of the
poems. The scene of the battles he considers
marked by the two hundred and thirty-seven
funeral barrows in the two parishes of Killeagh
and Muckamore, both in the valley of the Six-mile-
water. In the steep little glen of Glynnès descend-
ing to Lough Larne Dr. Waddell finds the spot
where Cuthullin undertook, alone with Calmar, to
hold the pass to the plain above, against the invad-
ing host of Swaran ("Fingal," B iii.). Two miles
westward, on Slimoro (Slieve-Mora), with its two
prominences of Upper and Lower Carneal (Cor-
muil), he fastens the description “On Mora stood
the king in arms, . . . on Cormul's mossy rock"
(“Temora,” B. iii.). Dora, the author recognises
in Doagh, formerly Dohar, still "yellow in the
setting sun" ("Temora," B. i.) from the same spot as
of old. And the battle-plain of Moi-lena he con-
siders still traceable in the name of the parish lands
of Ballylinny. Dr. Waddell, following the allusions
of Ossian, indentified the site of Temora, the royal
palace founded by Conar, in the great folk-mote
near the village of Connor in the same neighbour-
hood; and during railway operations there, since the
publication of his book, his reasoning has been con-
firmed by a wonderful discovery of golden reliques.
INTRODUCTION.
lvii
Macpherson knew nothing of this district, and
his notes upon the topography of "Fingal" and
"Temora" are extremely few and vague. Meagre as
these notes are, he makes the mistake in one of them
("Temora,” B. v.) of confounding the Lubar, which
flows inland to Lough Neagh, with the stream
already alluded to, descending through the glen of
Glynnès to the sea.
Several of the episodes in the poems of Ossian
were as impossible as the performances of the
electric telegraph to the knowledge of Mac-
pherson's day. Like the latter, they have only
been rendered feasible by the discoveries of more
recent years. Dr. Waddell points out in "Colna-
dona," in "Calthon and Colmal" and in "Cathlin
of Clutha," narratives of journeys which could only
have been accomplished by means of a sea passage
across Crinan moss in Argyle. Such a passage
was undreamt of in Macpherson's time. Yet Dr.
Waddell shows that it must have existed within
the centuries of this era. Names like Cambuslang,
the "bay of ships," and Langside, the "washing-
place of vessels,” high now at the foot of the Cath-
kin hills above Glasgow, with lagg-an-roan, the
"seal's pool," in the glen above Lagg, in Arran,
prove, without the mass of other evidence the
author adduces, that the sea flowed much higher
upon the land in Celtic times than it does now.
lviii
INTRODUCTION.
He adduces, further, the testimony of geology,
the finding of primitive boats in gravelly deposits
at Stobcross and Glasgow Cross, high above
present sea level, and the absence of Celtic names
from the lower lands about the vale of Clyde. To
this may be added the support of the latest Scottish
historian. Dr. Wylie remarks, “In the face of the
cliff that bounds the carse (of Stirling) on the north,
at an elevation to which the tide never rises in our
day, is still visible the iron ring to which the fisher-
man made fast his boat at eve. ""
It may also be
remembered that the Roman road to the north
stopped at Camelon, near Falkirk, now three miles
from the sea, but then doubtless washed by the
tide, for the tradition still lingers in the village of
ships being moored to its street. A sea-passage,
therefore, within Roman times, must have existed
over Crinan. This fact, living still in Ossian's
poetry, but forgotten otherwise for the last thou-
sand years, and certainly unknown to James
Macpherson, Dr. Waddell considers sufficient to
establish both the antiquity and the authenticity
of these "tales of the times of old."
For the introduction to << Berrathon," the same
author finds both confirmation and locality in the
geography, antiquities, and traditions of Arran.
Macpherson did not know this island, and con-
fesses himself unable to localise the passage.
INTRODUCTION.
lix
From chemical and geographical allusions in the
"War of Inis-thona" (Isle of the Wave) the critic
discovers the scene of that poem in the volcanic
Iceland (anciently Eisland, Isle of the Sea); and he
finds confirmation in the existence of Celtic monu-
ments said to have been found upon the shores of
that country by the Norse discoverers in 874. In
the same way, often with great minuteness of
detail, Dr. Waddell identifies the scenes of most
of Ossian's poems. In the course of his criticism
he uses modern information to expose the fallacy
of many of Laing's assumptions; and he answers
the calumnies of Pinkerton by deductions from that
historian's own pages. He meets the objection of
vagueness which has been brought against the
authenticity of Ossian, by filling several leaves
with details of Celtic life and manners gathered
from the poems; and he shows, in every instance
in which comparison is possible, that the facts
poetically referred to by Ossian fit with Roman
history as exactly as the cog-wheel does to the
pinion of machinery. Altogether, he concludes,
the compositions of the Gaelic bard afford an
authentic and unique glimpse into the otherwise
unknown history of the Highlands during the
decline of the Roman empire in the north.
Enough has been said in the foregoing pages to
indicate the various arguments which have been
lx
INTRODUCTION.
brought to bear upon these translations of Gaelic
poetry. It remains with the modern reader, free
from the literary jealousies of a hundred years ago,
to decide for himself the weight to be attached to
each. More than two thousand years ago in
Athens Peisistratus gathered and pieced together
the fragments of the Iliad and the Odyssey. Does
it seem impossible that the same office should fall
to be done in the eighteenth century for a Homer
of the North? History, doubtless, has but repeated
itself in the storm of adverse criticism which
burst upon the restorer of the Celtic bard; and
only when the din of wordy battle has died away
will be heard the numbers of this last-found lord of
song. The merit of the poems themselves, as
poetry, may safely be left to take care of itself.
Long ago the songs of Ossian earned a place for
themselves in the literature of every European
language; an Italian version, it is said, being the
constant companion and inspiration of the First
Napoleon. England alone has refused to admit
the claims of the Celtic bard, and that at the bid-
ding of Dr. Johnson, a good and great man indeed,
but one who, knowing nothing of the subject,
dogmatically imposed his prejudices upon the
literary mind of his country, denying, like certain
Pharisees of old, that any good thing could come
out of Nazareth. The translation, it is possible,
INTRODUCTION.
lxi
might have been better done. More than one
attempt has been made to improve upon it, the
latest being the version by the Rev. Mr. Clerk of
Kilmallie, published in 1870 at the instance of the
Marquis of Bute.* None of these, however, has
superseded Macpherson's version, and the world
assuredly would have been poorer had it not
been made at all. If power to inspire the heart
with valour, chivalry, and virtue be any title to
remembrance, the poems of Ossian will live long in
the mind of man. But most of all will they be
beautiful to the traveller among the lonely glens
and valleys of the North. The scenery there asks
some such memories. Wordsworth, the poet of
Nature, himself felt this as he listened to the
plaintive singing of the Highland reaper :-
"Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago."
It has not been much questioned whether all the
compositions translated by Macpherson were the
work of the single bard, Ossian. The uniformity
* Since writing these pages I have had an opportunity of
reading Mr. Clerk's Dissertation, and I should like to direct
attention to his admirable summary of the whole Ossianic
question.
lxii
INTRODUCTION.
of subject and style, as well as of the manners
described in the poems, is of itself strong evidence
that they were the production of one man. A
peculiarity of the bardic traditions, too, makes the
conclusion more certain. By the Highland sen-
achies, as may be noticed in the Dean of Lismore's
Book, the name of the composer was in most cases
scrupulously preserved along with his work. The
fact remains besides, that in many of the poems
Ossian unmistakably alludes to himself. There
can be little doubt, therefore, of the single author-
ship. On the other hand, there is no equal reason
to suppose that all the extant poems of Ossian
were collected and included by Macpherson.
Other poems, indeed, have been published by
various antiquaries, which possess strong claims to
attention. Of such, for instance, are "The Death
of Gaul," already referred to, and other compositions
printed by Dr. Smith of Campbelltown in his Galic
Antiquities. These, however, do not add materially
to the poems preserved by Macpherson, and it is
therefore probable that his collection presents with
fair completeness the best of Ossian's works.
The value of the Ossianic remains for the pur-
poses of history depends very much upon the
possibility of fixing the date of their composition.
The translator and editors of the poems, therefore,
have sought to make this clear.
INTRODUCTION.
lxiii
The manners described in the poems themselves
point to a very early state of society. The heroes
of Ossian lived by the chase, and had not yet
learned the art of tilling the soil. A single detail
of much significance, the meaning of which was
unknown to Macpherson, may be mentioned here.
In a letter to Dr. Blair, dated 2nd October 1764
(Report, p. 36), Lord Auchinleck remarks: In
Ossian, “when a hero finds death approaching he
calls to prepare his deer's horn, a passage which I
did not understand for a good time after 'Fingal'
was published, but then came to get it fully
explained accidentally. You must know that in
Badenoch, near the Church of Alves, on the highway
side are a number of Tumuli. Nobody had ever
taken notice of these as artificial till Macpherson
of Benchar, a very sensible man, under an appre-
hension of their being artificial, caused to cut up
two of them, and found human bones in them, and
at right angles with them a red deer's horn above
them. These burials plainly have been before
Christianity, for the corpse lay in the direction of
north and south, not in that of east and west. . . .
'Fingal' was published before any of these tumuli
were opened."
This peculiarity of prehistoric burial in Scotland
has been independently remarked by later anti-
quarians. The late Dr. Bryce, of Glasgow High
lxiv
INTRODUCTION.
School, about 1864, made a careful examination of
the stone circles at Tormore in the island of Arran.
In the chapter on "ancient remains" in his well-
known book upon that island, he gives the results
of his search. In most of the circles he found
stone cists containing urns, flint weapons, human
remains, and portions of deer's horns. All the cists
he found lying roughly north and south, and he
observes, "their construction may therefore be
inferred to have been anterior to the early
Christian times in this country, when a superstitious
regard began to be cherished for a direction
pointing east." He further hazards the conjecture,
"Shall we rather say that the direction had
reference to the mid-day sun?" It should be
added that the remains found had been burned,
another proof of pre-Christian interment.
Comparing these discoveries with the "deer's
horn" allusions of the poems, it would appear that
the heroes of these compositions were buried
before the customs of Christianity had made their
way into the country. Ossian himself, therefore,
who was their companion, must have lived and
sung before the dawn of the Christian era in
Scotland.
By way of settling the date, Macpherson himself
pointed out the fact that the Celtic bard makes no
mention whatever of any divine Being worshipped
INTRODUCTION.
1xv
by his heroes. Unlike the poets of Greece and
Rome, Ossian uses no "divine machinery" in his
work. To account for this circumstance Mac-
pherson quotes Celtic traditions which affirm that
Trenmor, the great-grandfather of Fingal, had, in
civil war, suppressed the entire order of the Druids.
A reference to the event occurs in
occurs in "Cathlin
of Clutha." The people thus, the translator
suggests, had been left without a worship. His
theory is helped by the statement of Tacitus, that
the Romans from the days of Julius Cæsar had set
themselves to the extinction of the Druids. It is
supported, too, by the fact that the earliest
Christian missionaries found the native religion
extinct, and themselves took the name of Culdees
from inhabiting the Druids' empty cells.
It should be remembered here, however, that no
graven image has ever been found among the
remains of prehistoric Scotland. Hence it is
just possible to suppose that the objects of Druid
worship did not lend themselves to bardic hand-
ling. The late research of Rawlinson and other
explorers in the East has brought to notice the
likeness between the menhirs and cromlechs and
circles of Scotland, and the stone remains of ancient
Chaldea; between the once-lit altein of Caledonia
and Ezekiel's "fire-stones of Tyre.”—(Ez. xxviii.
14-16). Dr. Wylie recently, in the first volume of
lxvi
INTRODUCTION.
his History of Scotland, already mentioned, de-
scribes (chap. xi.) several of the Beltane customs
surviving yet in the north from Druidic times, and
points out their resemblance to the rites of the
ancient peoples who worshipped by fire in Asia.
From this it would appear as if the Druids were
about to be counted among the priesthoods which,
like those found by Paul at Athens, taught the
worship of "an unknown God." It seems, indeed,
very clearly proved that the Celtic race in Scotland
worshipped a Supreme Being through the medium
of fire. This fact sufficiently accounts for the
absence of divine machinery from the poems of
Ossian, and renders valueless Macpherson's data
drawn from such a circumstance. Against the
tradition of complete extermination, too, quoted by
the latter, it may be noticed that the sons of the
rock," or Druids, are frequently mentioned by
Ossian. Had the object of their worship been
something tangible it could hardly have escaped
allusion.
A more definite means of fixing a date occurs in
the poem of "Comala." There it is narrated how
Fingal in his youth defeated Caracul on the banks
of the Carun. If this Caracul (Gaelic, Fierce-eye)
was, as there exists no good reason to doubt, the
son of the Roman emperor Severus, it makes
Fingal a young man of eighteen or twenty in the
INTRODUCTION.
lxvii
year 211 A.D. Ossian, his son, must therefore have
been born after this date. Again, it was pointed
out by Macpherson that the Irish histories, how-
ever untrustworthy otherwise, agree in placing the
death of Fion Mac Comhal or Fingal in the
year 283. Further, there are legendary poems
extant (one is printed in the Dean of Lismore's
Book, p. 5) describing a dispute waged by Ossian
in his old age with a Culdee. The bard appears to
have been extremely ignorant of his opponent's
faith. It seems fair, therefore, to conclude that the
new religion had but lately been introduced to the
country. This enterprise was probably effected by
the Christian refugees driven northwards out of the
Roman empire by the persecution of Dioclesian in
303. From these facts it seems proved with fair
clearness that Ossian lived and fought and sang in
the latter part of the third century.
As exact material for history, however, the value
of the poems of Ossian, like the value of all early
poetry, must remain difficult to decide.
It can
never be absolutely proved that events happened
on the plains of Troy or among the hills of Morven
exactly as Homer and as Ossian had described
them; though it must be confessed that Ossian, as
an eye-witness, corroborated in many details by
history, tradition, and antiquities, appears entitled
to the greater credence. But for another and
e
Ixviii
INTRODUCTION.
probably more important kind of truth the work of
both bards may be considered absolutely reliable.
The Iliad and the Ossianic poems present a
general but genuine picture of the civilisation in the
countries and at the time in which they were
composed.
After all, the chief assurance of immortality for
these "tales of the times of old" must rest upon
their own sublimity and beauty. There may long
be those who doubt the existence of Ossian; but
none will deny that in these pages are to be found
passages unsurpassed in majesty and hardly
equalled in tenderness. What could there be
more full of pathos than Ossian's frequent address
to Malvina, the betrothed of his dead son Oscar,
and the companion of his own old age? And what
in literature is nobler than the bard's apostrophe
to the splendours of heaven, or his lament at
the tombs of heroes?" Weep, thou father of
Morar! weep; but thy son heareth thee not.
Deep is the sleep of the dead; low their pillow of
dust. No more shall he hear thy voice, no more
awake at thy call. When shall it be morn in the
grave, to bid the slumberer awake? Farewell,
thou bravest of men.”—(Songs of Selma.)
Ossian is not the only bard whose glory appears
a marvel to these later days. Out of the dim past,
booming like the surge of ocean, still rolls many a
INTRODUCTION,
lxix
billow of primeval song. The Vedic hymns float
onward yet down a stream of time whose ripples
have been centuries. The world still listens awed
to the chants of the prophets of ancient Israel.
And still from the storied isles of Greece rever-
berates the long roll of the tale of Troy divine.
Does it seem more strange that the echoes of a
heroic age should be lingering yet among the fast-
nesses of the Caledonian hills?
GEORGE EYRE-TODD.
GARTOCHARN,
DUMBARTONSHIRE.
POEMS OF OSSIAN.
NOTE.
The
this volume the text of Ossian remains as it was left
Macpherson in his edition of 1773, and the poems
e presented in the final order arranged by him.
ur last translations only, "The Battle of Lora,"
Temora," ""Conlath and Cuthona," and "Berrathon,"
ve, owing to the exigencies of space, been omitted.
me curtailment has been made of the translator's notes,
any of which are polemical and some irrelevant. All,
wever, have been included which are necessary for the
derstanding of the text. Perhaps it should be stated
re that each of the names used in the poems, like the
menclature of the Highlands at the present day, has a
rticular meaning, and that the spelling of most of them
is altered by the translator to suit English pronuncia-
n. Thus Dar-thula is Dart-huile, " a woman with
e eyes;" while Lamh-dhearg, "Bloody Hand," has
ome Lamderg, etc.
CATH-LODA: A POEM.
Duan First.
416
ARGUMENT.
FINGAL, when very young, making a voyage to the Orkney
islands, was driven, by stress of weather, into a bay of
Scandinavia, near the residence of Starno, king of Lochlin.
Starno invites Fingal to a feast. Fingal, doubting the faith
of the king, and mindful of a former breach of hospitality,
refuses to go.-Starno gathers together his tribe; Fingal
resolves to defend himself.-Night coming on, Duth-maruno
proposes to Fingal, to observe the motions of the enemy.---
The king himself undertakes the watch. Advancing towards
the enemy, he, accidentally, comes to the cave of Turthor,
where Starno had confined Conban-carglas, the captive
daughter of a neighbouring chief.-Her story is imperfect,
part of the original being lost.-Fingal comes to a place of
worship, where Starna and his son, Swaran, consulted the
spirit of Loda, concerning the issue of the war.-The ren-
counter of Fingal and Swaran.—Duan first concludes with a
description of the airy hall of Cruth-loda, supposed to be the
Odin of Scandinavia.
CATH-LODA.
Duan* First.
TALE of the times of old!
A
Why, thou wanderer unseen! Thou bender of the
thistle of Lora; why, thou breeze of the valley, hast
thou left mine ear? I hear no distant roar of streams!
No sound of the harp, from the rock! Come, thou
huntress of Lutha, Malvina, call back his soul to the
bard.
I look forward to Lochlin of lakes, to the dark,
billowy bay of U-thorno, where Fingal descends from
ocean, from the roar of winds. Few are the heroes of
Morven, in a land unknown!
Starno sent a dweller of Loda, to bid Fingal to the
feast; but the king remembered the past, and all his
rage arose.
"Nor Gormal's mossy towers, nor Starno,
shall Fingal behold. Deaths wander, like shadows,
over his fiery soul! Do I forget that beam of light, the
white-handed daughtert of kings? Go, son of Loda;
his words are wind to Fingal: wind, that, to and fro,
* Canto.
† Agandecca, the daughter of Starno, whom her father killed,
on account of her discovering to Fingal a plot laid against his
life. Her story is related at large in the third book of Fingal
4
CATH-LODA.
drives the thistle, in autumn's dusky vale. Duth-maruno,
arm of death! Cromma-glas, of iron shields ! Struth-
mor, dweller of battle's wing! Cormar, whose ships
bound on seas, careless as the course of a meteor, on
dark-rolling clouds! Arise, around me, children of
heroes, in a land unknown! Let each look on his
shield, like Trenmor, the ruler of wars. "Come down,"
thus Trenmor said, "thou dweller between the harps !
Thou shalt roll this stream away, or waste with me in
earth."
Around the king they rise in wrath. No words come
forth: they seize their spears. Each soul is rolled into
itself. At length the sudden clang is waked, on all their
echoing shields. Each takes his hill, by night; at
intervals, they darkly stand. Unequal bursts the hum of
songs, between the roaring wind!
Broad over them rose the moon!
In his arms, came tall Duth-maruno; he from Croma
of rocks, stern hunter of the boar! In his dark boat he
rose on waves, when Crumthormo* awaked its woods.
In the chase he shone, among foes: No fear was thine,
Duth-maruno!
"Son of daring Comhal, shall my steps be forward
through night? From this shield shall I view them,
over their gleaming tribes? Starno, king of lakes, is
before me, and Swaran, the foe of strangers. Their
words are not in vain, by Loda's stone of power.-
Should Duth-maruno not return, his spouse is lonely, at
home, where meet two roaring streams, on Crathmo-
* One of the Orkney or Shetland Islands.
J
CATH-LODA.
5
craulo's plain. Around are hills, with echoing woods,
the ocean is rolling near. My son looks on screaming
sea-fowl, a young wanderer on the field. Give the head
of a boar to Can-dona,* tell him of his father's joy, when
the bristly strength of I-thorno rolled on his lifted spear.
Tell him of my deeds in war! Tell where his father
fell!"
"Not forgetful of my fathers," said Fingal, "I have
bounded over the seas. Theirs was the times of danger,
in the days of old. Nor settles darkness on me, before
foes, though youthful in my locks. Chief of Crathmo-
craulo, the field of night is mine."
Fingal rushed, in all his arms, wide-bounding over
Turthor's stream, that sent its sullen roar, by night,
through Gormal's misty vale. A moon-beam glittered on
a rock; in the midst, stood a stately form; a form with
floating locks, like Lochlin's white-bosomed maids.
Unequal are her steps, and short. She throws a broken
song on wind.
At times she tosses her white arms: for
grief is dwelling in her soul.
"Torcul-torno,† of aged locks!" she said, "where
now are thy steps, by Lulan? Thou hast failed at thine
own dark streams, father of Conban-cargla! But I
* Cean-daona, head of the people, the son of Duth-maruno.
He became afterwards famous, in the expeditions of Ossian,
after the death of Fingal.
+ King of Crathlun, a district in Sweden. There is a river in
Sweden, still called Lula, which is probably the same with
Lulan. Torcul-torno had been slain by Starno, who, pursuing
his victory, laid waste the district of Crathlun, and, coming to
6
CATH-LODA.
I
behold thee, chief of Lulan, sporting by Loda's hall,
when the dark-skirted night is rolled along the sky.-
Thou, sometimes, hidest the moon with thy shield.
have seen her dim, in heaven. Thou kindlest thy hair
into meteors, and sailest along the night. Why am I
forgot in my cave, king of shaggy boars? Look, from
the hall of Loda, on thy lonely daughter."
"Who art thou," said Fingal, "voice of night?"
She trembling, turned away.
"Who art thou, in thy darkness?"
She shrunk into the cave.
The king loosed the thong from her hands. He asked
about her fathers.
"Torcul-torno," she said,
(( once dwelt at Lulan's
foamy stream: he dwelt-but now, in Loda's hall, he
shakes the sounding shell. He met Starno of Lochlin,
in war; long fought the dark-eyed kings. My father
fell, in his blood, blue-shielded Torcul-torno! By a
rock, at Lulan's stream, I had pierced the bounding roe.
My white hand gathered my hair, from off the rushing
winds. I heard a noise. Mine eyes were up. My soft
breast rose on high. My step was forward, at Lulan, to
meet thee, Torcul-turno! It was Starno, dreadful king!
His red eyes rolled on me in love. Dark waved his
the residence of Torcul-torno, carried off, by force, Conban-
carglas, the beautiful daughter of his enemy. Her he confined
in a cave, near the palace of Gormal, where, on account of her
cruel treatment, she became distracted.
The paragraph just now before us, is the song of Conban·
carglas, at the time she was discovered by Fingal.
CATH-LODA.
7
shaggy brow, above his gathered smile. Where is my
father, I said, he that was mighty in war? Thou art
left alone among foes, O daughter of Torcul-torno! He
took my hand. He raised the sail. In this cave he
placed me dark. At times, he comes, a gathered mist.
He lifts, before me, my father's shield. But often passes a
beam of youth, far distant from my cave. The son of
Starno moves in my sight. He dwells lonely in my
soul."
"Maid of Lulan," said Fingal, "white-handed
daughter of grief! a cloud, marked with streaks of fire,
is rolled along thy soul. Look not to that dark-robed
moon; look not to those meteors of heaven. My
gleaming steel is around thee, the terror of thy foes! It
is not the steel of the feeble, nor of the dark in soul!
The maids are not shut in our caves of streams. They
bend, fair within their locks, above the harps of Selma.
Their voice is not in the desert wild. We melt along the
pleasing sound!”
Fingal, again, advanced his steps, wide through the
bosom of night, to where the trees of Loda shook amid
squally winds. Three stones, with heads of moss, are
there; a stream, with foaming course; and dreadful, rolled
around them, is the dark-red cloud of Loda. High from
its top looked forward a ghost, half formed of the
shadowy smoke. He poured his voice, at times, amidst
the roaring stream. Near, bending beneath a blasted
tree two heroes received his words: Swaran of lakes, and
8
CATH-LODA.
:
Starno foe of strangers. On their dun shields, they
darkly leaned their spears are forward through night.
Shrill sounds the blast of darkness, in Starno's floating
beard.
They heard the tread of Fingal. The warriors rose in
arms. 'Swaran, lay that wanderer low," said Starno,
in his pride. "Take the shield of thy father. It is a
rock in war."-Swaran threw his gleaming spear. It
stood fixed in Loda's tree. Then came the foes forward,
with swords. They mixed their rattling steel. Through
the thongs of Swaran's shield rushed the blade* of Luno.
The shield fell rolling on earth. Cleft the helmet fell
down. Fingal stopt the lifted steel. Wrathful stood
Swaran, unarmed. He rolled his silent eyes; he threw
his sword on earth. Then, slowly stalking over the
stream, he whistled as he went.
Nor unseen of his father is Swaran. Starno turns
away in wrath. His shaggy brows wave dark, above his
gathered rage.
He strikes Loda's tree, with his spear.
He raises the hum of songs. They come to the host of
Lochlin, each in his own dark path; like two foam-
covered streams, from two rainy vales!
To Turthor's plain Fingal returned. Fair rose the
beam of the east. It shone on the spoils of Lochlin in
the hand of the king. From her cave came forth, in her
beauty, the daughter of Torcul-torno. She gathered her
hair from wind. She wildly raised her song. The song
of Lulan of shells, where once her father dwelt. She saw
* The sword of Fingal.
CATH-LODA.
୨
Starno's bloody shield. Gladness rose, a light on her
face. She saw the cleft helmet of Swaran. She shrunk,
darkened, from Fingal.-" Art thou fallen, by thy hun-
dred streams, O love of the mournful maid!"
U-thorno, that risest in waters! on whose side are the
meteors of night! I behold the dark moon descending,
behind thy resounding woods. On thy top dwells the
misty Loda: the house of the spirits of men! In the end
of his cloudy-hall, bends forward Cruth-loda of swords.
His form is dimly seen, amid his wavy mist.
His right
hand is on his shield. In his left is the half-viewless
shell. The roof of his dreadful hall is marked with
nightly fires!
The race of Cruth-loda advance, a ridge of formless
shades. He reaches the sounding shell, to those who
shone in war. But, between him and the feeble, his
shield rises, a darkened orb. He is setting meteor to the
weak in arms. Bright, as a rainbow on streams, came
Lulan's white-bosomed maid.
Duan Second.
ARGUMENT.
FINGAL returning with day, devolves the command on Duth-
maruno, who engages the enemy, and drives them over the
stream of Turthor. Having recalled his people, he con-
gratulates Duth-maruno on his success, but discovers, that
that hero had been mortally wounded in the action.-Duth-
maruno dies. Ullin, the
Ullin, the bard, in honour of the dead,
introduces the episode of Colgorm and Strina-dona, which
coucludes this duan.
Duan Second.
"WHER
IERE art thou, son of the king?” said dark-
haired Duth-maruno. "Where hast thou failed,
young beam of Selma? He returns not from the bosom
of night! Morning is spread on U-thorno. In his mist
is the sun on his hill. Warriors, lift the shields, in my
presence. He must not fall, like a fire from heaven,
whose place is not marked on the ground. He comes,
like an eagle, from the skirt of his squally wind! In his
hand are the spoils of foes. King of Selma, our souls
were sad!
""
<< 'Near us are the foes, Duth-maruno. They come
forward, like waves in mist, when their foamy tops are
seen, at times, above the low-sailing vapour. The
traveller shrinks on his journey; he knows not whither to
fly. No trembling travellers are we! Sons of heroes
call forth the steel. Shall the sword of Fingal arise, or
shall a warrior lead?
""
The deeds of old, said Duth-maruno, are like paths to
our eyes, O Fingal !* Broad-shielded Trenmor is still
seen, amidst his own dim years. Nor feeble was the
soul of the king. There, no dark deed wandered in
* Here follows a very probable account of the origin of
monarchy in Caledonia,
14
CATH-LODA.
secret. From their hundred streams came the tribes, to
grassy Colglan-crona. Their chiefs were before them.
Each strove to lead the war. Their swords were often
half-unsheathed. Red rolled their eyes of rage. Sep-
arate they stood, and hummed their surly songs. "Why
should they yield to each other? their fathers were equal
in war. Trenmor was there, with his people, stately in
youthful locks. He saw the advancing foe. The grief
of his soul arose. He bade the chiefs to lead, by turns:
they led, but they were rolled away. From his own
mossy hill, blue-shielded Trenmor came down. He led
wide-skirted battle, and the strangers failed. Around
him the dark-browed warriors came: they struck the
shield of joy. Like a pleasant gale, the words of power
rushed forth from Selma of kings. But the chiefs led, by
turns, in war, till mighty danger rose: then was the hour
of the king to conquer in the field.
"Not unknown," said Cromma-glass of shields, "are
the deeds of our fathers. But who shall now lead the
war, before the race of kings? Mist settles on these four
dark hills within it let each warrior strike his shield.
Spirits may descend in darkness, and mark us for the
war."
ار
They went, each to his hill of mist. Bards marked
the sounds of the shields. Loudest rung thy boss, Duth-
maruno. Thou must lead in war!
Like the murmur of waters, the race of U-thorno came
down. Starno led the battle, and Swaran of stormy
isles. They looked forward from iron shields, like
Cruth-loda fiery-eyed, when he looks from behind the
CATH-LODA.
15
darkened moon, and strews his signs on night. The foes
met by Turthor's stream. They heaved like ridgy waves.
Their echoing strokes are mixed. Shadowy death flies
over the hosts. They were clouds of hail, with squally
winds in their skirts. Their showers are roaring together.
Below them swells the dark-rolling deep.
Strife of gloomy U-thorno, why should I mark thy
wounds! Thou art with the years that are gone; thou
fadest on my soul !
Starno brought forward his skirt of war, and Swaran
his own dark wing. Nor a harmless fire is Duth-
maruno's sword. Lochlin is rolled over her streams.
The wrathful kings are lost in thought. They roll their
silent eyes, over the flight of their land. The horn of
Fingal was heard; the sons of woody Albion returned.
But many lay, by Turthor's stream, silent in their blood.
"Chief of Crathmo," said the king, "Duth-maruno,
hunter of boars! not harmless returns my eagle from the
field of foes! For this white-bosomed Lanul shall
brighten, at her streams; Candona shall rejoice, as he
wanders in Crathmo's fields."
(6
Colgorm," replied the chief, "was the first of my
race in Albion; Colgorm, the rider of ocean, through its
watery vales.
He slew his brother in I-thorno:* he left
the land of his fathers. He chose his place in silence,
by rocky Crathmo-craulo. His race came forth, in their
years; they came forth to war, but they always fell.
The wound of my fathers is mine, king of echoing isles !
* An island of Scandinavia.
16
CATH-LODA.
<<
"He drew an arrow from his side! He fell pale, in a
land unknown. His soul came forth to his fathers, to
their stormy isle. There they pursued boars of mist,
along the skirts of winds. The chiefs stood silent around,
as the stones of Loda, on their hill. The traveller sees
them, through the twilight, from his lonely path. He
thinks them the ghost of the aged, forming future wars.
Night came down, on U-thorno. Still stood the
chiefs in their grief. The blast whistled, by turns,
through every warrior's hair. Fingal, at length, broke
forth from the thoughts of his soul. He called Ullin of
harps, and bade the song to rise. "No falling fire, that
is only seen, and then retires in night; no departing
meteor was he that is laid so low. He was like the
strong-beaming sun, long rejoicing on his hill. Call the
names of his fathers, from their dwellings old!"
I-thorno,* said the bard, that risest midst ridgy seas!
Why is thy head so gloomy, in the ocean's mist? From
thy vales came forth a race, fearless as thy strong-winged
eagles; the race of Colgorm of iron shields, dwellers of
Loda's hall.
In Tormoth's resounding isle, arose Lurthan, streamy
hill. It bent its woody head over a silent vale. There,
at foamy Cruruth's source, dwelt Rurmar, hunter of
boars ! His daughter was fair as a sunbeam, white-
bosomed Strina-dona!
* This episode is, in the original, extremely beautiful. It is
set to that wild kind of music, which some of the Highlanders
distinguish, by the title of Fon Oimarra, or, the Song of
mermaids.
CATH-LODA.
17
Many a king of heroes, and hero of iron shields; many
a youth of heavy locks came to Rurmar's echoing hall.
They came to woo the maid, the stately huntress of
Tormoth wild. But thou lookest careless from thy steps,
high-bosomed Strina-dona!
If on the heath she moved, her breast was whiter than
the down of Cana;* if on the sea-beat shore, than the
foam of the rolling ocean. Her eyes were two stars of
light. Her face was heaven's bow in showers. Her
dark hair flowed round it, like the streaming clouds.
Thou wert the dweller of souls, white-handed Strina-
dona!
Colgorm came, in his ship, and Corcul-suran, king of
shells. The brothers came, from I-thorno, to woo the
sun-beam of Tormoth wild. She saw them in their
echoing steel. Her soul was fixed on blue-eyed Colgorm.
Ul-lochlin'st nightly eye looked in, and saw the tossing
arms of Strina-dona.
Their flaming eyes,
Wrathful the brothers frowned.
in silence, met. They turned away. They struck their
shields. Their hands were trembling on their swords.
They rushed into the strife of heroes, for long-haired
Strina-dona.
Corcul-suran fell in blood. On his isle, raged the
strength of his father. He turned Colgorm from
* A certain kind of grass, which grows plentifully in the
heathy morasses of the north. Its stalk is of the reedy kind.
and it carries a tuft of down, very much resembling cotton,
It is excessively white, and, consequently, often introduced by
the bards, in their similes concerning the beauty of women.
+ The name of a star, the guide to Lochlin.
}
417
18
CATH-LODA.
I-thorno, to wander on all the winds. In Crathmo-
craulo's rocky field, he dwelt by a foreign stream. Nor
darkened the king alone, that beam of light was near,
the daughter of echoing Tormoth, white-armed Strina-
dona.
:
Duan Tbird.
ARGUMENT.
OSSIAN, after some general reflections, describes the situation
of Fingal, and the position of the army of Lochlin.—The
conversation of Starno and Swaran.—The episode of Corman-
trunar and Foina-bragal.-Starno, from his own example,
recommends to Swaran, to surprise Fingal, who had retired
alone to a neighbouring hill. Upon Swaran's refusal, Starno
undertakes the enterprise himself, is overcome, and taken
prisoner, by Fingal.-He is dismissed, after a severe repri-
mand for his cruelty.
Duan Tbird.
WHE
HENCE is the stream of years? Whither do
they roll along? Where have they hid, in mist,
their many-coloured sides?
I look into the times of old, but they seem dim to
Ossian's eyes, like reflected moon-beams, on a distant
lake. Here rise the red beams of war! There, silent,
dwells a feeble race! They mark no years with their
deeds, as slow they pass along. Dweller between the
shields thou that awakest the failing soul! descend
from thy wall, harp of Cona, with thy voices three!
Come with that which kindles the past: rear the forms of
old, on their own dark-brown years!
U-thorno, hill of storms, I behold my race on thy
side. Fingal is bending, in night, over Duth-maruno's
tomb. Near him are the steps of his heroes, hunters of
the boar. By Turthor's stream the host of Lochlin is
deep in shades. The wrathful kings stood on two hills;
they looked forward from their bossy shields. They
looked forward to the stars of night, red-wandering in the
west. Cruth-loda bends from high, like a formless
meteor in clouds. He sends abroad the winds, and
marks them with his signs. Starno foresaw, that
Morven's king was not to yield in war,
22
CATH-LODA.
He twice struck the tree in wrath, He rushed before
his son.
He hummed a surly song; and heard his hair
in wind. Turned from one another, they stood, like two
oaks, which different winds had bent; each hangs over
its own loud rill, and shakes its boughs in the course of
blasts.
"C
Annir," said Starno of lakes, "was a fire that
consumed of old. He poured death from his eyes, along
the striving fields. His joy was in the fall of men.
Blood to him was a summer stream, that brings joy to
withered vales, from its own mossy rock. He came forth
to the lake Luth-cormo, to meet the tall Corman-trunar,
he from Urlor of streams, dweller of battle's wing."
The chief of Urlor had come to Gormal, with his dark-
bosomed ships. He saw the daughter of Annir, white-
armed Foina-brâgal. He saw her! Nor careless rolled
her eyes, on the rider of stormy waves. She filed to his
ship in darkness, like a moon-beam through a nightly
vale. Annir pursued along the deep; he called the
winds of heaven. Nor alone was the king! Starno was
by his side. Like U-thorno's young eagle, I turned my
eyes on my father.
I
We rushed into roaring Urlor. With his people came
tall Corman-trunar. We fought; but the foe prevailed.
In his wrath my father stood. He lopped the young
trees, with his sword. His eyes rolled red in his rage.
marked the soul of the king, and I retired in night.
From the field I took a broken helmet: a shield that was
pierced with steel: pointless was the spear in my hand.
I went to find the foe.
CATH-LODA.
23
On a rock sat tall Corman-trunar, beside his burning
oak; and near him, beneath a tree, sat deep-bosomed
Foina-brâgal. I threw my broken shield before her. I
spoke the words of peace. "Beside his rolling sea, lies
Annir of many lakes. The king was pierced in battle;
and Starno is to raise his tomb. Me, a son of Loda, he
sends to white-handed Foina, to bid her send a lock from
her hair, to rest with her father, in earth. And thou
king of roaring Urlor, let the battle cease, till Annir
receive the shell, from fiery-eyed Cruth-loda."
Bursting into tears, she rose, and tore a lock from her
hair; a lock, which wandered, in the blast, along her
heaving breast. Corman-trunar gave the shell; and bade
me to rejoice before him. I rested in the shade of
night; and hid my face in my helmet deep. Sleep
descended on the foe. I rose, like a stalking ghost. I
pierced the side of Corman-trunar. Nor did Foina-bragal
escape. She rolled her white bosom in blood.
Why then, daughter of heroes, didst thou wake my rage?
Morning rose. The foe were fled, like the departure
of mist. Annir struck his bossy shield. He called his
dark-haired son. I came, streaked with wandering
blood thrice rose the shout of the king, like the burst-
ing forth of a squall of wind from a cloud, by night. We
rejoiced, three days, above the dead, and called the
hawks of heaven. They came, from all their winds, to
feast on Annir's foes. Swaran! Fingal is alone,* on
* Fingal, according to the custom of the Caledonian kings, had
retired to a hill alone, as he himself was to resume the command
of the army the next day.
24
CATH-LODA.
his hill of night. Let thy spear pierce the king in
secret; like Annir, my soul shall rejoice.
"Son of Annir," said Swaran, "I shall not slay in
shades. I move forth in light: the hawks rush from all
their winds. They are wont to trace my course: it is not
harmless through war.
""
Burning rose the rage of the king. He thrice raised
his gleaming spear. But, starting, he spared his son;
and rushed into the night. By Turthor's stream a cave
is dark, the dwelling of Conban-carglas. There he laid
the helmet of kings, and called the maid of Lulan; but
she was distant far, in Loda's resounding hall.
Swelling in his rage, he strode, to where Fingal lay
alone. The king was laid on his shield, on his own
secret hill.
Stern hunter of shaggy boars! no feeble maid is laid
before thee. No boy, on his ferny bed, by Turthor's
murmuring stream. Here is spread the couch of the
mighty, from which they rise to deeds of death! Hunter
of shaggy boars, awaken not the terrible!
Starno came murmuring on. Fingal arose in arms.
"Who art thou, son of night?" Silent he threw the
spear. They mixed their gloomy strife. The shield of
Starno fell, cleft in twain. He is bound to an oak. The
early beam arose. It was then Fingal beheld the king.
He rolled awhile his silent eyes. He thought of other
days, when white-bosomed Agandecca moved like the
music of songs. He loosed the thong from his hands.
"Son of Annir," he said, "retire.
shells; a beam that was set returns.
Retire to Gormal of
I remember thy
CATH-LODA.
25
white-bosomed daughter; dreadful king away! Go to
thy troubled dwelling, cloudy foe of the lovely!
stranger shun thee, thou gloomy in the hall!"
Let the
A tale of the times of old!
COMALA: A DRAMATIC POEM.
ARGUMENT.
THIS poem is valuable on account of the light it throws on the
antiquity of Ossian's compositions. The Caracul mentioned
here is the same with Caracalla the son of Severus, who in
the year 211 commanded an expedition against the Cale-
donians. The variety of the measure shews that the poem
was originally set to music, and perhaps presented before the
chiefs upon solemn occasions. Tradition has handed down
the story more complete than it is in the poem. "Comala,
the daughter of Sarno king of Inistore or Orkney islands, fell
in love with Fingal the son of Comhal at a feast, to which her
father had invited him, (Fingal, B. iii.] upon his return from
Lochlin, after the death of Agandecca. Her passion was so
violent, that she followed him, disguised like a youth, who
wanted to be employed in his wars. She was soon discovered
by Hidallan the son of Lamor, one of Fingal's heroes, whose
love she had slighted some time before. Her romantic
passion and beauty recommended her so much to the king,
that he had resolved to make her his wife ;* when news was
brought him of Caracul's expedition. He marched to stop
the progress of the enemy, and Comala attended him. He left
her on a hill, within sight of Caracul's army, when he himself
went to battle, having previously promised, if he survived, to
return that night." The sequel of the story may be gathered
from the poem itself.
* Hugh Campbell, F.A.S., Ed., who, fifty years ago, edited
perhaps the best edition of these translations, suggested that
this might be the original of Sir Walter Scott's Edith in "The
Lord of the Isles.”—G. E. T.
COMALA: A DRAMATIC POEM.
FINGAL.
HIDALLAN.
Comala.
THE PERSONS.
MELILCOMA,
DERSAGRENA,
BARDS.
DERSACRENA.
}
MELILCOMA.
Daughters
of Morni.
HE chase is over.
No noise on Ardven but the
ΤΗ
torrent's roar ! Daughter of Morni, come from
Crona's banks. Lay down the bow and take the harp.
Let the night come on with songs, let our joy be great on
Ardven.
Night comes apace, thou blue-eyed maid! grey night
grows dim along the plain. I saw a deer at Crona's
stream; a mossy bank he seemed through the gloom,
but soon he bounded away. A meteor played round his
branching horns! the awful faces of other times looked
from the clouds of Crona !
30
COMALA.
DERSAGRENA,
These are the signs of Fingal's death. The king of
shields is fallen! and Caracul prevails. Rise, Comala,
from thy rock; daughter of Sarno, rise in tears! The
youth of thy love is low; his ghost is on our hills.
MELILCOMA.
There Comala sits forlorn! two grey dogs near shake
their rough ears, and catch the flying breeze. Her red
cheek rests upon her arm, the mountain wind is in her
hair. She turns her blue eyes toward the fields of his
promise. Where art thou, O Fingal? the night is
gathering around!
COMALA.
O Carun* of the streams! why do I behold thy waters
rolling in blood? Has the noise of the battle been
heard; and sleeps the king of Morven ? Rise, moon,
thou daughter of the sky! look from between thy clouds,
rise that I may behold the gleam of his steel, on the
field of his promise. Or rather let the meteor, that
lights our fathers through the night, come, with its red
beam, to shew me the way to my fallen hero. Who
will defend me from sorrow? Who from the love of
Hidallan? Long shall Comala look before she can
* Carun or Cara’on, a winding river.—This river retains still
the name of Carron, and falls into the Forth some miles to the
north of Falkirk.
COMALA.
31
behold Fingal in the midst of his host; bright as the
coming forth of the morning, in the cloud of an early
shower.
HIDALLAN.*
Dwell, thou mist of gloomy Crona, dwell on the path
of the king! Hide his steps from mine eyes, let me
remember my friend no more. The bands of battle are
scattered, no crowding tread is round the noise of his
steel. O Carun! roll thy streams of blood, the chief of
the people is low.
COMALA.
Who fell on Carun's sounding banks, son of the cloudy
night? Was he white as the snow of Ardven?
Blooming as the bow of the shower? Was his hair like
the mist of the hill, soft and curling in the day of the
sun? Was he like the thunder of heaven in battle?
Fleet as the roe of the desert?
HIDALLAN.
O that I might behold his love, fair-leaning from her
rock! Her red eye dim in tears, her blushing cheek half
* Hidallan was sent by Fingal to give notice to Comala of his
return; he, to revenge himself on her for slighting his love
some time before, told her that the king was killed in battle.
He even pretended that he carried his body from the field to be
buried in her presence; and this circumstance makes it
probable that the poem was presented of old.
32
COMALA.
hid in her locks! Blow, O gentle breeze! lift thou the
heavy locks of the maid, that I may behold her white
arm, her lovely cheek in her grief.
Comala.
And is the son of Comhal fallen, chief of the mournful
tale? The thunder rolls on the hill! The lightning
flies on wings of fire! They frighten not Comala; for
Fingal is low. Say, chief of the mournful tale, fell the
breaker of the shields?
HIDALLAN.
The nations are scattered on their hills! they shall
hear the voice of the king no more.
COMALA.
Confusion pursue thee over thy plains! Ruin over-
take thee, thou king of the world! Few be thy steps to
thy grave; and let one virgin mourn thee! Let her be
like Comala, tearful in the days of her youth! Why hast
thou told me, Hidallan, that my hero fell? I might
have hoped a little while his return, I might have thought
I saw him on the distant rock; a tree might have
deceived me with his appearance; the wind of the hill
might have been the sound of his horn in mine ear. O
that I were on the banks of Carun! that my tears might
be warm on his cheek!
COMALA.
33
HIDALLAN.
He lies not on the banks of Carun: on Ardven heroes
raise his tomb. Look on them, O moon! from thy
clouds; be thy beam bright on his breast, that Comala
may behold him in the light of his armour!
COMALA.
war.
Stop, ye sons of the grave, till I behold my love! He
left me at the chase alone. I knew not that he went to
He said he would return with the night; the king
of Morven is returned! Why didst thou not tell me that
he would fall, O trembling dweller of the rock!* Thou
sawest him in the blood of his youth; but thou didst not
tell Comala !
MELILCOMA.
What sound is that on Ardven? Who is that bright in
the vale? Who comes like the strength of rivers, when
their crowded waters glitter to the moon?
COMALA.
Who is it but the foe of Comala, the son of the king of
the world! Ghost of Fingal! do thou, from thy cloud,
direct Comala's bow. Let him fall like the hart of the
* A druid. It is probable that some of the order of the druids
remained as late as the beginning of the reign of Fingal; and
that Comala had consulted one of them concerning the event of
the war with Caracul.
418
34
COMALA.
desert. It is Fingal in the crowd of his ghosts. Why
dost thou come, my love, to frighten and please my soul?
FINGAL.
Raise, ye bards, the song; raise the wars of the streamy
Carun! Caracul has fled from our arms along the fields
of his pride. He sets far distant like a meteor, that
incloses a spirit of night, when the winds drive it over
the heath, and the dark woods are gleaming around. I
heard a voice, or was it the breeze of my hills? Is it the
huntress of Ardven, the white-handed daughter of Sarno?
Look from thy rocks, my love; let me hear the voice of
Comala !
COMALA.
Take me to the cave of thy rest, O lovely son of
death!
FINGAL.
Come to the cave of my rest. The storm is past, the
sun is on our fields. Come to the cave of my rest,
huntress of echoing Ardven!
COMALA.
He is returned with his fame! I feel the right hand
of his wars! But I must rest beside the rock till my soul
returns from my fear! O let the harp be near! raise the
song, ye daughters of Morni !
COMALA.
35
DERSAGRENA.
Comala has slain three deer on Ardven, the fire ascends
on the rock; go to the feast of Comala, king of the
woody Morven !
FINGAL.
Raise, ye sons of song, the wars of the streamy Carun;
that my white-handed maid may rejoice: while I behold
the feast of my love.
Bards.
Roll, streamy Carun, roll in joy, the sons of battle
fled! The steed is not seen on our fields; the wings* of
their pride spread in other lands. The sun will now rise
in peace, and the shadows descend in joy. The voice of
the chase will be heard; the shields hang in the hall.
Our delight will be in the war of the ocean, our hands
shall grow red in the blood of Lochlin. Roll, streamy
Carun, roll in joy, the sons of battle fled !
MELILCOMA.
Descend, ye light mists from high! Ye moon-beams,
lift her soul! Pale lies the maid at the rock! Comala
is no more!
FINGAL.
Is the daughter of Sarno dead; the white-bosomed
maid of my love? Meet me, Comala, on my heaths,
when I sit alone at the streams of my hills!
Perhaps the poet alludes to the Roman eagle.
36
COMALA.
HIDALLAN.
Ceased the voice of the huntress of Ardven? Why did
I trouble the soul of the maid? When shall I see thee,
with joy, in the chase of the dark-brown hinds?
FINGAL.
Youth of the gloomy brow! no more shalt thou feast in
my halls.
Thou shalt not pursue my chase, my foes
shall not fall by thy sword. Lead me to the place of her
rest that I may behold her beauty. Pale she lies at the
rock, the cold winds lift her hair. Her bow-string
sounds in the blast, her arrow was broken in her fall.
Raise the praise of the daughter of Sarno! give her name
to the winds of heaven!
BARDS.
See meteors gleam around the maid! See ! moon-
beams lift her soul! Around her, from their clouds, bend
the awful faces of her fathers; Sarno* of the gloomy
brow! the red-rolling eyes of Fidallan! When shall
thy white hand arise? When shall thy voice be
heard on our rocks? The maids shall seek thee on
the heath, but they shall not find thee. Thou shalt
come, at times, to their dreams, to settle peace in their
soul. Thy voice shall remain in their ears, they shall
think with joy on the dreams of their rest. Meteors
gieam around the maid, and moon-beams lift her soul.
* Sarno the father of Comala died soon after the flight of his
daughter. Fidallan was the first king that reigned in Inistora.
CARRIC-THURA: A POEM.
ARGUMENT.
FINGAL, returning from an expedition which he had made into
the Roman province, resolved to visit Cathulla king of Inis-
tore, and brother to Comála, whose story is related at large in
the preceding poem. Upon his coming in sight of Carric-
thura, the palace of Cathulla, he observed a flame on its top,
which, in those days, was a signal of distress. The wind
drove him into a bay, at some distance from Carric-thura, and
he was obliged to pass the night on the shore. Next day he
attacked the army of Frothal king of Sora, who had besieged
Cathulla in his palace of Carric-thura, and took Frothal
himself prisoner, after he had engaged him in a single combat.
The deliverance of Carric-thura is the subject of the poem ;
but several other episodes are interwoven with it. It appears
from tradition, that this poem was addressed to a Culdee, or
one of the first Christian missionaries, and that the story of
the Spirit of Loda, supposed to be the ancient Odin of Scandi-
navia, was introduced by Ossian in opposition to the Culdee's
doctrine. Be this as it will, it lets us into Ossian's notions of
a superior being; and shews that he was not addicted to the
superstition which prevailed all the world over, before the
introduction of Christianity
CARRIC-THURA: A POEM.
H
AST* thou left thy blue course in heaven, golden-
haired son of the sky! The west has opened its
gates; the bed of thy repose is there. The waves come
to behold thy beauty. They lift their trembling heads.
They see thee lovely in thy sleep; they shrink away with
fear. Rest, in thy shadowy cave, O sun! let thy return
be in joy.
But let a thousand lights arise to the sound of the harps
of Selma: let the beam spread in the hall, the king of
shells is returned! The strife of Carun is past, like
sounds that are no more. Raise the song, O bards! the
king is returned, with his fame!
Such were the words of Ullin, when Fingal returned
from war: when he returned in the fair blushing of
youth, with all his heavy locks. His blue arms were on
the hero; like a light cloud on the sun, when he moves in
his robes of mist, and shews but half his beams. His
heroes follow the king: the feast of shells is spread,
Fingal turns to his bards, and bids the song to rise.
* This opening song of Ullin is in lyric measure.
40
CARRIC-THURA.
Voices of echoing Cona! he said, O bards of other
times! Ye, on whose souls the blue hosts of our fathers
rise! strike the harp in my hall; and let me hear the
song. Pleasant is the joy of grief! it is like the shower
of spring, when it softens the branch of the oak, and the
young leaf rears its green head. Sing on, O bards!
to-morrow we lift the sail. My blue course is through
the ocean, to Carric-thura's walls; the mossy walls of
Sarno, where Comála dwelt. There the noble Cathulla
spreads the feast of shells. The boars of his woods are
many; the sound of the chase shall arise !
Cronnan,* son of the song! said Ullin, Minona,
graceful at the harp! raise the tale of Shilric, to please
the king of Morven. Let Vinvela come in her beauty,
like the showery bow, when it shews its lovely head on
the lake, and the setting sun is bright. She comes, O
Fingal her voice is soft but sad.
VINVELA.
My love is a son of the hill. He pursues the flying
deer. His grey dogs are panting around him; his bow-
string sounds in the wind. Dost thou rest by the fount
of the rock, or by the noise of the mountain-stream? the
rushes are nodding to the wind, the mist flies over the
hill. I will approach my love unseen; I will behold him
from the rock. Lovely I saw thee first by the aged oak
of Branno; thou wert returning tall from the chase; the
fairest among thy friends.
* One should think that the parts of Shilric and Vinvela were
represented by Cronnan and Minona.
CARRIC-THURA.
41
SHILRIC.
1
What voice is that I hear? that voice like the summer-
wind! I sit not by the nodding rushes; I hear not the
fount of the rock. Afar, Vinvela, afar, I go to the wars
of Fingal. My dogs attend me no more.
No more I
tread the hill. No more from on high I see thee, fair-
moving by the stream of the plain; bright as the bow of
heaven; as the moon on the western wave.
VINVELA.
Then thou art gone, O Shilric! I am alone on the
hill! The deer are seen on the brow; void of fear they
graze along. No more they dread the wind; no more
the rustling tree. The hunter is far removed: he is in
the field of graves. Strangers! sons of the waves ! spare
my lovely Shilric!
SHILRIC.
If fall I must in the field, raise high my grave, Vinveľa.
Grey stones, and heaped-up earth, shall mark me to
future times. When the hunter shall sit by the mound,
and produce his food at noon, "Some warrior rests
here," he will say; and my fame shall live in his praise.
Remember me, Vinvela, when low on earth I lie!
VINVELA.
Yes! I will remember thee; alas! my Shilric will
fall! What shall I do, my love! when thou art for ever
42
CARRIC-THURA.
gone? Through these hills I will go at noon: I will go
through the silent heath. There I will see the place of
thy rest, returning from the chase. Alas! my Shilric
will fall; but I will remember Shilric.
And I remember the chief, said the king of woody
Morven; he consumed the battle in his rage. But now
my eyes behold him not. I met him, one day, on the
hill; his cheek was pale; his brow was dark. The sigh
was frequent in his breast; his steps were towards the
desert. But now he is not in the crowd of my chiefs,
when the sounds of my shields arise. Dwells he in
the narrow house,* the chief of high Carmora?
Cronnan said Ullin of other times, raise the song of
Shilric; when he returned to his hills, and Vinvela was
no more. He leaned on her grey mossy stone; he
thought Vinvela lived. He saw her fair-moving on the
plain but the bright form lasted not: the sun-beam
fled from the field, and she was seen no more. Hear the
song of Shilric, it is soft but sad?
:
I sit by the mossy mountain; on the top of the hill of
winds. One tree is rustling above me. Dark waves
roll over the heath. The lake is troubled below. The
deer descend from the hill. No hunter at a distance is
It is mid-day but all is silent.
Sad are my
thoughts alone. Didst thou but appear, O my love! a
wanderer on the heath! thy hair floating on the wind
behind thee; thy bosom heaving on the sight; thine
cyes full of tears for thy friends, whom the mist of the
seen.
:
* The grave.
CARRIC-THURA.
43
hill had concealed! Thee I would comfort, my love,
and bring thee to thy father's house!
But is it she that there appears, like a beam of light on
the heath? bright as the moon in autumn, as the sun in
a summer-storm, comest thou, O maid, over rocks, over
mountains to me? She speaks but how weak her
voice like the breeze in the reeds of the lake.
"Returnest thou safe from the war? Where are thy
friends, my love? I heard of thy death on the hill; I
heard and mourned thee, Shilric! Yes, my fair, I
return; but I alone of my race. Thou shalt see them
no more their graves I raised on the plain. But why
art thou on the desert hill? Why on the heath alone?
"Alone I am, O Shilric! alone in the winter-house.
With grief for thee I fell. Shilric, I am pale in the
tomb."
She fleets, she sails away; as mist before the wind!
and wilt thou not stay, Vinvela? Stay and behold my
tears! fair thou appearest, Vinvela! fair thou wast,
when alive!
By the mossy mountain I will sit; on the top of the
hill of winds. When mid-day is silent around, O talk
with me, Vinvela! come on the light-winged gale! on
the breeze of the desert, come! Let me hear thy voice,
as thou passest, when mid-day is silent around!
Such was the song of Cronnan, on the night of Selma's
joy. But morning rose in the east; the blue waters
rolled in light. Fingal bade his sails to rise; the winds
came rustling from their hills. Inistore rose to sight, and
Carric-thura's mossy towers! But the sign of distress
44
CARRIC-THURA.
was on their top: the warning flame edged with smoke.
The king of Morven struck his breast: he assumed, at
once, his spear. His darkened brow bends forward to
the coast he looks back to the lagging winds. His
hair is disordered on his back. The silence of the king
is terrible!
Night came down on the sea; Rotha's bay received
the ship. A rock bends along the coast with all its
echoing wood. On the top is the circle of Loda,
the mossy stone of power! A narrow plain spreads
beneath, covered with grass and aged trees, which the
midnight winds, in their wrath, had torn from the shaggy
rock. The blue course of a stream is there! the lonely
blast of ocean pursues the thistle's beard. The flame of
three oaks arose the feast is spread around: but the
soul of the king is sad, for Carric-thura's chief distrest.
The wan, cold moon rose, in the east. Sleep
descended on the youths! Their blue helmets glitter to
the beam; the fading fire decays. But sleep did not
rest on the king; he rose in the midst of his arms, and
slowly ascended the hill, to behold the flame of Sarno's
tower.
The flame was dim and distant; the moon hid her red
face in the east. A blast came from the mountain, on its
wings was the spirit of Loda. He came to his place in
his terrors, and shook his dusky spear.
His eyes appear
like flames in his dark face; his voice is like distant
* The circle of Loda is supposed to be a place of worship
among the Scandinavians, as the spirit of Loda is thought to be
the same with their god Odin.
CARRIC-THURA.
45
thunder. Fingal advanced his spear in night, and raised
his voice on high.
Son of night, retire: call thy winds, and fly! Why
dost thou come to my presence, with thy shadowy arms?
Do I fear thy gloomy form, spirit of dismal Loda?
Weak is thy shield of clouds: feeble is that meteor, thy
sword! The blast rolls them together; and thou thyself
are lost. Fly from my presence, son of night! call thy
winds and fly!
Dost thou force me from my place? replied the hollow
voice. The people bend before me. I turn the battle in
the field of the brave. I look on the nations, and they
vanish; my nostrils pour the blast of death. I come
abroad on the winds: the tempests are before my face.
But my dwelling is calm, above the clouds; the fields of
my rest are pleasant.
Dwell in thy pleasant fields, said the king: Let
Comhal's son be forgot. Do my steps ascend, from my
hills, into thy peaceful plains? Do I meet thee, with a
spear, on thy cloud, spirit of dismal Loda? Why then
dost thou frown on me? why shake thine airy spear?
Thou frownest in vain : I never fled from the mighty in
And shall the sons of the wind frighten the king of
Morven? No: he knows the weakness of their arms!
war.
Fly to thy land, replied the form: receive the wind,
and fly! The blasts are in the hollow of my hand: the
course of the storm is mine. The king of Sora is my son,
he bends at the stone of my power.
His battle is around
Carric-thura; and he will prevail! Fly to thy land, son
of Comhal, or feel my flaming wrath!
46
CARRIC-THURA,
He lifted high his shadowy spear! He bent forward
his dreadful height. Fingal, advancing, drew his sword;
the blade of dark-brown Luno.* The gleaming path of
the steel winds through the gloomy ghost. The form fell
shapeless into air, like a column of smoke, which the
staff of the boy disturbs, as it rises from the half-
extinguished furnace.
The spirit of Loda shrieked, as, rolled into himself, he
rose on the wind. Inistore shook at the sound. The
waves heard it on the deep. They stopped, in their
course, with fear the friends of Fingal started, at once;
and took their heavy spears. They missed the king:
they rose in rage; all their arms resound!
:
The moon came forth in the east. Fingal returned in
the gleam of his arms. The joy of his youth was great,
their souls settled, as a sea from a storm. Ullin raised the
song of gladness. The hills of Inistore rejoiced. The
flame of the oak arose; and the tales of heroes are told.
But Frothal, Sora's wrathful king, sits in sadness
beneath a tree. The host spreads around Carric-thura.
He looks towards the walls with rage. He longs for the
blood of Cathulla, who, once, overcame him in war.
When Annir reigned† in Sora, the father of sea-borne
Frothal, a storm arose on the sea, and carried Frothal to
Inistore. Three days he feasted in Sarno's halls, and saw
*The famous sword of Fingal, made by Lun, or Luno, a
smith of Lochlin.
† Annir was also the father of Erragon, who was king after
the death of his brother Frothal. The death of Erragon is the
subject of the battle of Lora, another poem of Ossian.
CARRIC-THURA.
47
the slow-rolling eyes of Comála. He loved her in the
flame of youth, and rushed to seize the white-armed
maid. Cathulla met the chief. The gloomy battle rose.
Frothal was bound in the hall; three days he pined
alone. On the fourth, Sarno sent him to his ship, and he
returned to his land. But wrath darkened in his soul
against the noble Cathulla. When Annir's stone* of fame
arose, Frothal came in his strength. The battle burned
round Carric-thura, and Sarno's mossy walls.
Morning rose on Inistore. Frothal struck his dark-
brown shield. His chiefs started at the sound; they
stood, but their eyes were turned to the sea. They saw
Fingal coming in his strength; and first the noble.
Thubar spoke. "Who comes like the stag of the
desert, with all his herd behind him? Frothal, it is a
foe! I see his forward spear. Perhaps it is the king of
Morven, Fingal the first of men. His deeds are well
known in Lochlin; the blood of his foes is in Starno's
halls. Shall I ask the peace of kings? His sword is the
bolt of heaven!"
Son of the feeble hand, said Frothal, shall my days.
begin in a cloud? Shall I yield before I have conquered,
chief of streamy Tora? The people would say in Sora,
Frothal flew forth like a meteor; but a darkness has met
him; and his fame is no more. No: Thubar, I will
never yield; my fame shall surround me like light. No:
I will never yield, chief of streamy Tora!
He went forth with the stream of his people, but they
* That is, after the death of Annir.
48
CARRIC-THURA.
met a rock: Fingal stood unmoved, broken they rolled
back from his side. Nor did they safely fly; the spea
of the king pursued their steps. The field is covered
with heroes. A rising hill preserved the foe.
Frothal saw their flight. The rage of his bosom rose
He bent his eyes to the ground, and called the noble
Thubar. Thubar my people are fled. My fame ha
ceased to arise. I will fight the king; I feel my burning
soul! Send a bard to demand the combat. Speak no
against Frothal's words! But, Thubar! I love a maid
she dwells by Thano's stream, the white-bosomed
daughter of Herman, Utha with soft-rolling eyes. She
feared the low-laid Comála; her secret sighs rose, wher
I spread the sail. Tell to Utha of harps, that my sou
delighted in her.
Such were his words, resolved to fight. The soft sigh
of Utha was near! She had followed her hero, in the
armour of a man. She rolled her eye on the youth,
in secret, from beneath her steel. She saw the bard as
he went; the spear fell thrice from her hand! Her
loose hair flew on the wind. Her white breast rose, with
sighs. She raised her eyes to the king. She would
speak, but thrice she failed.
Fingal heard the words of the bard; he came in the
strength of his steel. They mixed their deathful spears :
They raised the gleam of their arms. But the sword of
Fingal descended and cut Frothal's shield in twain. His
fair side is exposed; half bent he foresees his death.
Darkness gathered on Utha's soul. The tear rolled down
her cheek. She rushed to cover the chief with her
CARRIC-THURA.
49
shield; but a fallen oak met her steps. She fell on her
arm of snow; her shield, her helmet flew wide. Her
white bosom heaved to the sight; her dark-brown hair is
spread on earth.
""
Fingal pitied the white-armed maid! he stayed the
uplifted sword. The tear was in the eye of the king, as,
bending forward, he spoke. King of streamy Sora !
fear not the sword of Fingal. It was never stained with
the blood of the vanquished; it never pierced a fallen
foe. Let thy people rejoice by thy native streams. Let
the maids of thy love be glad. Why shouldest thou fall
in thy youth, king of streamy Sora?" Frothal heard the
words of Fingal, and saw the rising maid: they* stood in
silence, in their beauty like two young trees of the
plain, when the shower of spring is on their leaves, and
the loud winds are laid.
:
Daughter of Herman, said Frothal, didst thou come
from Tora's streams; didst thou come, in thy beauty, to
behold thy warrior low? But he was low before the
mighty, maid of the slow-rolling eye! The feeble did
not overcome the son of car-borne Annir ! Terrible art
thou, O king of Morven ! in battles of the spear. But, in
peace, thou art like the sun, when he looks through a
silent shower: the flowers lift their fair heads before
him; the gales shake their rustling wings. O that thou
wert in Sora! that my feast were spread! The future
kings of Sora would see thy arms and rejoice. They
would rejoice at the fame of their fathers, who beheld the
mighty Fingal !
* Frothal and Utha.
419
50
CARRIC-THURA.
Son of Annir, replied the king, the fame of Sora's race
shall be heard! When the chiefs are strong in war, then
does the song arise! But if their swords are stretched
over the feeble: if the blood of the weak has stained
their arms; the bard shall forget them in the song, and
their tombs shall not be known. The stranger shall come
and build there, and remove the heaped-up earth. An
half-worn sword shall rise before him; bending above it,
he will say,
"There are the arms of the chiefs of old, but
their names are not in song." Come thou, O Frothal !
to the feast of Inistore; let our faces brighten with joy!
Fingal took his spear, moving in the steps of his
might. The gates of Carric-thura are opened wide. The
feast of shells is spread. The soft sound of music arose.
Gladness brightened in the hall. The voice of Ullin was
heard; the harp of Selma was strung. Utha rejoiced in
his presence, and demanded the song of grief; the big
tear hung in her eye, when the soft Crimora spoke.
Crimora the daughter of Rinval, who dwelt at Lotha's
roaring stream! The tale was long, but lovely; and
pleased the blushing Utha.
CRIMORA.
Who cometh from the hill, like a cloud tinged with the
beam of the west? Whose voice is that, loud as the
wind, but pleasant as the harp of Carril? It is my love
in the light of steel; but sad is his darkened brow!
Live the mighty race of Fingal? or what darkens in
Connal's soul?
CARRIC-THURA.
51
CONNAL.
They live. They return from the chase, like a stream
of light. The sun is on their shields. Like a ridge of
fire they descend the hill. Loud is the voice of the
youth the war, my love, is near! To-morrow the
dreadful Dargo comes to try the force of our race. The
race of Fingal he defies; the race of battle and wounds!
CRIMORA.
Connal, I saw his sails like grey mist on the dark-
brown wave. They slowly came to land. Connal, many
are the warriors of Dargo !
CONNAL.
Bring me thy father's shield; the bossy, iron shield of
Rinval; that shield like the full-orbed moon, when she
moves darkened through heaven.
CRIMORA.
That shield I bring, O Connal! but it did not defend
my father.
By the spear of Gormar he fell. Thou
may'st fall, O Connal !
CONNAL.
Fall I may! But raise my tomb, Crimora! Grey
stones, a mound of earth, shall send my name to other
times. Bend thy red eye over my grave, beat thy
52
CARRIC-THURA.
mournful heaving breast. Though fair thou art, my love,
as the light; more pleasant than the gale of the hill; yet
I will not here remain. Raise my tomb, Crimora !
CRIMORA.
Then give me those arms that gleam; that sword, and
that spear of steel. I shall meet Dargo with Connal, and
aid him in the fight. Farewell, ye rocks of Ardven! ye
deer! and ye streams of the hill! We shall return no
more. Our tombs are distant far!
"And did they return no more? said Utha's bursting
sigh. "Fell the mighty in battle, and did Crimora live?
Her steps were lonely; her soul was sad for Connal.
Was he not young and lovely; like the beam of the
setting sun?" Ullin saw the virgin's tear, he took the
softly-trembling harp: the song was lovely, but sad, and
silence was in Carric-thura.
11
Autumn is dark on the mountains; grey mist rests on
the hills. The whirlwind is heard on the heath. Dark
rolls the river through the narrow plain. A tree stands.
alone on the hill, and marks the slumbering Connal.
The leaves whirl round with the wind, and strew the
grave of the dead. At times are seen here the ghosts of
the departed, when the musing hunter alone stalks slowly
over the heath.
Who can reach the source of thy race, O Connal ! who
recount thy fathers? Thy family grew like an oak on
the mountain, which meeteth the wind with its lofty
head. But now it is torn from the earth. Who shall
supply the place of Connal? Here was the din of arms;
CARRIC-THURA.
53
here the groans of the dying. Bloody are the wars of
Fingal, O Connal ! it was here thou didst fall. Thine
arm was like a storm; thy sword a beam of the sky; thy
height, a rock on the plain; thine eyes, a furnace of fire.
Louder than a storm was thy voice, in the battles of thy
steel. Warriors fell by thy sword, as the thistle by the
staff of a boy. Dargo the mighty came on, darkening in
his rage.
His brows were gathered into wrath. His
eyes like two caves in a rock. Bright rose their swords
on each side; loud was the clang of their steel.
The daughter of Rinval was near; Crimora bright in
the armour of man; her yellow hair is loose behind, her
bow is in her hand. She followed the youth to the war,
Connal her much-beloved. She drew the string on
Dargo; but erring she pierced her Connal. He falls like
an oak on the plain; like a rock from the shaggy hill.
What shall she do, hapless maid! He bleeds; her
Connal dies! All the night long she cries, and all the
day, "O Connal, my love, and my friend!"
With grief
the sad mourner dies! Earth here incloses the loveliest
pair on the hill. The grass grows between the stones of
the tomb; I often sit in the mournful shade. The wind
sighs through the grass; their memory rushes on my
mind. Undisturbed you now sleep together; in the
tomb of the mountain you rest alone.
"And soft be their rest," said Utha, "hapless children
of streamy Lotha! I will remember them with tears, and
my secret song shall rise; when the wind is in the groves
of Tora, when the stream is roaring near. Then shall
they come on my soul, with all their lovely grief!"
54
CARRIC-THURA.
:
Three days feasted the kings: on the fourth their white
sails arose. The winds of the north drove Fingal to
Morven's woody land. But the spirit of Loda sat, in his
cloud, behind the ships of Frothal. He hung forward
with all his blasts, and spread the white-bosomed sails.
The wounds of his form were not forgot; he still feared
the hand of the king!
CARTHON: A POEM.
ARGUMENT.
THIS poem is complete, and the subject of it, as of most of
Ossian's compositions, tragical. In the time of Comhal the son
of Trathal, and father of the celebrated Fingal, Clessámmor the
son of Thaddu and brother of Morna, Fingal's mother, was
driven by a storm into the river Clyde, on the banks of which
stood Balclutha, a town belonging to the Britons between the
walls. He was hospitably received by Reuthámir, the principal
man in the place, who gave him Moina his only daughter in mar-
riage. Reuda, the son of Cormo, a Briton who was in love with
Moina, came to Reuthámir's house, and behaved haughtily
towards Clessàmmor. A quarrel ensued, in which Reuda was
killed; the Britons, who attended him, pressed so hard on
Clessámmor, that he was obliged to throw himself into the
Clyde, and swim to his ship. He hoisted sail, and the wind
being favourable, bore him out to sea. He often endeavoured
to return, and carry off his beloved Moina by night; but the
wind continuing contrary, he was forced to desist.
Moina, who had been left with child by her husband,
brought forth a son, and died soon after.-Reuthámir named
the child Carthon, i.e., the murmur of waves, from the storm
which carried off Clessámmor his father, who was supposed to
have been cast away. When Carthon was three years old,
Comhal the father of Fingal, in one of his expeditions against
the Britons, took and burnt Balclutha. Reuthamir was
killed in the attack: and Carthon was carried safe away by
his nurse, who fled further into the country of the Britons.
Carthon, coming to man's estate, was resolved to revenge the
fall of Balclutha on Comhal's posterity. He set sail, from the
Clyde, and falling on the coast of Morven, defeated two of
Fingal's heroes, who came to oppose his progress. He was, at
last, unwittingly killed by his father Clessámmor, in a single
combat. This story is the foundation of the present poem,
which opens on the night preceding the death of Carthon, so
that what passed before is introduced by way of episode. The
poem is addressed to Malvina the daughter of Toscar.
CARTHON: A POEM.
A other years!
The murmur of thy streams, O Lora! brings back the
memory of the past. The sound of thy woods, Garmallar,
is lovely in mine ear. Dost thou not behold, Malvina, a
rock with its head of heath? Three aged pines bend
from its face; green is the narrow plain at its feet; there
the flower of the mountain grows, and shakes its white
head in the breeze. The thistle is there alone, shedding
its aged beard. Two stones, half sunk in the ground,
shew their heads of moss. The deer of the mountain
avoids the place, for he beholds a dim ghost standing
there.*
The mighty lie, O Malvina! in the narrow
plain of the rock.
A tale of the times of old! the deeds of days of other
years !
Who comes from the land of strangers, with his
TALE of the times of old! The deeds of days of
* It was the opinion of the times, that deer saw the ghosts of
the dead. To this day, when beasts suddenly start without any
apparent cause, the vulgar think that they see the spirits of the
deceased.
58
CARTHON.
thousands around him? the sunbeam pours its bright stream
before him; his hair meets the wind of his hills. His
face is settled from war. He is calm as the evening beam
that looks, from the cloud of the west, on Cona's silent
vale. Who is it but Comhal's son,* the king of mighty
deeds! He beholds his hills with joy, he bids a thou-
sand voices rise. "Ye have fled over your fields, ye sons
of the distant land! The king of the world sits in his
hall, and hears of his people's flight. He lifts his red
eye of pride; he takes his father's sword.
over your fields, sons of the distant land
Ye have fled
The feast is spread
Where is the
Such were the words of the bards, when they came to
Selma's halls. A thousand lights from the stranger's
land rose, in the midst of the people.
around; the night passed away in joy.
noble Clessámmor? said the fair-haired Fingal. Where
is the brother of Morna, in the hour of my joy? Sullen
and dark he passes his days in the vale of echoing Lora :
but, behold, he comes from the hill, like a steed in his
strength, who finds his companions in the breeze; and
tosses his bright mane in the wind. Blest be the soul of
Clessámmor, why so long from Selma ?
Returns the chief, said Clessámmor, in the midst of
his fame? Such was the renown of Comhal in the
battles of his youth. Often did we pass over Carun to
the land of the strangers: our swords returned, not
* Fingal returns here, from an expedition against the Romans,
which was celebrated by Ossian in a poem called strife of Crona.
+ Probably wax-lights; which are often mentioned as carried,
among other booty, from the Roman province.
CARTHON.
59
unstained with blood: nor did the kings of the world
rejoice. Why do I remember the times of our war? My
hair is mixed with grey. My hand forgets to bend the
bow: I lift a lighter spear. O that my joy would return,
as when I first beheld the maid; the white-bosomed
daughter of strangers, Moina, with the dark blue-eyes!
Tell, said the mighty Fingal, the tale of thy youthful
days. Sorrow, like a cloud on the sun, shades the soul
of Clessámmor. Mournful are thy thoughts, alone, on
the banks of the roaring Lora. Let us hear the sorrow
of thy youth, and the darkness of thy days!
"It was in the days of peace," replied the great
Clessámmor, "I came in my bounding ship, to Bal-
clutha's walls of towers. The winds had roared behind
my sails, and Clutha's* streams received my dark-bosomed
ship. Three days I remained in Reuthámir's halls, and
saw his daughter, that beam of light. The joy of the
shell went round, and the aged hero gave the fair. Her
breasts were like foam on the wave, and her eyes like
stars of light: her hair was dark as the raven's wing:
her soul was generous and mild. My love for Moina was
great my heart poured forth in joy.
"The son of a stranger came; a chief who loved the
white-bosomed Moina. His words were mighty in the
hall; he often half-unsheathed his sword. Where, said
he, is the mighty Comhal, the restless wanderer of the
heath? Comes he, with his host, to Balclutha, since
Clutha, or Cluath, the Galic name of the river Clyde; the
signification of the word is bending.
*
бо
CARTHON.
Clessámmor is so bold? My soul, I replied, O warrior!
burns in a light of its own. I stand without fear in the
midst of thousands, though the valiant are distant far.
Stranger! thy words are mighty, for Clessámmor is alone.
But my sword trembles by my side, and longs to glitter
in my hand. Speak no more of Comhal, son of the
winding Clutha ! "
"The strength of his pride arose. We fought; he
fell beneath my sword. The banks of Clutha heard his
fall; a thousand spears glittered around. I fought: the
strangers prevailed: I plunged into the stream of Clutha,
My white sails rose over the waves, and I bounded on
the dark-blue sea. Moina came to the shore, and rolled
the red eye of her tears: her loose hair flew on the
wind; and I heard her mournful, distant cries. Often
did I turn my ship; but the winds of the East prevailed.
Nor Clutha ever since have I seen, nor Moina of the
dark brown hair. She fell in Balclutha, for I have seen
her ghost. I knew her as she came through the dusky
night, along the murmur of Lora: she was like the new
moon, seen through the gathered mist: when the sky
pours down its flaky snow, and the world is silent and
dark."
Raise,* ye bards, said the mighty Fingal, the praise of
unhappy Moina. Call her ghost, with your songs, to our
hills; that she may rest with the fair of Morven, the sun-
* The title of this poem, in the original, is Duan na nlaoi, i.e.
The Poem of the Hymns: probably on account of its many
digressions from the subject, all which are in a lyric measure as
this song of Fingal.
CARTHON.
61
beams of other days, the delight of heroes of old. I have
seen the walls of Balclutha, but they were desolate.
The fire had resounded in the halls: and the voice of the
people is heard no more. The stream of Clutha was
removed from its place, by the fall of the walls. The
thistle shook, there, its lonely head: the moss whistled
to the wind. The fox looked out from the windows, the
rank grass of the wall waved round its head. Desolate
is the dwelling of Moina, silence is in the house of her
fathers. Raise the song of mourning, O bards! over the
land of strangers. They have but fallen before us: for,
one day, we must fall. Why dost thou build the hall,
son of the winged days? Thou lookest from thy towers
to-day; yet a few years, and the blast of the desert
comes; it howls in thy empty court, and whistles round
thy half-worn shield. And let the blast of the desert
come! we shall be renowned in our day! The mark of
my arm shall be in battle; my name in the song of bards.
Raise the song; send round the shell: let joy be heard in
my hall. When thou, sun of heaven, shalt fail! if thou
shalt fail, thou mighty light! if thy brightness is for
a season, like Fingal; our fame shall survive thy beams!
Such was the song of Fingal, in the day of his joy.
His thousand bards leaned forward from their seats, to
hear the voice of the king. It was like the music of
harps on the gale of the spring. Lovely were thy
thoughts, O Fingal ! why had not Ossian the strength of
thy soul? But thou standest alone, my father! who can
equal the king of Selma?
The night passed away in song; morning returned in
62
CARTHON.
joy. The mountains shewed their grey heads; the blue
face of ocean smiled. The white wave is seen tumbling
round the distant rock; a mist rose, slowly, from the
lake. It came, in the figure of an aged man, along the
silent plain. Its large limbs did not move in steps; for
a ghost supported it in mid-air. It came towards Selma's
hall, and dissolved in a shower of blood.
The king alone beheld the sight; he foresaw the death
of the people. He came, in silence, to his hall; and
took his father's spear. The mail rattled on his breast.
The heroes rose around. They looked, in silence, on
each other, marking the eyes of Fingal. They saw battle
in his face the death of armies on his spear. A
thousand shields, at once, are placed on their arms; they
drew a thousand swords. The hall of Selma brightened
around. The clang of arms ascends. The grey dogs
howl in their place. No word is among the mighty
chiefs. Each marked the eyes of the king; and half
assumed his spear.
Sons of Morven, begun the king, this is no time to fill
the shell. The battle darkens near us; death hovers
over the land. Some ghost, the friend of Fingal, has
forewarned us of the foe. The sons of the stranger come
from the darkly-rolling sea. For, from the water, came
the sign of Morven's gloomy danger. Let each assume
his heavy spear, each gird on his father's sword. Let the
dark helmet rise on every head; the mail pour its
lightning from every side. The battle gathers like a
storm; soon shall ye hear the roar of death.
The hero moved on before his host, like a cloud before
CARTHON.
63
:
a ridge of green fire; when it pours on the sky of night,
and mariners foresee a storm. On Cona's rising heath
they stood the white-bosomed maids beheld them above
like a grove; they foresaw the death of the youth, and
looked towards the sea with fear. The white wave
deceived them for distant sails; the tear is on their
cheek! The sun rose on the sea, and we beheld a
distant fleet. Like the mist of ocean they came and
poured their youth upon the coast. The chief was
among them, like the stag in the midst of the herd. His
shield is studded with gold; stately strode the king of
spears. He moved towards Selma; his thousands moved
behind.
Go, with a song of peace, said Fingal; go, Ullin, to
the king of swords. Tell him that we are mighty in
war; that the ghosts of our foes are many. But
renowned are they who have feasted in my halls! they
shew the arms* of my fathers in a foreign land: the
sons of the strangers wonder, and bless the friends of
Morven's race; for our names have been heard afar :
the kings of the world shook in the midst of their host.
Ullin went with his song. Fingal rested on his spear:
he saw the mighty foe in his armour: he blest the
stranger's son. "How stately art thou, son of the sea!"
said the king of woody Morven. Thy sword is a beam
of fire by thy side: thy spear is a pine that defies the
storm. The varied face of the moon is not broader than
thy shield. Ruddy is thy face of youth! soft the ringlets
<<
* It was a custom among the ancient Scots, to exchange arms
with their guests.
64
CARTHON.
of thy hair! But this tree may fall; and his memory be
forgot! The daughter of the stranger will be sad,
looking to the rolling sea: the children will say, 'We
see a ship; perhaps it is the king of Balclutha.' The
tear starts from their mother's eye. Her thoughts are of
him who sleeps in Morven !"
Such were the words of the king, when Ullin came to
the mighty Carthon; he threw down the spear before
him; he raised the song of peace.
"Come to the feast of
Fingal, Carthon, from the rolling sea! partake of the
feast of the king, or lift the spear of war! The ghosts
of our foes are many: but renowned are the friends of
Morven ! Behold that field, O Carthon; many a green
hill rises there, with mossy stones and rustling grass:
these are the tombs of Fingal's foes, the sons of the
rolling sea!"
"Dost thou speak to the weak in arms!" said
Carthon, "bard of the woody Morven? Is my face pale
for fear, son of the peaceful song? Why, then, dost
thou think to darken my soul with the tales of those who
fell? My arm has fought in battle; my renown is
known afar. Go to the feeble in arms, bid them yield to
Fingal. Have not I seen the fallen Balclutha? And
shall I feast with Comhal's son? Comhal! who threw
his fire in the midst of my father's hall! I was young,
and knew not the cause, why the virgins wept. The
columns of smoke pleased mine eye, when they rose
above my walls! I often looked back, with gladness,
when my friends fled along the hill. But when the
years of my youth came on, I beheld the moss of my
CARTHON.
65
fallen walls: my sigh arose with the morning, and my
tears descended with night. Shall I not fight, I said to
my soul, against the children of my foes! And I will
fight, O bard! I feel the strength of my soul."
His people gathered round the hero, and drew, at once,
their shining swords. He stands, in the midst, like a
pillar of fire; the tear half-starting from his eye; for he
thought of the fallen Balclutha ; the crowded pride of his
soul arose. Sidelong he looked up to the hill, where
our heroes shone in arms; the spear trembled in his
hand: bending forward, he seemed to threaten the king.
Shall I, said Fingal to his soul, meet, at once, the
youth? Shall I stop him, in the midst of his course,
before his fame shall arise? But the bard, hereafter, may
say, when he sees the tomb of Carthon; Fingal took his
thousands to battle, before the noble Carthon fell. No :
bard of the times to come! thou shalt not lessen Fingal's
fame. My heroes will fight the youth, and Fingal
behold the war. If he overcomes, I rush, in my strength,
like the roaring stream of Cona. Who, of my chiefs,
will meet the son of the rolling sea? Many are his
warriors on the coast and strong is his ashen spear!
Cathul rose, in his strength, the son of the mighty
Lormar: three hundred youths attend the chief, the race
of his native streams. Feeble was his arm against
Carthon, he fell; and his heroes fled. Connal resumed
the battle, but he broke his heavy spear: he lay bound
on the field: Carthon pursued his people.
Clessámmor! said the king of Morven, where is the
spear of thy strength? Wilt thou behold Connal bound;
420
66
CARTHON.
thy friend, at the stream of Lora? Rise, in the light of
thy steel, companion of valiant Comhal! Let the youth
of Balclutha feel the strength of Morven's race.
He rose
in the strength of his steel, shaking his grizly locks.
He fitted the shield to his side; he rushed, in the pride
of valour.
Carthon stood on a rock; he saw the hero rushing on.
He loved the dreadful joy of his face his strength, in the
locks of age! "Shall I lift that spear, he said, that
never strikes, but once, a foe? Or shall I, with the words
of peace, preserve the warrior's life? Stately are his
steps of age! lovely the remnant of his years! Perhaps
it is the husband of Moina; the father of car-borne
Carthon. Often have I heard, that he dwelt at the
echoing stream of Lora.”
Such were his words, when Clessámmor came, and
lifted high his spear. The youth received it on his
shield, and spoke the words of peace. "Warrior of the
aged locks! Is there no youth to lift the spear? Hast
thou no son to raise the shield before his father to meet
the arm of youth? Is the spouse of thy love no more?
or weeps she over the tombs of thy sons? Art thou of
the kings of men? What will be the fame of my sword
should'st thou fall?
It will be great, thou son of pride! begun the tall
Clessámmor. I have been renowned in battle; but I
never told my name to a foe. Yield to me, son of the
*To tell one's name to an enemy was reckoned, in those days
of heroism, a manifest evasion of fighting him; for if it was
once known, that friendship subsisted of old, between the
CARTHON.
67
""
wave, then shalt thou know, that the mark of my sword
is in many a field. "I never yielded, king of spears!"
replied the noble pride of Carthon: "I have also fought in
war; I behold my future fame. Despise me not, thou
chief of men! my arm, my spear is strong. Retire among
thy friends, let younger heroes fight.' Why dost thou
wound my soul?" replied Clessámmor with a tear. "Age
does not tremble on my hand; I still can lift the sword.
Shall I fly in Fingal's sight; in the sight of him I love?
Son of the sea: I never fled : exalt thy pointed
spear."
60
They fought, like two contending winds, that strive to
roll the wave. Carthon bade his spear to err; he still
thought that the foe was the spouse of Moina. He broke
Clessámmor's beamy spear in twain: he seized his shining
sword. But as Carthon was binding the chief; the chief
drew the dagger of his fathers. He saw the foe's un-
covered side; and opened, there, a wound.
Fingal saw Clessámmor low: he moved in the sound
of his steel. The host stood silent, in his presence; they
turned their eyes to the king. He came, like the sullen
noise of a storm, before the winds arise: the hunter
hears it in the vale, and retires to the cave of the rock.
Carthon stood in his place: the blood is rushing down
his side: he saw the coming down of the king; his hopes
of fame arose; but pale was his cheek: his hair flew
ancestors of the combatants, the battle immediately ceased;
and the ancient amity of their forefathers was restored. Aman
who tells his name to his enemy, was of old an ignominious terin
for a coward.
68
CARTHON.
loose, his helmet shook on high: the force of Carthon
failed; but his soul was strong.
Fingal beheld the hero's blood; he stopt the uplifted
spear. "Vield, king of swords !" said Comhal's son; "I
behold thy blood. Thou hast been mighty in battle; and
thy fame shall never fade." "Art thou the king so far re-
nowned?" replied the car-borne Carthon. "Art thou that
light of death, that frightens the kings of the world? But
why should Carthon ask; for he is like the stream of his
hills; strong as a river, in his course; swift as the eagle
of heaven. O that I had fought with the king; that my
fame might be great in song! that the hunter, beholding
my tomb, might say, he fought with the mighty Fingal.
But Carthon dies unknown; he has poured out his force
on the weak."
"But thou shalt not die unknown," replied the king of
woody Morven: "my bards are many, O Carthon! Their
songs descend to future times.
The children of years to
come shall hear the fame of Carthon; when they sit
round the burning oak, and the night is spent in songs of
old. The hunter, sitting in the heath, shall hear the
rustling blast; and, raising his eyes, behold the rock
where Carthon fell. He shall turn to his son, and shew
the place where the mighty fought; 'There the king
of Balclutha fought, like the strength of a thousand
streams.'"
Joy rose in Carthon's face: he lifted his heavy eyes.
He gave his sword to Fingal, to lie within his hall, that
the memory of Balclutha's king might remain in Morven.
The battle ceased along the field, the bard had sung the
CARTHON.
60
song of peace. The chiefs gathered round the falling
Carthon; they heard his words with sighs. Silent they
leaned on their spears, while Balclutha's hero spoke.
His hair sighed in the wind, and his voice was sad and
low.
<<
King of Morven," Carthon said, "I fall in the midst
of my course. A foreign tomb receives, in youth, the last
of Reuthámir's race. Darkness dwells in Balclutha the
shadows of grief in Crathmo. But raise my remembrance
on the banks of Lora, where my fathers dwelt. Perhaps
the husband of Moina will mourn over his fallen Carthon."
His words reached the heart of Clessámmor: he fell, in
silence, on his son. The host stood darkened around :
no voice is on the plain. Night came, the moon, from
the east, looked on the mournful field: but still they
stood, like a silent grove that lifts its head on Gormal,
when the loud winds are laid, and dark autumn is on the
plain.
Three days they mourned above Carthon; on the fourth
his father died. In the narrow plain of the rock they lie;
a dim ghost defends their tomb. There lovely Moina is
often seen; when the sunbeam darts on the rock, and
all around is dark. There she is seen, Malvina ! but not
like the daughters of the hill. Her robes are from the
stranger's land; and she is still alone!
Fingal was sad for Carthon; he commanded his bards
to mark the day, when shadowy autumn returned: And
often did they mark the day, and sing the hero's praise.
"Who comes so dark from ocean's roar, like autumn's
shadowy cloud? Death is trembling in his hand! his
70
CARTHON.
eyes are flames of fire!
Who roars along dark Lora's
heath? Who but Carthon, king of swords! The people
fall! see how he strides, like the sullen ghost of Morven !
But there he lies a goodly oak, which sudden blasts over-
turned! When shalt thou rise, Balclutha's joy? When,
Carthon, shalt thou arise? Who comes so dark from
ocean's roar, like autumn's shadowy cloud?" Such were
the words of the bards, in the day of their mourning :
Ossian often joined their voice; and added to their song.
My soul has been mournful for Carthon; he fell in the
days of his youth: and thou, O Clessámmor! where is
thy dwelling in the wind? Has the youth forgot his
wound? Flies he, on clouds, with thee? I feel the sun,
O Malvina! leave me to my rest. Perhaps they may
come to my dreams; I think I hear a feeble voice! The
beam of heaven delights to shine on the grave of Carthon:
I feel it warm around 1
M
O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my
fathers! Whence are thy beams, O sun! thy everlasting
light? Thou comest forth, in thy awful beauty; the stars
hide themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and pale,
sinks in the western wave. But thou thyself movest
alone who can be a companion of thy course!
:
The
oaks of the mountains fall: the mountains themselves
decay with years; the ocean shrinks and grows again :
the moon herself is lost in heaven; but thou art for ever
the same; rejoicing in the brightness of thy course. When
the world is dark with tempests; when thunder rolls, and
lightning flies; thou lookest in thy beauty, from the
clouds, and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian, thou
CARTHON.
71
lookest in vain; for he beholds thy beams no more;
whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or
thou tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou art
perhaps, like me, for a season, thy years will have an end.
Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds, careless of the voice of
the morning. Exult thee, O sun! in the strength of thy
youth! Age is dark and unlovely; it is like the glimmer-
ing light of the moon, when it shines through broken
clouds, and the mist is on the hills; the blast of north is
on the plain; the traveller shrinks in the midst of his
journey.
OINA-MORUL: A POEM.
ARGUMENT.
AFTER an address to Malvina, the daughter of Toscar, Ossian
proceeds to relate his own expedition to Fuärfed, an island of
Scandinavia. Mal-orchol, king of Fuärfed, being hard pressed
in war, by Ton-thormod, chief of Sar-dronlo (who had demanded,
in vain, the daughter of Mal-orchol in marriage), Fingal sent
Ossian to his aid. Ossian, on the day after his arrival, came
to battle with Ton-thormod, and took him prisoner. Mal-
orchol offers his daughter Oina-morul to Ossian; but he,
discovering her passion for Ton-thormod, generously sur-
renders her. to her lover, and brings about a reconciliation
between the two kings.
OINA-MORUL: A POEM,
As
S flies the unconstant sun, over Larmon's grassy
hill; so pass the tales of old, along my soul, by
night! when bards are removed to their place; when
harps are hung in Selma's hall; then comes a voice to
Ossian, and awakes his soul! It is the voice of years
that are gone! they roll before me, with all their deeds!
I seize the tales, as they pass, and pour them forth in
song. Nor a troubled stream is the song of the king, it
is like the rising of music from Lutha of the strings.
Lutha of many strings, not silent are thy streamy rocks,
when the white hands of Malvina move upon the harp!
Light of the shadowy thoughts, that fly across my soul,
daughter of Toscar of helmets, wilt thou not hear the
song! We call back, maid of Lutha, the years that have
rolled away!
It was in the days of the king, while yet my locks
were young, that I marked Con-cathlin,* on high, from
* Con-cathlin, mild beam of the wave. What star was so
called of old is not easily ascertained. Some now distinguish
the pole-star by that name. A song, which is still in repute,
among the sea-faring part of the Highlanders, alludes to this
passage of Ossian,
76
OINA-MORUL.
ocean's nightly wave. My course was towards the isle of
Fuärfed, woody dweller of seas! Fingal had sent me to
the aid of Mal-orchal, king of Fuarfed wild: for war was
around him, and our fathers had met at the feast.
In Con-coiled, I bound my sails; I sent my sword to
Mal-orchal of shells. He knew the signal of Albion, and
his joy arose. He came from his own high hall, and
seized my hand in grief. "Why comes the race of
heroes to a falling king? Ton-thormod of many spears
is the chief of wavy Sar-dronlo. He saw, and loved my
daughter, white-bosomed Oina-morul. He sought; I
denied the maid; for our fathers had been foes. He
came, with battle, to Fuärfed; my people are rolled
away. Why comes the race of heroes to a falling king?
"I come not," I said, "to look, like a boy, on the strife.
Fingal remembers Mal-orchol, and his hall for strangers.
From his waves, the warrior descended, on thy woody
isle. Thou wert no cloud before him. Thy feast was
spread with songs. For this my sword shall rise; and
thy foes perhaps may fail. Our friends are not forgot in
their danger, though distant is our land."
"Descendant of the daring Trenmor, thy words are
like the voice of Cruth-loda, when he speaks from his
parting cloud, strong dweller of the sky! Many have
rejoiced at my feast; but they all have forgot Mal-orchol.
I have looked towards all the winds; but no white sails
were seen. But steel resounds in my hall; and not the
joyful shells. Come to my dwelling, race of heroes!
dark-skirted night is near. Hear the voice of songs, from
the maid of Fuärfed wild."
""
OINA-MORUL.
77
We went. On the harp arose the white hands of
Oina-morul. She waked her own sad tale, from every
trembling string. I stood in silence; for bright in her
locks was the daughter of many isles! Her eyes were
two stars, looking forward through a rushing shower.
The mariner marks them on high, and blesses the lovely
beams. With morning we rushed to battle, to Tormul's
resounding stream: the foe moved to the sound of
Ton-thormod's bossy shield. From wing to wing the
strife was mixed. I met Ton-thormod in fight. Wide
flew his broken steel. I seized the king in war.
I gave
his hand, bound fast with thongs, to Mal-orchol, the
giver of shells. Joy rose at the feast of Fuärfed, for the
foe had failed. Ton-thormod turned his face away, from
Oina-morul of isles !
Son of Fingal, begun Mal-orchol, not forgot shalt thou
pass from me. A light shall dwell in thy ship, Oina-
morul of slow-rolling eyes. She shall kindle gladness,
along thy mighty soul. Nor unheeded shall the maid
move in Selma, through the dwelling of kings!
In the hall I lay in night. Mine eyes were half-closed
in sleep. Soft music came to mine ear: it was like the
rising breeze, that whirls, at first, the thistle's beard;
then flies, dark-shadowy, over the grass. It was the
maid of Fuärfed wild! she raised the nightly song; she
knew that my soul was a stream, that flowed at pleasant
sounds. "Who looks," she said, "from his rock, on
ocean's closing mist? his long locks, like the raven's
wing, are wandering on the blast. Stately are his steps
in grief! The tears are in his eyes!
His manly breast
78
OINA-MORUL.
is heaving over his bursting soul! Retire, I am distant
far
; a wanderer in lands unknown. Though the race of
kings are around me, yet my soul is dark. Why have
our fathers been foes, Ton-thormod love of maids !"
"Soft voice of the streamy isle," I said, "why dost
thou mourn by night? The race of daring Trenmor are
not the dark in soul. Thou shalt not wander, by streams
unknown, blue-eyed Oina-morul! Within this bosom
a voice; it comes not to other ears: it bids Ossian hear
the hapless, in their hour of woe. Retire, soft singer
by night! Ton-thormod shall not mourn on his rock!"
With morning I loosed the king. I gave the long-
haired maid. Mal-orchol heard my words, in the midst
of his echoing halls. "King of Fuärfed wild, why
should Ton-thormod mourn? He is of the race of heroes,
and a flame in war. Your fathers have been foes, but
now their dim ghosts rejoice in death. They stretch
their hands of mist to the same shell in Loda. Forget
their rage, ye warriors! it was the cloud of other years.
Such were the deeds of Ossian, while yet his locks
were young; though loveliness, with a robe of beams,
clothed the daughter of many isles. We call back, maid
of Lutha, the years that have rolled away!
""
COLNA-DONA: A POEM.
ARGUMENT.
FINGAL dispatches Ossian and Toscar, the son of Conloch and
father of Malvina, to raise a stone, on the banks of the
stream of Crona, to perpetuate the memory of a victory, which
he had obtained in that place. When they were employed in
that work, Car-ul, a neighbouring chief, invited them to a
feast. They went: and Toscar fell desperately in love with
Colna-Dona, the daughter of Car-ul. Colna-dona became no
less enamoured of Toscar. An incident, at a hunting party,
brings their loves to a happy issue.
COLNA-DONA: A POEM.
Co
OL-AMON of troubled streams, dark wanderer of
distant vales, I behold thy course between trees,
near Car-ul's echoing halls! There dwelt bright Colna-
dona, the daughter of the king. Her eyes were rolling
stars; her arms were white as the foam of streams. Her
breast rose slowly to sight, like ocean's heaving wave.
Her soul was a stream of light. Who, among the maids,
was like the love of heroes?
Beneath the voice of the king, we moved to Crona* of
the streams, Toscar of grassy Lutha, and Ossian, young in
fields. Three bards attended with songs. Three bossy
shields were borne before us: for we were to rear the
stone, in memory of the past. By Crona's mossy course,
Fingal had scattered his foes: he had rolled away the
strangers, like a troubled sea. We came to the place of
renown: from the mountains descended night. I tore an
oak from its hill, and raised a flame on high. I bade my
fathers to look down, from the clouds of their hall; for,
at the fame of their race, they brighten in the wind.
* The name of a small stream, which discharged itself in the
river Carron.
421
82
COLNA-DONA.
I took a stone from the stream, amidst the song of
bards. The blood of Fingal's foes hung curdled in its
ooze. Beneath, I placed, at intervals, three bosses from
the shields of foes, as rose or fell the sound of Ullin's
nightly song.
Toscar laid a dagger in earth, a mail of
sounding steel. We raised the mould around the stone,
and bade it speak to other years.
Oozy daughter of streams, that now art reared on high,
speak to the feeble, O stone! after Selma's race have
failed! Prone, from the stormy night, the traveller shall
lay him, by thy side: thy whistling moss shall sound in
his dreams; the years that were past shall return.
Battles rise before him, blue-shielded kings descend to
war the darkened moon looks from heaven, on the
troubled field. He shall burst, with morning, from
dreams, and see the tombs of warriors round. He shall
ask about the stone, and the aged shall reply, "This
grey stone was raised by Ossian, a chief of other years!"
From Col-amon came a bard, from Car-ul, the friend
of strangers. He bade us to the feast of kings, to the
dwelling of bright Colna-dona. We went to the hall of
harps. There Car-ul brightened between his aged locks,
when he beheld the sons of his friends, like two young
branches before him.
"Sons of the mighty," he said, "ye bring back
the days of old, when first I descended from waves, on
Selma's streamy vale! I pursued Duthmocarglos,
dweller of ocean's wind. Our fathers had been foes, we
met by Clutha's winding waters. He fled, along the
sea, and my sails were spread behind him. Night
COLNA-DONA.
83
I
deceived me, on the deep. I came to the dwelling of
kings, to Selma of high-bosomed maids. Fingal came
forth with his bards, and Conloch, arm of death.
feasted three days in the hall, and saw the blue eyes of
Erin, Roscrana, daughter of heroes, light of Cormac's
race. Nor forgot did my steps depart: the kings gave
their shields to Car-ul: they hang, on high, in Col-amon,
in memory of the past. Sons of the daring kings, ye
bring back the days of old !"
He took two bosses
in earth, beneath a
"When battle," said
Car-ul kindled the oak of feasts.
from our shields. He laid them
stone, to speak to the hero's race.
the king, "shall roar, and our sons are to meet in wrath.
My race shall look, perhaps, on this stone, when they
prepare the spear. Have not our fathers met in peace,
they will say, and lay aside the shield."
Night came down. In her long locks moved the
daughter of Car-ul. Mixed with the harp arose the voice
of white-armed Colna-dona. Toscar darkened in his place,
before the love of heroes. She came on his troubled soul,
like a beam to the dark-heaving ocean: when it bursts
from a cloud, and brightens the foamy side of a wave.
With morning we awaked the woods; and hung for-
ward on the path of the roes. They fell by their wonted
streams. We returned through Crona's vale. From the
wood a youth came forward, with a shield and pointless
spear.
"Whence," said Toscar of Lutha, "is the flying
* Here is an episode entirely lost.
84
COLNA-DONA.
beam? Dwells there peace at Col-amon, round bright
Colna-dona of harps."
<<
"By Col-amon of streams," said the youth, bright
Colna-dona dwelt. She dwelt; but her course is now in
deserts, with the son of the king; he that seized with love
her soul as it wandered through the hall." Stranger of
tales," said Toscar, "hast thou marked the warrior's
course? He must fall, give thou that bossy shield.” In
wrath he took the shield. Fair behind it rose the breasts
of a maid, white as the bosom of a swan, rising graceful
on swift-rolling waves. It was Colna-dona of harps, the
daughter of the king! Her blue eyes had rolled on
Toscar, and her love arose !
J.
46
OITHONA: A POÈM.
ARGUMENT.
GAUL, the son of Morni, attended Lathmon into his own
country, after his being defeated in Morven, as related in the
preceding poem. He was kindly entertained by Nuäth, the
father of Lathmon, and fell in love with his daughter Oithona.
The lady was no less enamoured of Gaul, and a day was fixed
for their marriage. In the meantime Fingal, preparing for an
expedition into the country of the Britons, sent for Gaul. He
obeyed, and went; but not without promising to Oithona to
return, if he survived the war, by a certain day. Lathmon too
was obliged to attend his father Nuäth in his wars, and
Oithona was left alone at Dunlathmon, the seat of the family.
Dunrommath, lord of Uthal, supposed to be one of the
Orkneys, taking advantage of the absence of her friends,
came, and carried off, by force, Oithona, who had formerly
rejected his love, into Tromáthon, a desert island, where he
concealed her in a cave.
Gaul returned on the day appointed; heard of the rape,
and sailed to Tromáthon, to revenge himself on Dunrommath.
When he landed, he found Oithona disconsolate, and resolved
not to survive the loss of her honour. She told him the story
of her misfortunes, and she scarce ended, when Dunrommath,
with his followers, appeared at the further end of the island.
Gaul prepared to attack him, recommending to Oithona to
retire, till the battle was over. She seemingly obeyed; but
she secretly armed herself, rushed into the thickest of the
battle, and was mortally wounded. Gaul pursuing the flying
enemy, found her just expiring on the field: he mourned over
her, raised her tomb, and returned to Morven. Thus is the
story handed down by tradition; nor is it given with any
material difference in the poem, which opens with Gaul's
return to Dunlathmon, after the rape of Oithona.
OITHONA: A POEM.
ARKNESS dwells around Dunlathmon, though the
moon shews half her face on the hill. The
daughter of night turns her eyes away; she beholds the
approaching grief. The son of Morni is on the plain :
there is no sound in the hall. No long-streaming beam
of light comes trembling through the gloom. The voice
of Oithona is not heard amidst the noise of the streams of
Duvranna. "Whither art thou gone in thy beauty, dark.
haired daughter of Nuäth; Lathmon is in the field of the
valiant, but thou didst promise to remain in the hall till
the son of Morni returned. Till he returned from
Strumon, to the maid of his love! The tear was on thy
cheek at his departure; the sigh rose in secret in thy
breast. But thou dost not come forth with songs, with
the lightly-trembling sound of the harp !"
Such were the words of Gaul, when he came to Dun-
lathmon's towers. The gates were open and dark. The
winds were blustering in the hall. The trees strowed the
threshold with leaves; the murmur of night was abroad.
Sad and silent, at a rock, the son of Morni sat: his soul
88
OITHONA.
trembled for the maid; but he knew not whither to turn
his course! The son* of Leth stood at a distance, and
heard the winds in his bushy hair. But he did not raise
his voice, for he saw the sorrow of Gaul!
Sleep descended on the chiefs. The visions of night
Oithona stood, in a dream, before the eyes of
Morni's son.
Her hair was loose and disordered: her
arose.
lovely eye rolled deep in tears. Blood stained her snowy
arm.
The robe half hid the wound of her breast. She
tood over the chief, and her voice was feebly heard.
66 Sleeps the son of Morni, he that was lovely in the eyes
of Oithona? Sleeps Gaul at the distant rock, and the
daughter of Nuäth low? The sea rolls round the dark
isle of Tromáthon. I sit in my tears in the cave! Nor
do I sit alone, O Gaul! the dark chief of Cuthal is there.
He is there in the rage of his love. What can Oithona
do?"
A rougher blast rushed through the oak. The dream
of night departed. Gaul took his aspen spear. He
stood in the rage of his soul. Often did his eyes turn to
the east. He accused the lagging light. At length the
morning came forth. The hero lifted
The hero lifted up the sail. The
winds came rustling from the hill; he bounded on the
waves of the deep. On the third day arose Tromáthon,
like a blue shield in the midst of the sea. The white
wave roared against its rocks; sad Oithona sat on the
coast! She looked on the rolling waters, and her tears
came down.
But when she saw Gaul in his arms,
*Morlo, one of Fingal's most famous heroes.
OITHONA.
89
she started, and turned her eyes away. Her lovely cheek
is bent and red; her white arm trembles by her side.
Thrice she strove to fly from his presence: thrice her
steps failed her as she went!
"Daughter of Nuäth," said the hero, "why dost thou
fly from Gaul? Do my eyes send forth the flame of
death? Darkens hatred in my soul? Thou art to me
the beam of the east, rising in a land unknown. But
thou coverest thy face with sadness, daughter of car-
borne Nuäth! Is the foe of Oithona near? My soul
burns to meet him in fight. The sword trembles by the
side of Gaul, and longs to glitter in his hand. Speak,
daughter of Nuäth! Dost thou not behold my
tears ? "
"Young chief of Strumon," replied the maid, "why
comest thou over the dark-blue wave, to Nuäth's mourn-
ful daughter? Why did I not pass away in secret, like
the flower of the rock, that lifts its fair head unseen, and
strows its withered leaves on the blast? Why didst thou
come, O Gaul! to hear my departing sigh? I vanish in
my youth; my name shall not be heard. Or it will
be heard with grief; the tears of Nuäth must fall. Thou
wilt be sad, son of Morni! for the departed fame of
Oithona. But she shall sleep in the narrow tomb, far
from the voice of the mourner. Why didst thou come,
chief of Strumon! to the sea-beat rocks of Tromáthon ?"
"I came to meet thy foes, daughter of car-borne
Nuäth the death of Cuthal's chief darkens before me;
or Morni's son shall fall! Oithona! when Gaul is low,
raise my tomb on that oozy rock. When the dark-
go
OITHONA.
bounding ship shall pass, call the sons of the sea! call
them, and give this sword, to bear it hence to Morni's
hall. The grey-haired chief will then cease to look
towards the desert for the return of his son !"
"Shall the daughter of Nuäth live?" she replied with
a bursting sigh. "Shall I live in Tromáthon, and the
son of Morni low? My heart is not of that rock; nor
my soul careless as that sea; which lifts its blue waves to
every wind, and rolls beneath the storm! The blast
which shall lay thee low, shall spread the branches
of Oithona on earth. We shall wither together, son of
car-borne Morni! The narrow house is pleasant to me,
and the grey stone of the dead: for never more will
I leave thy rocks, O sea-surrounded Tromáthon! Night*
came on with her clouds, after the departure of Lathmon,
when he went to the wars of his fathers, to the moss-
covered rock of Duthórmoth. Night came on. I sat in
the hall, at the beam of the oak! The wind was abroad
in the trees. I heard the sound of arms. Joy rose in my
face. I thought of thy return. It was the chief of
Cuthal, the red-haired strength of Dunrommath. His
eyes rolled in fire: the blood of my people was on his
sword. They who defended Oithona fell by the gloomy
chief! What could I do? My arm was weak. I could
not lift the spear. He took me in my grief, amidst my
tears he raised the sail. He feared the returning Lath-
mon, the brother of unhappy Oithona! But behold he
comes with his people! the dark wave is divided before
* Oithona relates how she was carried away by Dunrommath.
OITHONA.
91
him! Whither wilt thou turn thy steps, son of Morni?
Many are the warriors of thy foe!"
"6
My steps never turned from battle," Gaul said, and
unsheathed his sword. "Shall I then begin to fear,
Oithona! when thy foes are near? Go to thy cave, my
love, till our battle cease on the field. Son of Leth,
bring the bows of our fathers! the sounding quiver of
Morni! Let our three warriors bend the yew. Our-
selves will lift the spear.
They are an host on the rock!
our souls are strong in war!"
Oithona went to the cave. A troubled joy rose on her
mind, like the red path of lightning on a stormy cloud!
Her soul was resolved; the tear was dried from her
wildly-looking eye. Dunrommath slowly approached.
He saw the son of Morni. Contempt contracted his
face, a smile is on his dark-brown cheek; his red eye
rolled, half-concealed beneath his shaggy brows!
"Whence are the sons of the sea?" begun the gloomy
chief. "Have the winds driven you on the rocks of
Tromáthon? Or come you in search of the white-handed
maid? The sons of the unhappy, ye feeble men, come to
the hand of Dunrommath! His eye spares not the
weak; he delights in the blood of strangers. Oithona is
a beam of light, and the chief of Cuthal enjoys it in
secret; wouldst thou come on its loveliness, like a cloud,
son of the feeble hand! Thou mayst come, but shalt thou
return to the halls of thy fathers?" "Dost thou not
know me," said Gaul, "red-haired chief of Cuthal?
Thy feet were swift on the heath, in the battle of car-
borne Lathmon; when the sword of Morni's son pursued
92
OITHONA.
his host, in Morven's woody land. Dunrommath thy
words are mighty, for thy warriors gather behind thee.
But do I fear them, son of pride? I am not of the race of
the feeble!"
Gaul advanced in his arms; Dunrommath shrunk
behind his people. But the spear of Gaul pierced the
gloomy chief; his sword lopped off his head, as it
bended in death. The son of Morni shook it thrice by
the lock; the warriors of Dunrommath fled. The arrows
of Morven pursued them: ten fell on the mossy rocks.
The rest lift the sounding sail, and bound on the troubled
deep. Gaul advanced towards the cave of Oithona.
He beheld a youth leaning on a rock. An arrow had
pierced his side; his eye rolled faintly beneath his
helmet. The soul of Morni's son was sad, he came and
spoke the words of peace.
"Can the hand of Gaul heal thee, youth of the
mournful brow? I have searched for the herbs of the
mountains; I have gathered them on the secret banks of
their streams. My hand has closed the wound of the
brave, their eyes have blessed the son of Morni. Where
dwelt thy fathers, warrior? Were they of the sons of
the mighty? Sadness shall come, like night, on thy
native streams. Thou art fallen in thy youth!"
"My fathers," replied the stranger, were of the race
of the mighty; but they shall not be sad; for my fame
is departed like morning mist. High walls rise on the
banks of Duvranna; and see their mossy towers in the
stream; a rock ascends behind them with its bending
pines. Thou mayst behold it far distant. There my
CC
OITHONA.
93
brother dwells. He is renowned in battle: give him
this glittering helm."
The helmet fell from the hand of Gaul. It was the
wounded Oithona! She had armed herself in the cave,
and came in search of death. Her heavy eyes are half
closed; the blood pours from her heaving side. "Son
of Morni!" she said, "prepare the narrow tomb.
Sleep grows, like darkness, on my soul. The eyes of
Oithona are dim! O had I dwelt at Duvranna, in the
bright beam of my fame! then had my years come on
with joy; the virgins would then bless my steps. But I
fall in youth, son of Morni! my father shall blush in his
hall!"
She fell pale on the rock of Tromáthon. The mourn-
ful warrior raised her tomb. He came to Morven; we
saw the darkness of his soul. Ossian took the harp
in the praise of Oithona. The brightness of the face
of Gaul returned. But his sigh rose, at times, in
the midst of his friends; like blasts that shake their
unfrequent wings, after the stormy winds are laid!
:
CROMA: A POEM
ARGUMENT.
•
MALVINA the daughter of Toscar is overheard by Ossian
lamenting the death of Oscar her lover. Ossian, to divert
her grief, relates his own actions in an expedition which he
undertook at Fingal's command, to aid Crothar the petty
king of Croma, a country in Ireland, against Rothmar who
invaded his dominions. The story is delivered down thus
in tradition. Crothar king of Croma being blind with age,
and his son too young for the field, Rothmar the chief of
Tromlo resolved to avail himself of the opportunity offered of
annexing the dominions of Crothar to his own. He accord-
ingly marched into the country subject to Crothar, but which
he held of Arth or Artho, who was, at the time, supreme
king of Ireland.
Crothar being, on account of his age and blindness, unfit
for action, sent for aid to Fingal king of Scotland; who
ordered his son Ossian to the relief of Crothar. But before
his arrival Fovargormo, the son of Crothar, attacking Roth-
mar, was slain himself, and his forces totally defeated.
Ossian renewed the war; came to battle, killed Rothmar, and
routed his army. Cromo being thus delivered of its enemies,
Ossian returned to Scotland.
CROMA: A POEM.
"
IT
T was the voice of my love! seldom art thou in the
dreams of Malvina! Open your airy halls, O
fathers of Toscar of shields ! Unfold the gates of your
clouds: the steps of Malvina are near. I have heard a
voice in my dream. I feel the fluttering of my soul.
Why didst thou come, O blast! from the dark-rolling
face of the lake? Thy rustling wing was in the tree;
the dream of Malvina fled. But she beheld her love,
when his robe of mist flew on the wind. A sun-beam
was on his skirts, they glittered like the gold of the
stranger. It was the voice of my love! seldom comes he
to my dreams !"
"But thou dwellest in the soul of Malvina, son of
mighty Ossian! My sighs arise with the beam of the
east; my tears descend with the drops of night. I was
a lovely tree, in thy presence, Oscar, with all my
branches around me; but thy death came like a blast
from the desert, and laid my green head low. The
spring returned with its showers; no leaf of mine arose !
The virgins saw me silent in the hall; they touched the
harp of joy. The tear was on the cheek of Malvina: the
422
98
CROMA.
virgins beheld me in my grief. Why art thou sad? they
said; thou first of the maids of Lutha! Was he lovely
as the beam of the morning, and stately in thy sight?"
Pleasant is thy song in Ossian's ear, daughter of
streamy Lutha! Thou hast heard the music of departed
bards, in the dream of thy rest, when sleep fell on thine
eyes, at the murmur of Moruth. When thou didst
return from the chase, in the day of the sun, thou hast
heard the music of bards, and thy song is lovely! It is
lovely, O Malvina ! but it melts the soul. There is a joy
in grief when peace dwells in the breast of the sad. But
sorrow wastes the mournful, O daughter of Toscar! and
their days are few! They fall away, like the flower on
which the sun hath looked in his strength after the
mildew has passed over it, when its head is heavy with
the drops of night. Attend to the tale of Ossian, O
maid! He remembers the days of his youth !
The king commanded; I raised my sails, and rushed
into the bay of Croma; into Croma's sounding bay in
lovely Inisfail.*
High on the coast arose the towers of
Crothar king of spears; Crothar renowned in the battles
of his youth; but age dwelt then around the chief.
Rothmar had raised the sword against the hero; and the
wrath of Fingal burned. He sent Ossian to meet
Rothmar in war, for the chief of Croma was the friend of
his youth. I sent the bard before me with songs. I
came into the hall of Crothar. There sat the chief amidst
the arms of his fathers, but his eyes had failed. His grey
* One of the ancient names of Ireland.
CROMA.
99
locks waved around a staff, on which the warrior leaned.
He hummed the song of other times, when the sound of
our arms reached his ears. Crothar rose, stretched his
aged hand, and blessed the son of Fingal.
"Ossian !" said the hero, "the strength of Crothar's
arm has failed, O could I lift the sword, as on the day
that Fingal fought at Strutha! He was the first of men!
but Crothar had also his fame. The king of Morven
praised me; he placed on my arm the bossy shield of
Calthar, whom the king had slain in his wars. Dost thou
not behold it on the wall? for Crothar's eyes have failed.
Is thy strength, like thy fathers, Ossian? let the aged feel
thine arm !"
I gave my arm to the king; he felt it with his aged
hands. The sigh rose in his breast, and his tears came
down, "Thou art strong, my son," he said, “but not
like the king of Morven ! But who is like the hero among
the mighty in war! let the feast of my hall be spread;
and let my bards exalt the song. Great is he that is
within my walls, ye sons of echoing Croma!" The
feast is spread. The harp is heard; and joy is in the
hall. But it was joy covering a sigh, that darkly dwelt
in every breast.
It was like the faint beam of the moon
spread on a cloud in heaven. At length the music
ceased, and the aged king of Croma spoke; he spoke
without a tear, but sorrow swelled in the midst of his
voice.
"Son of Fingal! behold'st thou not the darkness of
Crothar's joy? My soul was not sad at the feast, when
my people lived before me. I rejoiced in the presence of
100
CROMA.
strangers, when my son shone in the hall. But, Ossian,
he is a beam that is departed. He left no streak of
light behind. He is fallen, son of Fingal! in the wars
of his father. Rothmar the chief of grassy Tromlo
heard that these eyes had failed; he heard that my arms
were fixed in the hall, and the pride of his soul arose !
He came towards Croma; my people fell before him.
I took my arms in my wrath, but what could sightless
Crothar do? My steps were unequal; my grief was
great. I wished for the days that were past. Days!
wherein I fought; and won in the field of blood. My
son returned from the chase; the fair-haired Fovar-
gormo. He had not lifted his sword in battle, for his
arm was young. But the soul of the youth was great;
the fire of valour burnt in his eyes. He saw the dis-
ordered steps of his father, and his sigh arose. 'King
of Croma," he said, "is it because thou hast no son; is
it for the weakness of Fovar-gormo's arm that thy sighs
arise? I begin, my father, to feel my strength; I have
drawn the sword of my youth; and I have bent the
bow. Let me meet this Rothmar, with the sons of
Croma: let me meet him, O my father! I feel my
burning soul!” "And thou shalt meet him," I said,
"son of the sightless Crothar! But let others advance
before thee, that I may hear the tread of thy feet at thy
return; for my eyes behold thee not, fair-haired Fovar-
gormo!" He went, he met the foe; he fell. Rothmar
advances to Croma. He who slew my son is near, with
all his pointed spears."
..
"This is no time to fill the shell," I replied, and took
CROMA.
101
my spear! My people saw the fire of my eyes; they all
arose around. Through night we strode along the heath.
Grey morning rose in the east. A green narrow vale
appeared before us; nor wanting was its winding stream.
The dark host of Rothmar are on its banks, with all
their glittering arms. We fought along the vale. They
fled. Rothmar sunk beneath my sword! Day had not
descended in the west, when I brought his arms to
Crothar. The aged hero felt them with his hands; and
joy brightened over all his thoughts.
The people gather to the hall. The shells of the
feast are heard. Ten harps are strung; five bards
advance, and sing, by turns,* the praise of Ossian; they
poured forth their burning souls, and the string answered
to their voice. The joy of Croma was great: for peace
returned to the land. The night came on with silence;
the morning returned with joy. No foe came in dark-
ness, with his glittering spear. The joy of Croma was
great; for the gloomy Rothmar had fallen!
I raised my voice for Fovar-gormo, when they laid the
chief in earth. The aged Crothar was there, but his
sigh was not heard. He searched for the wound of his
son, and found it in his breast. Joy rose in the face of
the aged. He came and spoke to Ossian. "King of
spears!" he said, "my son has not fallen without his
fame. The young warrior did not fly; but met death, as
he went forward in his strength. Happy are they who
die in youth, when their renown is heard! The feeble
* Those extempore compositions were in great repute among
succeeding bards.
102
CROMA.
will not behold them in the hall; or smile at their
trembling hands. Their memory shall be honoured in
song; the young tear of the virgin will fall. But the
aged wither away, by degrees; the fame of their youth,
while yet they live, is all forgot. They fall in secret.
The sigh of their son is not heard. Joy is around their
tomb; the stone of their fame is placed without a tear.
Happy are they who die in youth, when their renown is
around them!"
CALTHON and COLMAL: A POEM.
ARGUMENT.
THIS piece, as many more of Ossian's compositions, is addressed
to one of the first Christian missionaries. The story of the
poem is handed down, by tradition, thus: In the country of
the Britons between the walls, two chiefs lived in the days of
Fingal, Dunthalmo, lord of Teutha, supposed to be the
Tweed; and Rathmor, who dwelt at Clutha, well known to
be the river Clyde. Rathmor was not more renowned for
his generosity and hospitality, than Dunthalmo was infamous
for his cruelty and ambition. Dunthalmo, through envy, or
on account of some private feuds, which subsisted between
the families, murdered Rathmor at a feast; but being after.
wards touched with remorse, he educated the two sons of
Rathmor, Calthon and Colmar, in his own house. They
growing up to man's estate, dropped some hints that they
intended to revenge the death of their father, upon which
Dunthalmo shut them up in two caves on the banks of Teutha,
intending to take them off privately. Colmal, the daughter of
Dunthalmo, who was secretly in love with Calthon, helped
him to make his escape from prison, and fled with him to
Fingal, disguised in the habit of a young warrior, and
implored his aid against Dunthalmo. Fingal sent Ossian with
three hundred men to Colmar's relief. Dunthalmo having
previously murdered Colmar, came to a battle with Ossian;
but he was killed by that hero, and his army totally defeated.
Calthon married Colmal, his deliverer; and Ossian
returned to Morven.
CALTHON AND COLMAL:
A POEM.
PLEASANT
is the voice of thy song, thou lonely
dweller of the rock! It comes on the sound of the
stream, along the narrow vale. My soul awakes, O
stranger! in the midst of my hall. I stretch my hand to
the spear, as in the days of other years.
I stretch my
hand, but it is feeble; and the sigh of my bosom grows.
Wilt thou not listen, son of the rock! to the song of
Ossian? My soul is full of other times; the joy of my
youth returns. Thus the sun appears in the west, after
the steps of his brightness have moved behind a storm:
the green hills lift their dewy heads; the blue streams re-
joice in the vale. The aged hero comes forth on his staff;
his grey hair glitters in the beam. Dost thou not behold,
son of the rock! a shield in Ossian's hall? It is marked
with the strokes of battle; and the brightness of its bosses
has failed. That shield the great Dunthalmo bore, the
chief of streamy Teutha. Dunthalmo bore it in battle,
before he fell by Ossian's spear.
to the tale of other years!
Listen, son of the rock!
Rathmor was a chief of Clutha. The feeble dwelt in
his hall. The gates of Rathmor were never shut; his
106
CALTHON AND COLMAL.
:
feasts were always spread. The sons of the stranger
came. They blessed the generous chief of Clutha. Bards
raised the song, and touched the harp joy brightened on
the face of the sad! Dunthalmo came, in his pride, and
rushed into the combat of Rathmor. The chief of Clutha
overcame the rage of Dunthalmo rose.
:
He came, by
night, with his warriors; the mighty Rathmor fell. He
fell in his halls, where the feast was often spread for
strangers.
Colmar and Calthon were young, the sons of car-borne
Rothmar. They came, in the joy of youth, into their
father's hall. They behold him in his blood; their
bursting tears descend. The soul of Dunthalmo melted,
when he saw the children of youth. He brought them to
Alteutha's* walls; they grew in the house of their foe.
They bent the bow in his presence; and came forth to
his wars. They saw the fallen walls of their fathers; they
saw the green thorn in the hall. Their tears rushed forth
in secret. At times their faces were sad. Dunthalmo
beheld their grief: his darkening soul designed their
death. He closed them in two caves, on the echoing
banks of Teutha. The sun did not come there with
his beams; nor the moon of heaven by night. The sons
of Rathmor remained in darkness, and foresaw their
death.
The daughter of Dunthalmo wept in silence, the fair-
haired, blue-eyed Colmal. Her eye had rolled in secret
on Calthon; his loveliness swelled in her soul. She
* The town of Tweed, the name of Dunthalmo's seat.
CALTHON AND COLMAL.
107
trembled for her warrior; but what could Colmal do?
Her arm could not lift the spear; nor was the sword
formed for her side. Her white breast never rose beneath
a mail. Neither was her eye the terror of heroes. What
canst thou do, O Colmal! for the falling chief? Her
steps are unequal; her hair is loose her eye looks
wildly through her tears. She came, by night, to the
hall. She armed her lovely form in steel; the steel of a
young warrior, who fell in the first of his battles. She
came to the cave of Calthon, and loosed the thong from
his hands.
:
"Arise, son of Rathmor," she said, "arise, the night
is dark! Let us fly to the king of Selma, chief of fallen
Clutha ! I am the son of Lamgal, who dwelt in thy
father's hall. I heard of thy dark dwelling in the cave,
and my soul arose. Arise, son of Rathmor, arise, the
night is dark!" "Blest voice!" replied the chief,
(C
comest thou from the clouds to Calthon? The ghosts
of his fathers have often descended in his dreams, since
the sun has retired from his eyes, and darkness has dwelt
around him. Or art thou the son of Lamgal, the chief
I often saw in Clutha? But shall I fly to Fingal, and
Colmar my brother low?
brother low? Will I fly to Morven, and the
hero closed in night? No; give me that spear, son of
Lamgal, Calthon will defend his brother!
""
"A thousand warriors," replied the maid,
"stretch
their spears round car-borne Colmar. What can Calthon
do against a host so great? Let us fly to the king of
Morven, he will come with war. His arm is stretched
forth to the unhappy; the lightning of his sword is round
108
CALTHON AND COLMAL.
the weak. Arise, thou son of Rathmor! the shadows
will fly away. Arise, or thy steps may be seen, and thou
must fall in youth!"
The sighing hero rose; his tears descend for car-borne
Colmar. He came with the maid to Selma's hall; but
he knew not that it was Colmal. The helmet covered
her lovely face. Her bosom heaved beneath the steel.
Fingal returned from the chase, and found the lovely
strangers. They were like two beams of light, in the
midst of the hall of shells. The king heard the tale of
grief; and turned his eyes around. A thousand heroes
half-rose before him; claiming the war of Teutha.
came with my spear from the hill; the joy of battle rose
in my breast for the king spoke to Ossian in the midst
of a thousand chiefs.
I
'Son of my strength," began the king, "take thou
the spear of Fingal. Go to Teutha's rushing stream, and
save the car-borne Colmar. Let thy fame return before
thee like a pleasant gale; that my soul may rejoice over
my son, who renews the renown of our fathers. Ossian !
be thou a storm in war; but mild when the foe is low!
It was thus my fame arose, O my son! be thou like
Selma's chief. When the haughty come to my halls, my
eyes behold them not. But my arm is stretched forth to
the unhappy. My sword defends the weak."
I rejoiced in the words of the king. I took my rattling
arms. Diaran* rose at my side, and Dargo king of
spears.
Three hundred youths followed our steps: the
* Diaran, father of that Connal who was unfortunately killed
by Crimora, his mistress.
CALTHON AND COLMAL.
Tog
lovely strangers were at my side. Dunthalmo heard the
sound of our approach. He gathered the strength of
Teutha. He stood on a hill with his host. They were
like rocks broken with thunder, when their bent trees are
singed and bare, and the streams of their chinks have
failed. The stream of Teutha rolled, in its pride, before
the gloomy foe. I sent a bard to Dunthalmo, to offer the
combat on the plain; but he smiled in the darkness of
his pride. His unsettled host moved on the hill; like
the mountain-cloud, when the blast has entered its womb,
and scatters the curling gloom on every side.
They brought Colmar to Teutha's bank, bound with a
thousand thongs. The chief is sad, but stately. His
eye is on his friends; for we stood, in our arms, whilst
Teutha's waters rolled between. Dunthalmo came with
his spear, and pierced the hero's side: he rolled on the
bank in his blood. We heard his broken sighs. Calthon
rushed into the stream: I bounded forward on my spear.
Teutha's race fell before us. Night came rolling down.
Dunthalmo rested on a rock, amidst an aged wood. The
rage of his bosom burned against the car-borne Calthon.
But Calthon stood in his grief; he mourned the fallen
Colmar; Colmar slain in youth, before his fame arose !
I bade the song of woe to rise, to soothe the mournful
chief; but he stood beneath a tree, and often threw his
spear on earth. The humid eye of Colmal rolled near in
a secret tear she foresaw the fall of Dunthalmo, or of
Clutha's warlike chief. Now half the night had passed
away. Silence and darkness were on the field. Sleep
rested on the eyes of the heroes; Calthon's settling soul
I10
CALTHON AND COLMAL.
was still.
His eyes were half-closed; but the murmur of
Teutha had not yet failed in his ear. Pale, and shewing
his wounds, the ghost of Colmar came: he bent his head
over the hero, and raised his feeble voice!
"Sleeps the son of Rathmor in his night, and his
brother low? Did we not rise to the chase together?
Pursued we not the dark-brown hinds? Colmar was
not forgot till he fell : till death had blasted his youth.
I lie pale beneath the rock of Lona. O let Calthon rise!
the morning comes with its beams; Dunthalmo will
dishonour the fallen." He passed away in his blast.
The rising Calthon saw the steps of his departure. He
rushed in the sound of his steel. Unhappy Colmal rose.
She followed her hero through night, and dragged her
spear behind.
But when Calthon came to Lona's rock,
he found his fallen brother.
he rushed among the foe.
They close around the chief.
and brought to gloomy Dunthalmo.
arose; and the hills of night replied.
The rage of his bosom rose;
The groans of death ascend.
He is bound in the midst,
The shout of joy
""
I started at the sound: and took my father's spear.
Diaran rose at my side; and the youthful strength of
Dargo We missed the chief of Clutha, and our souls
were sad. I dreaded the departure of my fame. The
pride of my valour rose ! "Sons of Morven ! I said,
"it is not thus our fathers fought. They rested not on
the field of strangers, when the foe was not fallen before
them. Their strength was like the eagles of heaven;
their renown is in the song. But our people fall by
degrees. Our fame begins to depart. What shall the
CALTHON AND COLMAL.
III
king of Morven say, if Ossian conquers not at Teutha?
Rise in your steel, ye warriors! follow the sound of
Ossian's course. He will not return, but renowned, to
the echoing walls of Selma."
Morning rose on the blue waters of Teutha. Colmal
stood before me in tears. She told of the chief of
Clutha thrice the spear fell from her hand. My wrath
turned against the stranger; for my soul trembled for
Calthon. "Son of the feeble hand!" I said, "do
Teutha's warriors fight with tears? The battle is not won
with grief; nor dwells the sigh in the soul of war. Go
to the deer of Carmun, to the lowing herds of Teutha.
But leave these arms, thou son of fear! A warrior may
lift them in fight."
I tore the mail from her shoulders. Her snowy breast
appeared. She bent her blushing face to the ground. I
looked in silence to the chiefs. The spear fell from my
hand; the sigh of my bosom rose! But when I heard
the name of the maid, my crowding tears rushed down.
I blessed the lovely beam of youth, and bade the battle
move!
Why, son of the rock, should Ossian tell how Teutha's
warriors died? They are now forgot in their land:
their tombs are not found on the heath. Years came on
with their storms. The green mounds are mouldered
away. Scarce is the grave of Dunthalmo seen, or the
place where he fell by the spear of Ossian. Some grey
warrior, half blind with age, sitting by night at the
flaming oak of the hall, tells now my deeds to his sons,
and the fall of the dark Dunthalmo. The faces of youth
I 12
CALTHON AND COLMAL.
bend sidelong towards his voice. Surprise and joy burn
in their eyes!
I found Calthon bound to an oak; my
sword cut the thongs from his hands. I gave him the
white-bosomed Colmal. They dwelt in the balls of
Teutha
THE WAR OF CAROS: A POEM
423
ARGUMENT.
CAROS is probably the noted usurper Carausius, by birth a
Menapian, who assumed the purple in 284: and, seizing on
Britain, defeated the Emperor Maximian Herculius in several
naval engagements, which gives propriety to his being called
in this poem the king of ships. He repaired Agricola's wall,
in order to obstruct the incursions of the Caledonians; and
when he was employed in that work, it appears he was
attacked by a party under the command of Oscar the son of
Ossian. This battle is the foundation of the present poem,
which is addressed to Malvina the daughter of Toscar.
THE WAR OF CAROS ;
A POEM.
RING, daughter of Toscar! bring the harp! the
light of the song rises in Ossian's soul! It is like
the field, when darkness covers the hills around, and the
shadow grows slowly on the plain of the sun. I behold
my son, O Malvina ! near the mossy rock of Crona. But
it is the mist of the desert, tinged with the beam of the
west. Lovely is the mist, that assumes the form of
Oscar! turn from it, ye winds, when ye roar on the side
of Ardven!
Who comes towards my son, with the murmur of a
song? His staff is in his hand, his grey hair loose on the
wind. Surly joy lightens his face. He often looks back
to Caros. It is Ryno* of songs, he that went to view
the foe. "What does Caros king of ships ?" said the son
of the now mournful Ossian, "spreads he the wingst of
his pride, bard of the times of old!"
"He spreads
them, Oscar," replied the bard, "but it is behind his
gathered heap. He looks over his stones with fear. He
beholds thee terrible, as the ghost of night, that rolls the
wave to his ships! "
* A bard.
+ The Roman eagle.
Agricola's wall, which Carausius repaired.
116
THE WAR OF CAROS.
"Go, thou first of my bards!" says Oscar, "take the
spear of Fingal. Fix a flame on its point. Shake it to
the winds of heaven. Bid him, in songs, to advance, and
leave the rolling of his wave. Tell to Caros that I long
for battle; that my bow is weary of the chase of Cona.
Tell him the mighty are not here; and that my arm is
young."
He went with the murmur of songs. Oscar reared his
voice on high. It reached his heroes on Ardven, like the
noise of a cave; when the sea of Togorma rolls before it ;
and its trees meet the roaring winds. They gather round
my son like the streams of the hill; when, after rain,
they roll in the pride of their course. Ryno came to the
mighty Caros. He struck his flaming spear. Come to
the battle of Oscar, O thou that sittest on the rolling of
waves! Fingal is distant far; he hears the songs of bards
in Morven: the wind of his hall is in his hair. His terrible
spear is at his side; his shield that is like the darkened
moon ! Come to the battle of Oscar; the hero is alone.
He came not over the streamy Carun.* The bard
returned with his song. Grey night grows dim on Crona.
The feast of shells is spread. A hundred oaks burn to
the wind; faint light gleams over the heath. The ghosts
of Ardven pass through the beam, and shew their dim
and distant forms. Comalat is half unseen on her
meteor; Hidallan is sullen and dim, like the darkened
moon behind the mist of night.
66
Why art thou sad?" said Ryno; for he alone
* The river Carron. † This is the scene of Comala's death
THE WAR OF CAROS.
117
beheld the chief. "Why art thou sad, Hidallan! hast
thou not received thy fame? The songs of Ossian have
been heard; thy ghost has brightened in wind, when
thou didst bend from thy cloud, to hear the song of
Morven's bard!” "And do thine eyes," said Oscar,
"behold the chief, like the dim meteor of night? Say,
Ryno, say, how fell Hidallan, the renowned in the days
of my fathers? His name remains on the rocks of Cona.
I have often seen the streams of his hills !"
Fingal, replied the bard, drove Hidallan from his
wars. The king's soul was sad for Comala, and his eyes
could not behold the chief. Lonely, sad along the
heath, he slowly moved, with silent steps. His arms
hang disordered on his side. His hair flies loose from
his brow. The tear is in his downcast eyes; a sigh
half-silent in his breast! Three days he strayed unseen,
alone, before he came to Lamor's halls: the mossy halls
of his fathers, at the stream of Balva. There Lamor sat
alone beneath a tree; for he had sent his people with
Hidallan to war. The stream ran at his feet, his grey
head rested on his staff. Sightless are his aged eyes.
He hums the song of other times. The noise of Hidal-
lan's feet came to his ear: he knew the tread of his son.
"Is the son of Lamor returned; or is it the sound of
his ghost? Hast thou fallen on the banks of Carun, son
of the aged Lamor? Or, if I hear the sound of
Hidallan's feet; where are the mighty in the war?
where are my people, Hidallan! that were wont to return
with their echoing shields? Have they fallen on the
banks of Carun ?”
118
THE WAR OF CAROS.
""
"No:" replied the sighing youth, 'the people of
Lamor live. They are renowned in war, my father!
but Hidallan is renowned no more. I must sit alone on
the banks of Balva, when the roar of the battle grows.'
"But thy fathers never sat alone," replied the rising
pride of Lamor. They never sat alone on the banks
of Balva, when the roar of battle rose. Dost thou not
behold that tomb? My eyes discern it not; there rests
the noble Garmállon, who never fled from war! Come,
thou renowned in battle, he says, come to thy father's
tomb. How am I renowned, G .rmállon? my son has
Aed from war! ""
"
"King of the streamy Balva!" said Hidallan with a
sigh, "why dost thou torment my soul? Lamor, I never
fled. Fingal was sad for Comala; he denied his wars to
Hidallan. Go to the grey streams of thy land, he said;
moulder like a leafless oak, which the winds have bent
over Balva, never more to grow!"
"And must I hear," Lamor replied,
"the lonely
tread of Hidallan's feet? When thousands are renowned
in battle, shall he bend over my grey streams? Spirit of
the noble Garmállon? carry Lamor to his place; his
eyes are dark; his soul is sad; his son has lost his
fame !"
((
'Where," said the youth, "shall I search for fame to
gladden the soul of Lamor? From whence shall I
return with renown, that the sound of my arms may be
pleasant in his ear? If I go to the chase of hinds, my
name will not be heard. Lamor will not feel my dogs,
with his hands, glad at my arrival from the hill. He will
THE WAR OF CAROS.
119
not inquire of his mountains, or of the dark-brown deer
of his deserts!"
"C
I must fall," said Lamor, "like a leafless oak; it
grew on a rock! it was overturned by the winds! My
ghost will be seen on my hills, mournful for my young
Hidallan. Will not ye, ye mists! as ye rise, hide him
from my sight? My son! go to Lamor's hall there
the arms of our fathers hang. Bring the sword of Gar-
mállon; he took it from a foe!"
He went and brought the sword with all its studded
thongs. He gave it to his father. The grey-haired hero
felt the point with his hand.
'My son lead me to Garmállon's tomb: it rises
beside that rustling tree. The long grass is withered; I
hear the breezes whistling there. A little fountain mur-
murs near, and sends its water to Balva. There let me
rest; it is noon: the sun is on our fields!"
He led him to Garmállon's tomb. Lamor pierced the
They sleep together: their ancient halls
side of his son.
moulder away. Ghosts are seen there at noon: the
valley is silent, and the people shun the place of Lamor.
"Mournful is thy tale," said Oscar, " son of the times
of old! My soul sighs for Hidallan; he fell in the days
of his youth. He flies on the blast of the desert, his
wandering is in a foreign land. Sons of the echoing
Morven! draw near to the foes of Fingal. Send the
night away in songs; watch the strength of Caros.
Oscar goes to the people of other times; to the shades of
silent Ardven; where his fathers sit dim in their clouds,
and behold the future war. And art thou there, Hidallan,
120
THE WAR OF CAROS.
like a half-extinguished meteor? Come to my sight, in
thy sorrow, chief of the winding Balva !"
The heroes move with their songs. Oscar slowly
ascends the hill. The meteors of night set on the heath
before him. A distant torrent faintly roars. Unfrequent
blasts rush through aged oaks. The half-enlightened
moon sinks dim and red behind her hill. Feeble voices
are heard on the heath. Oscar drew his sword!
(6
Come," said the hero, "O ye ghosts of my fathers !
ye that fought against the kings of the world! Tell me
the deeds of future times; and your converse in your
caves; when you talk together, and behold your sons in
the fields of the brave."
Trenmor came, from his hill, at the voice of his mighty
son. A cloud, like the steed of the stranger, supported
his airy limbs. His robe is of the mist of Lano, that
brings death to the people. His sword is a green meteor
half-extinguished. His face is without form, and dark.
He sighed thrice over the hero : thrice the winds of night
roared around! Many were his words to Oscar; but
they only came by halves to our ears: they were dark as
the tales of other times, before the light of the song arose.
He slowly vanished, like a mist that melts on the sunny
hill. It was then, O daughter of Toscar ! my son began
first to be sad. He foresaw the fall of his race. At
times, he was thoughtful and dark; like the sun when he
carries a cloud on his face, but again he looks forth from
his darkness on the green hills of Cona.
Oscar passed the night among his fathers, grey morning
met him on Carun's banks. A green vale surrounded a
THE WAR OF CAROS.
121
tomb which arose in the times of old. Little hills lift
their head at a distance: and stretch their old trees to
the wind. The warriors of Caros sat there, for they had
passed the stream by night. They appeared, like the
trunks of aged pines, to the pale light of the morning.
Oscar stood at the tomb, and raised thrice his terrible
voice. The rocking hills echoed around; the starting
roes bounded away: And the trembling ghosts of the
dead fled, shrieking on their clouds. So terrible was the
voice of my son, when he called his friends!
A thousand spears arose around; the people of Caros
rose. Why, daughter of Toscar, why that tear? My
son, though alone, is brave. Oscar is like a beam of the
sky; he turns around, and the people fall. His hand is
the arm of a ghost, when he stretches it from a cloud;
the rest of his thin form is unseen; but the people die in
the vale! My son beheld the approach of the foe; he
stood in the silent darkness of his strength.
"Am I
alone," said Oscar, "in the midst of a thousand foes?
Many a spear is there! many a darkly-rolling eye! Shall
I fly to Ardven? But did my fathers ever fly? The
mark of their arm is in a thousand battles. Oscar too
shall be renowned! Come, ye dim ghosts of my fathers,
and behold my deeds in war! I may fall; but I will be
renowned like the race of the echoing Morven." He
stood, growing in his place, like a flood in a narrow vale!
The battle came, but they fell: bloody was the sword of
Oscar !
The noise reached his people at Crona; they came like
a hundred streams. The warriors of Caros fled; Oscar
122
THE WAR OF CAROS.
remained like a rock left by the ebbing sea. Now dark
and deep, with all his steeds, Caros rolled his might
along the little streams are lost in his course; the earth
rocking round. Battle spreads from wing to wing: ten
thousand swords gleam at once in the sky. But why
should Ossian sing of battles? For never more shall my
steel shine in war. I remember the days of my youth
with grief; when I feel the weakness of my arm. Happy
are they who fell in their youth, in the midst of their
renown! They have not beheld the tombs of their friend;
or failed to bend the bow of their strength. Happy art
thou, O Oscar, in the midst of thy rushing blast. Thou
often goest to the fields of thy fame, where Caros fled
from thy lifted sword.
Darkness comes on my soul, O fair daughter of Toscar!
I behold not the form of my son at Carun; nor the figure
of Oscar on Crona. The rustling winds have carried
him far away; and the heart of his father is sad. But
lead me, O Malvina! to the sound of my woods; to the
roar of my mountain streams. Let the chase be heard
on Cona; let me think on the days of other years. And
bring me the harp, O maid! that I may touch it, when
the light of my soul shall arise. Be thou near, to learn
the song; future times shall hear of me! The sons of
the feeble hereafter will lift the voice on Cona; and,
looking up to the rocks, say, "Here Ossian dwelt. They
shall admire the chiefs of old, the race that are no more!
while we ride on our clouds, Malvina! on the wings of
the roaring winds. Our voices shall be heard, at times,
in the desert; we shall sing on the breeze of the rock.
>>
CATHLIN OF CLUTHA: A POEM.
ARGUMENT.
AN address to Malvina, the daughter of Toscar. The poet
relates the arrival of Cathlin in Selma, to solicit aid against
Duth-carmor of Cluba, who had killed Cathmol, for the sake
of his daughter Lanŭl. Fingal declining to make a choice
among his heroes, who were all claiming the command of the
expedition; they retired each to his hill of ghosts; to be
determined by dreams. The spirit of Trenmor appears to
Ossian and Oscar: they sail, from the bay of Carmona, and,
on the fourth day, appear off the valley of Rathcol, in Inis-
huna, where Duth-carmor had fixed his residence. Ossian
dispatches a bard to Duth-carmor to demand battle. Night
comes on. The distress of Cathlin of Clutha. Ossian devolves
the command on Oscar, who, according to the custom of the
kings of Morven, before battle, retired to a neighbouring hill.
Upon the coming on of day, the battle joins. Oscar and
Duth-carmor meet. The latter falls. Oscar carries the mail
and helmet of Duth-carmor to Cathlin, who had retired from
the field. Cathlin is discovered to be the daughter of Cath-
mol, in disguise, who had been carried off, by force, by, and
had made her escape from, Duth-carmor,
CATHLIN OF CLUTHA:
A POEM.
OME,* thou_beam that art lonely, from watching in
the night! The squally winds are around thee,
from all their echoing hills. Red, over thy hundred
streams, are the light-covered paths of the dead. They
rejoice, on the eddying winds, in the season of night.
Dwells there no joy in song, white hand of the harps of
Lutha? Awake the voice of the string; roll my soul to
It is a stream that has failed. Malvina, pour the
me.
song.
I hear thee, from thy darkness, in Selma, thou that
watchest, lonely, by night! Why didst thou withhold
the song, from Ossian's failing soul? As the falling brook
to the ear of the hunter, descending from his storm-
covered hill; in a sunbeam rolls the echoing stream; he
hears, and shakes his dewy locks: such is the voice of
Lutha, to the friend of the spirits of heroes. My swelling
bosom beats high. I look back on the days that are past.
The traditions, which accompany this poem, inform us, that
it went, of old, under the name of Laoi-Oi-lutha; i.e., the hymn
of the maid of Lutha,
126
CATHLIN OF CLUTHA.
Come, thou beam that art lonely, from watching in the
night!
In the echoing bay of Carmona* we saw, one day, the
bounding ship. On high, hung a broken shield; it was
marked with wandering blood. Forward came a youth,
in arms, and stretched his pointless spear. Long, over
his tearful eyes, hung loose his disordered locks. Fingal
gave the shell of kings. The words of the stranger arose.
"In his hall lies Cathmol of Clutha, by the winding of
his own dark streams. Duth-carmor saw white-bosomed
Lanul, and pierced her father's side. In the rushy desert
were my steps. He fled in the season of night. Give
thine aid to Cathlin to revenge his father. I sought thee
not as a beam, in a land of clouds. Thou, like the sun,
art known, king of echoing Selma !
"
Selma's king looked around. In his presence, we rose
in arms.
But who should lift the shield? for all had
claimed the war. The night came down ; we strode, in
silence; each to his hill of ghosts: that spirits might
descend, in our dreams, to mark us for the field. We
struck the shield of the dead: we raised the hum of songs.
We thrice called the ghosts of our fathers. We laid us
* Car-mona, bay of the dark brown hills, an arm of the sea, in
the neighbourhood of Selma. In this paragraph are mentioned
the signals presented to Fingal, by those who came to demand
his aid. The suppliants held, in one hand, a shield covered with
blood, and, in the other, a broken spear; the first a symbol of
the death of their friends, the last an emblem of their own
helpless situation. If the king chose to grant succours, which
generally was the case, he reached to them the shell of feasts, as
a token of his hospitality and friendly intentions towards them.
CATHLIN OF CLUTHA.
127
down in dreams. Trenmor came, before mine eyes, the
tall form of other years His blue hosts were behind him
in half-distinguished rows. Scarce seen is their strife in
mist, or their stretching forward to deaths. I listened ;
but no sound was there. The forms were empty wind!
I started from the dream of ghosts. On a sudden blast
flew my whistling hair. Low-sounding, in the oak, is
the departure of the dead. I took my shield from its
bough. Onward came the rattling of steel.
It was
Oscar* of Lego. He had seen his fathers. "As rushes
forth the blast, on the bosom of whitening waves; so
careless shall my course be, through ocean, to the dwelling
of foes. I have seen the dead, my father! My beating
soul is high! My fame is bright before me, like the streak
of light on a cloud, when the broad sun comes forth, red
traveller of the sky!"
"Grandson of Branno," I said, "not Oscar alone shall
meet the foe. I rush forward, through ocean, to the
woody dwelling of heroes. Let us contend, my son, like
eagles, from one rock; when they lift their broad wings,
against the stream of winds." We raised our sails in
Carmona. From three ships, they marked my shield on
the wave, as I looked on nightly Ton-thena,† red traveller
between the clouds. Four days came the breeze abroad.
* Oscar is here called Oscar of Lego, from his mother being
the daughter of Branno, a powerful chief, on the banks of that
lake. It is remarkable that Ossian addresses no poem to Mal-
vina, in which her lover Oscar was not one of the principal
actors.
†The remarkable star mentioned in the seventh book of
Temora, which directed the course of Larthon to Ireland.
128
CATHLIN OF CLUTHA.
Lumon came forward in mist. In winds were its hundred
groves. Sunbeams marked, at times, its brown side.
White, leapt the foamy streams, from all its echoing
rocks.
A green field, in the bosom of hills, winds silent with
its own blue stream. Here, midst the waving of oaks,
were the dwellings of kings of old. But silence, for many
dark-brown years, had settled in grassy Rath-col; for the
race of heroes had failed, along the pleasant vale. Duth-
carmor was here, with his people, dark rider of the wave.
Ton-thena had hid her head in the sky. He bound his
white-bosomed sails. His course is on the hills of Rath-
col, to the seats of roes. We came. I sent the bard,
with songs, to call the foe to fight. Duth-carmor heard
him, with joy. The king's soul was like a beam of fire;
a beam of fire, marked with smoke, rushing, varied,
through the bosom of night. The deeds of Duth-carmor
were dark, though his arm was strong.
Night came, with the gathering of clouds. By the
beam of the oak we sat down. At a distance stood
Cathlin of Clutha. I saw the changeful soul of the
stranger. As shadows fly over the field of grass, so
various is Cathlin's cheek. It was fair, within locks, that
rose on Rath-col's wind. I did not rush, amidst his soul,
with my words. I bade the song to rise.
"Oscar of Lego," I said, "be thine the secret hill,*
* This passage alludes to the well-known custom among the
ancient kings of Scotland, to retire from their army on the
night preceding a battle. The story which Ossian introduces in
the next paragraph concerns the fall of the Druids.
CATHLIN OF CLUTHA.
129
to-night. Strike the shield, like Morven's kings. With
day, thou shalt lead in war. From my rock, I shall see
thee, Oscar, a dreadful form ascending in fight, like the
appearance of ghosts, amidst the storms they raise. Why
should mine eyes return to the dim times of old, ere yet
the song had bursted forth, like the sudden rising of
winds? But the years, that are past, are marked with
mighty deeds. As the nightly rider of waves looks up to
Tonthena of beams; so let us turn our eyes to Trenmor,
the father of kings."
"Wide, in Caracha's echoing field, Carmal had poured
his tribes. They were a dark ridge of waves.
The grey-
haired bards were like moving foam on their face. They
kindled the strife around, with their red-rolling eyes.
Nor alone were the dwellers of rocks; a son of Loda was
there; a voice, in his own dark land, to call the ghosts
from high. On his hill, he had dwelt, in Lochlin, in the
midst of a leafless grove. Five stones lifted, near, their
heads. Loud roared his rushing stream. He often
raised his voice to the winds, when meteors marked their
nightly wings; when the dark-robed moon was rolled
behind her hill. Nor unheard of ghosts was he! They
came with the sound of eagle wings. They turned battle,
in fields, before the kings of men.
But, Trenmor they turned not from battle. He drew
forward that troubled war; in its dark skirt was Trathal,
like a rising light. It was dark; and Loda's son poured
forth his signs, on night. The feeble were not before
thee, son of other lands! Then rose the strife of kings,
about the hill of night; but it was soft as two summer
CC
424
130
CATHLIN OF CLUTHA.
gales, shaking their light wings, on a lake. Trenmor
yielded to his son; for the fame of the king had been
heard. Trathal came forth before his father, and the
foes failed, in echoing Caracha. The years that are past,
my son, are marked with mighty deeds."
In clouds rose the eastern light. The foe came forth
in arms. The strife is mixed on Rath-col, like the roar
of streams. Behold the contending of kings! They
meet beside the oak. In gleams of steel the dark forms
are lost; such is the meeting of meteors, in a vale by
night red light is scattered round, and men foresee the
storm! Duth-carmor is low in blood! The son
of Ossian overcame ! Not harmless in battle was he,
Malvina, hand of harps?
Nor, in the field, were the steps of Cathlin. The
stranger stood by a secret stream, where the foam of
Rath-col skirted the mossy stones. Above, bends the
branchy birch, and strews its leaves, on wind. The
inverted spear of Cathlin touched, at times, the stream.
Oscar brought Duth-carmor's mail: his helmet with its
eagle wing. He placed them before the stranger, and
his words were heard. "The foes of thy father have
failed. They are laid in the field of ghosts. Renown
returns to Morven, like a rising wind. Why art thou
dark, chief of Clutha? Is there cause for grief?"
"Son of Ossian of herne, my soul is darkly sad. I
behold the arms of Cathmol, which he raised in war.
Take the mail of Cathlin, place it high in Selma's hall ;
that thou mayest remember the hapless in thy distant
land." From white breasts descended the mail.
It was
CATHLIN OF CLUTHA.
131
the race of kings; the soft-handed daughter of Cathmol,
at the streams of Clutha! Duth-carmor saw her bright
in the hall; he had come, by night, to Clutha. Cathmol
met him, in battle, but the hero fell. Three days dwelt
the foe, with the maid. On the fourth she fled in arms.
She remembered the race of kings, and felt her bursting
soul !
Why, maid of Toscar of Lutha, should I tell how
Cathlin failed? Her tomb is at rushy Lumon, in a
distant land.* Near it were the steps of Sul-malla, in the
days of grief. She raised the song, for the daughter of
strangers, and touched the mournful harp.
Come, from the watching of night, Malvina, lonely
beam!
* Mr. Campbell pointed out that the scene of this poem is on
the western bank of the river Bann, and that Lumon and
Rathcoll are both in the county of Derry.—E.-T.
SUL-MALLA of LUMON: A POEM.
ARGUMENT.
THIS poem, which, properly speaking, is a continuation of the
last, opens with an address to Sul-malla, the daughter of the
king of Inis-huna, whom Ossian met, at the chase, as he
returned from the battle of Rath-col. Sul-malla invites
Ossian and Oscar to a feast, at the residence of her father,
who was then absent in the wars. Upon hearing their name
and family, she relates an expedition of Fingal into Inis-huna.
She casually mentioning Cathmor, chief of Atha (who then
assisted her father against his enemies), Ossian introduces
the episode of Culgorm and Suran-dronlo, two Scandinavian
kings, in whose wars Ossian himself and Cathmor were
engaged on opposite sides. The story is imperfect, a
part of the original being lost. Ossian, warned in a dream.
by the ghost of Trenmor, sets sail from Inis-hung.
SUL-MALLA OF LUMON:
A POEM.
WHO
HO moves so stately, on Lumon, at the roar of
the foamy waters ? Her hair falls upon her
heaving breast. White is her arm behind, as slow she
bends the bow. Why dost thou wander in deserts, like
a light through a cloudy field? The young roes are
panting, by their secret rocks. Return, thou daughter of
kings! the cloudy night is near! It was the young branch
of green Inis-huna, Sul-malla of blue eyes. She sent
the bard from her rock, to bid us to her feast. Amidst
the song we sat down, in Cluba's echoing hall. White
moved the hands of Sul-malla, on the trembling strings.
Half-heard amidst the sound, was the name of Atha's
king: he that was absent in battle for her own green
land. Nor absent from her soul was he; he came
midst her thoughts by night. Ton-thena looked in, from
the sky, and saw her tossing arms.
The sound of shells had ceased. Amidst long locks,
Sul-malla rose. She spoke with bended eyes, and
asked of our course through seas; "for of the kings of
men are ye, tall riders of the wave. "Not unknown,” I
said, "at his streams is he, the father of our race.
""
136
SUL-MALLA OF LUMON.
Fingal has been heard of at Cluba, blue-eyed daughter of
kings! Nor only, at Cona's stream, is Ossian and
Oscar known. Foes trembled at our voice, and shrunk
in other lands."
"Not unmarked," said the maid, "by Sul-malla, is
the shield of Morven's king. It hangs high, in my
father's hall, in memory of the past; when Fingal came
to Cluba, in the days of other years. Loud roared the
boar of Culdarnu, in the midst of his rocks and woods.
Inis-huna sent her youths, but they failed; and virgins
wept over tombs. Careless went Fingal to Culdarnu.
On his spear rolled the strength of the woods.
He was
bright, they said, in his locks, the first of mortal men.
Nor at the feast were heard his words. His deeds passed
from his soul of fire, like the rolling of vapours from the
face of the wandering sun. Not careless looked the blue
eyes of Cluba on his stately steps. In white bosoms rose
the king of Selma, in the midst of their thoughts by
night. But the winds bore the stranger to the echoing
vales of his roes. Nor lost to other lands was he, like a
meteor that sinks in a cloud. He came forth, at times,
in his brightness, to the distant dwelling of foes. His fame
came, like the sound of winds, to Cluba's woody vale.
66
Darkness dwells in Cluba of harps: the race of kings
is distant far; in battle is my father Conmor; and
Lormar my brother, king of streams. Nor darkening
alone are they; a beam from other lands, is nigh; the
friend of strangers* in Atha, the troubler of the field.
* Cathmor, the son of Borbar-duthal. It would appear from
the partiality with which Sul-malla speaks of that hero, that
SUL-MALLA OF LUMON.
137
High from their misty hills, look forth the blue eyes of
Erin; for he is far away, young dweller of their souls!
Nor, harmless, white hands of Erin! is Cathmor in the
skirts of war; he rolls ten thousand before him, in his
distant field."
"Not unseen by Ossian," I said, "rushed Cathmor
from his streams, when he poured his strength on
I-thorno,* isle of many waves! In strife met two kings
in I-thorno, Culgorm and Suran-dronlo: each from his
echoing isle, stern hunters of the boar !
They met a boar, at a foamy stream: each pierced
him with his spear. They strove for the fame of the
deed; and gloomy battle rose. From isle to isle they
sent a spear, broken and stained with blood, to call the
friends of their fathers, in their sounding arms. Cathmor
came, from Erin, to Culgorm, red-eyed king: I aided
Suran-dronlo, in his land of boars.
"We rushed on either side of a stream, which roared
through a blasted heath. High broken rocks were round,
with all their bending trees. Near were two circles of
Loda, with the stone of power; where spirits descended,
by night, in dark-red streams of fire. There, mixed with
the murmur of waters, rose the voice of aged men; they
called the forms of night, to aid them in their war.
"Heedless I stood, with my people, where fell the
foamy stream from rocks. The moon moved red from
she had seen him, previous to his joining her father's army;
though tradition positively asserts, that it was after his return
that she fell in love with him.
* I-thorno, says tradition, was an island of Scandinavia.
138
SUL-MALLA OF LUMON.
the mountain. My song, at times, arose. Dark, on the
other side, young Cathmor heard my voice; for he lay,
beneath the oak, in all his gleaming arms. Morning
came; we rushed to fight: from wing to wing is the
rolling of strife. They fell like the thistle's head, beneath
autumnal winds.
"In armour came a stately form: I mixed my strokes
with the chief. By turns our shields are pierced : loud
rung our steelly mails. His helmet fell to the ground.
In brightness shone the foe. His eyes, two pleasant
flames, rolled between his wandering locks. I knew
Cathmor of Atha, and threw my spear on earth. Dark,
we turned, and silent passed to mix with other foes.
:
"Not so passed the striving kings." * They mixed in
echoing fray like the meeting of ghosts, in the dark
wing of winds. Through either breast rushed the spears ;
nor yet lay the foes on earth ! A rock received their fall;
half-reclined they lay in death. Each held the lock of his
foe; each grimly seemed to roll his eyes. The stream of the
rock leapt on their shields, and mixed below with blood.
"The battle ceased in I-thorno. The strangers met
in peace: Cathmor from Atha of streams, and Ossian,
king of harps. We placed the dead in earth. Our steps
were by Runar's bay. With the bounding boat, afar,
advanced a ridgy wave.
Dark was the rider of seas, but
a beam of light was there, like the ray of the sun, in
* Culgorm and Suran-dronlo. The combat of the kings and
their attitude in death are highly picturesque, and expressive of
that ferocity of manners which distinguished the northern
nations.
SUL-MALLA OF LUMON.
139
Stromlo's rolling smoke. It was the daughter of Suran-
dronlo, wild in brightened looks. Her eyes were wander-
ing flames, amidst disordered locks. Forward is her
white arm, with the spear; her high heaving breast is
seen, white as foamy waves that rise, by turns, amidst
rocks. They are beautiful, but terrible, and mariners
call the winds!
Come, ye dwellers of Loda!' she said, 'come
Carchar, pale in the midst of clouds! Sluthmor that
stridest in airy halls! Corchtur, terrible in winds!
Receive, from his daughter's spear, the foes of Suran-
dronlo. No shadow, at his roaring streams; no mildly-
looking form was he! When he took up his spear, the
hawks shook their sounding wings: for blood was
poured around the steps of dark-eyed Suran-dronlo. He
lighted me, no harmless beam, to glitter on his streams.
Like meteors, I was bright, but I blasted the foes of
Suran-dronlo.""
666
Nor unconcerned heard Sul-malla, the praise of
Cathmor of shields. He was within her soul, like a fire
in secret heath, which awakes at the voice of the blast,
and sends its beam abroad. Amidst the song removed
the daughter of kings, like the voice of a summer-
breeze; when it lifts the heads of flowers, and curls the
lakes and streams. The rustling sound gently spreads
o'er the vale, softly-pleasing as it saddens the soul.
By night came a dream to Ossian; formless stood the
shadow of Trenmor. He seemed to strike the dim
140
SUL-MALLA OF LUMON.
shield, on Selma's streamy rock. I rose, in my rattling
steel; I knew that war was near, before the winds our
sails were spread; when Lumon shewed its streams to
the morn.
Come from the watching of night, Malvina, lonely
beam!
THE WAR OF INIS-THONA:
A POEM.
ARGUMENT.
REFLECTIONS on the poet's youth. An apostrophe to Selma.
Oscar obtains leave to go to Inis-thona, an island of Scandi-
navia. The mournful story of Argon and Ruro, the two sons
of the king of Inis-thona. Oscar revenges their death, and
returns in triumph to Selma. A soliloquy by the poet
himself.
THE WAR OF INIS-THONA:
A POEM.
OUR
UR youth is like the dream of the hunter on the
hill of heath. He sleeps in the mild beams of
the sun; he awakes amidst a storm; the red lightning
flies around: trees shake their heads to the wind ! He
looks back with joy, on the day of the sun; and the
pleasant dreams of his rest! When shall Ossian's youth
return? When his ear delight in the sound of arms?
When shall I, like Oscar, travel in the light of my steel?
Come, with your streams, ye hills of Cona! listen to the
voice of Ossian. The song rises, like the sun, in my
soul. I feel the joys of other times!
I behold thy towers, O Selma! the oaks of thy
shaded wall thy streams sound in my ear; thy heroes
gather around. Fingal sits in the midst. He leans on
the shield of Trenmor: his spear stands against the
wall; he listens to the song of his bards. The deeds of
his arm are heard; the actions of the king in his youth I
Oscar had returned from the chase, and heard the hero's
praise. He took the shield of Branno* from the wall;
his eyes were filled with tears. Red was the cheek of
* Grandfather to Oscar.
144 THE WAR OF INIS-THONA.
youth. His voice was trembling low. My spear shock
its bright head in his hand he spoke to Morven's king.
Fingal thou king of heroes ! Ossian, next to him
in war! ye have fought in your youth; your names are
renowned in song.
Oscar is like the mist of Cona; I
appear and I vanish away. The bard will not know my
name, The hunter will not search in the heath for my
tomb. Let me fight, O heroes, in the battles of Inis-
thona. Distant is the land of my war! ye shall not
hear of Oscar's fall! Some bard
Some bard may find me there;
some bard may give my name to song. The daughter of
the stranger shall see my tomb, and weep over the youth,
that came from afar. The bard shall say, at the feast,
'Hear the song of Oscar from the distant land !'”
"Oscar,” replied the king of Morven; "thou shalt
fight, son of my fame! Prepare my dark-bosomed ship
to carry my hero to Inis-thona.
Son of my son, regard
our fame; thou art of the race of renown! Let not the
children of strangers say, feeble are the sons of Morven !
Be thou, in battle, a roaring storm: mild as the evening
sun in peace! Tell, Oscar, to Inis-thona's king, that
Fingal remembers his youth; when we strove in the
combat together, in the days of Agandecca."
They lifted up the sounding sail; the wind whistled
through the thongs* of their masts. Waves lash the
oozy rocks: the strength of ocean roars.
from the wave, the land of groves.
Runa's sounding bay, and sent his sword to Annir of
"C
My son beheld,
He rushed into
* Leather thongs were used among the Celtic nations instead
of ropes.
THE WAR OF INIS-THONA.
145
spears. The grey-haired hero rose, when he saw the
sword of Fingal. His eyes were full of tears; he
remembered his battles in youth. Twice had they
lifted the spear, before the lovely Agandecca: heroes
stood far distant, as if two spirits were striving in
winds.
"But now," began the king, "I am old; the sword
lies useless in my hall. Thou, who art of Morven's
race! Annir has seen the battle of spears; but now he
is pale and withered, like the oak of Lano.
I have no
son to meet thee, with joy, to bring thee to the halls of
his fathers. Argon is pale in the tomb, and Ruro is no
more. My daughter is in the hall of strangers: she longs
to behold my tomb. Her spouse shakes ten thousand
spears; he comes a cloud of death from Lano. Come,
to share the feast of Annir, son of echoing Morven !"
Three days they feasted together; on the fourth,
Annir heard the name of Oscar. They rejoiced in the
shell.* They pursued the boars of Runa. Beside the
fount of mossy stones, the weary heroes rest. The tear
steals in secret from Annir: he broke the rising sigh.
"Here darkly rest," the hero said,
"the children of my
youth. This stone is the tomb of Ruro; that tree sounds.
over the grave of Argon. Do ye hear my voice, O my
sons, within your narrow house? Or do ye speak in
these rustling leaves, when the winds of the desert rise?"
"King of Inis-thona," said Oscar, "how fell the
children of youth? The wild boar rushes over their
↑ To rejoice in the shell, is a phrase for feasting sumptuously
and drinking freely.
425
146 THE WAR OF INIS-THONA.
tombs, but he does not disturb their repose. They
pursue deer formed of clouds, and bend their airy bow.
They still love the sport of their youth; and mount the
wind with joy."
"Cormalo," replied the king, "is a chief of ten
thousand spears.
He dwells at the waters of Lano,*
which sends forth the vapour of death. He came to
Runa's echoing halls, and sought the honour of the
spear. The youth was lovely as the first beam of the
sun; few were they who could meet him in fight! My
heroes yielded to Cormalo: my daughter was seized in
his love. Argon and Ruro returned from the chase;
the tears of their pride descend: they roll their silent
eyes on Runa's heroes, who had yielded to a stranger.
Three days they feasted with Cormalo: on the fourth
young Argon fought. But who could fight with Argon!
Cormalo is overcome. His heart swelled with the
grief of pride; he resolved, in secret, to behold the
death of my sons. They went to the hills of Runa: they
pursued the dark-brown hinds. The arrow of Cormalo
flew in secret; my children fell in blood. He came to
the maid of his love; to Inis-thona's long-haired maid.
They fled over the desert. Annir remained alone.
Night came on, and day appeared: nor Argon's voice,
* A lake of Scandinavia, remarkable, in the days of Ossian,
for emitting a pestilential vapour in autumn. And thou, 0
valiant Duchomar! like the mist of marshy Lano; when it sails
over the plains of autumn, and brings death to the host.-Fingal,
B. i.
The tournament practised among the ancient northern
rations.
THE WAR OF INIS-THONA.
147
nor Ruro's came. At length their much-loved dog was
seen; the fleet and bounding Runar. He came into the
hall and howled; and seemed to look towards the place
of their fall. We followed him: we found them here:
we laid them by this mossy stream. This is the haunt of
Annir, when the chase of the hinds is past. I bend like
the trunk of an aged oak; my tears for ever flow!"
"O Ronnan !" said the rising Oscar, "Ogar king of
spears! call my heroes to my side, the sons of streamy
Morven. To-day we go to Lano's water, that sends
forth the vapour of death. Cormalo will not long
rejoice: death is often at the point of our swords!"
They came over the desert like stormy clouds, when
the winds roll them along the heath: their edges are
tinged with lightning; the echoing groves foresee the
storm! The horn of Oscar's battle is heard; Lano shook
over all its waves. The children of the lake convened
around the sounding shield of Cormalo. Oscar fought,
as he was wont in war. Cormalo fell beneath his sword:
the sons of dismal Lano fled to their secret vales! Oscar
brought the daughter of Inis-thona to Annir's echoing
halls. The face of age is bright with joy; he blest the
king of swords!
How great was the joy of Ossian, when he beheld the
distant sail of his son! it was like a cloud of light that
rises in the east, when the traveller is sad in a land
unknown; and dismal night, with her ghosts, is sitting
around in shades! We brought him with songs to Selma's
halls. Fingal spread the feast of shells. A thousand
bards raised the name of Oscar: Morven answered to the
148 THE WAR OF INIS-THONA.
sound. The daughter of Toscar was there; her voice
was like the harp; when the distant sound comes, in the
evening, on the soft-rustling breeze of the vale !
O lay me, ye that see the light, near some rock of my
hills! let the thick hazels be around, let the rustling oak
be near.
Green be the place of my rest; let the sound
of the distant torrent be heard. Daughter of Toscar, take
the harp, and raise the lovely song of Selma ; that sleep
may overtake my soul in the midst of joy; that the dreams
of my youth may return, and the days of the mighty
Fingal. Selma! I behold thy towers, thy trees, thy
shaded wall! I see the heroes of Morven; I hear the
song of bards; Oscar lifts the sword of Cormalo; a
thousand youths admire its studded thongs. They look
with wonder on my son: They admire the strength of his
arm. They mark the joy of his father's eyes; they long
for an equal fame. And ye shall have your fame, O sons
of streamy Morven ! My soul is often brightened with
song; I remember the friends of my youth. But sleep
descends in the sound of the harp ! pleasant dreams begin
to rise! Ye sons of the chase stand far distant, nor
disturb my rest. The bard of other times holds discourse
with his fathers, the chiefs of the days of old! Sons of
the chase, stand far distant disturb not the dreams of
Ossian !
THE SONGS OF SELMA.
ARGUMENT.
ADDRESS to the evening star. Apostrophe to Fingal and his
times. Minona sings before the king the song of the unfor-
tunate Colma; and the bards exhibit other specimens of their
poetical talents; according to an annual custom established
by the monarchs of the ancient Caledonians.
THE SONGS OF SELMA.
STAR
TAR of descending night! fair is thy light in the
west! thou liftest thy unshorn head from thy cloud :
thy steps are stately on thy hill. What dost thou behold
in the plain? The stormy winds are laid. The murmur
of the torrent comes from afar. Roaring waves climb the
distant rock. The flies of evening are on their feeble
wings; the hum of their course is on the field. What
dost thou behold, fair light? But thou dost smile and
depart. The waves come with joy around thee: they
bathe thy lovely hair. Farewell, thou silent beam! Let
the light of Ossian's soul arise!
And it does arise in its strength! I behold my departed
friends. Their gathering is on Lora, as in the days of
other years. Fingal comes like a watery column of mist;
his heroes are around: And see the bards of song, grey-
haired Ullin! stately Ryno! Alpin, with the tuneful
voice! the soft complaint of Minona! How are ye
changed, my friends, since the days of Selma's feast?
When we contended, like gales of spring, as they fly along
the hill, and bend by turns the feebly-whistling grass.
Minona came forth in her beauty; with down-cast look
152
THE SONGS OF SELMA.
and tearful eye. Her hair flew slowly on the blast, that
rushed unfrequent from the hill. The souls of the heroes
were sad when she raised the tuneful voice. Often had
they seen the grave of Salgar, the dark dwelling of white-
bosomed Colma. Colma left alone on the hill, with all
her voice of song! Salgar promised to come: but the
night descended around. Hear the voice of Colma, when
she sat alone on the hill!
COLMA.
It is night; I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms.
The wind is heard in the mountain.
The torrent pours
down the rock. No hut receives me from the rain;
forlorn on the hill of winds!
Rise, moon! from behind thy clouds. Stars of the
night arise! Lead me, some light, to the place, where
my love rests from the chase alone! his bow near him,
unstrung: his dogs panting around him. But here I
must sit alone, by the rock of the mossy stream. The
stream and the wind roar aloud. I hear not the voice of
my love! Why delays my Salgar, why the chief of the
hill, his promise? Here is the rock, and here the tree!
here is the roaring stream! Thou didst promise with
night to be here. Ah! whither is my Salgar gone?
With thee I would fly, from my father; with thee, from
my brother of pride. Our race have long been foes; we
are not foes, O Salgar!
Cease a little while, O wind! stream, be thou silent a
while! let my voice be heard around. Let my wanderer
hear me ! Salgar! it is Colma who calls. Here is the
THE SONGS OF SELMA.
153
tree, and the rock. Salgar, my love! I am here. Why
delayest thou thy coming? Lo! the calm moon comes
forth. The flood is bright in the vale. The rocks are
grey on the steep. I see him not on the brow. His
dogs come not before him, with tidings of his near
approach. Here I must sit alone!
Who lie on the heath beside me? Are they my love
and my brother? Speak to me, O my friends! To
Colma they give no reply. Speak to me: I am alone!
My soul is tormented with fears! Ah! they are dead!
Their swords are red from the fight. O my brother! my
brother! why hast thou slain my Salgar? why, O
Salgar hast thou slain my brother? Dear were ye
both to me! what shall I say in your praise? Thou wert
fair on the hill among thousands! he was terrible in
fight. Speak to me; hear my voice; hear me, sons of
my love! They are silent; silent for ever! Cold, cold
are their breasts of clay! Oh! from the rock on the
hill; from the top of the windy steep, speak, ye ghosts of
the dead! speak, I will not be afraid! Whither are ye
gone to rest? In what cave of the hill shall I find the
departed? No feeble voice is on the gale: no answer
half-drowned in the storm!
I sit in my grief! I wait for morning in my tears !
Rear the tomb, ye friends of the dead. Close it not till
Colma come. My life flies away like a dream: why
should I stay behind? Here shall I rest with my
friends, by the stream of the sounding rock. When night
comes on the hill; when the loud winds arise; my ghost
shall stand in the blast, and mourn the death of my
154
THE SONGS OF SELMA.
friends. The hunter shall hear from his booth. He
shall fear but love my voice! For sweet shall my voice
be for my friends: pleasant were her friends to Colma !
Such was thy song, Minona, softly-blushing daughter
of Torman. Our tears descended for Colma, and our
souls were sad! Ullin came with his harp; he gave the
song of Alpin. The voice of Alpin was pleasant: the
soul of Ryno was a beam of fire! But they had rested in
the narrow house their voice had ceased in Selma.
Ullin had returned, one day, from the chase, before the
heroes fell. He heard their strife on the hill; their song
was soft but sad! They mourned the fall of Morar,
first of mortal men! His soul was like the soul of
Fingal; his sword like the sword of Oscar. But he fell,
and his father mourned: his sister's eyes were full of
tears. Minona's eyes were full of tears, the sister of car-
borne Morar. She retired from the song of Ullin, like
the moon in the west, when she foresees the shower, and
hides her fair head in a cloud. I touched the harp, with
Ullin; the song of morning rose !
RYNO.
The wind and the rain are past: calm is the noon of
day. The clouds are divided in heaven. Over the
green hills flies the inconstant sun. Red through the
stony vale comes down the stream of the hill. Sweet are
thy murmurs, O stream! but more sweet is the voice I
hear. It is the voice of Alpin, the son of song,
mourning for the dead! Bent is his head of age; red
THE SONGS OF SELMA.
155
his tearful eye. Alpin, thou son of song, why alone on
the silent hill? why complainest thou, as a blast in the
wood; as a wave on the lonely shore?
ALPIN.
My tears, Ryno! are for the dead; my voice for
those that have passed away. Tall thou art on the hill;
fair among the sons of the vale. But thou shalt fall like
Morar; the mourner shall sit on thy tomb. The hills
shall know thee no more; thy bow shall lie in thy hall,
unstrung!
Thou wert swift; O Morar! as a roe on the desert;
terrible as a meteor of fire. Thy wrath was as the
storm. Thy sword in battle, as lightning in the field.
Thy voice was a stream after rain; like thunder on
distant hills. Many fell by thy arm; they were consumed
in the flames of thy wrath. But when thou didst return
from war, how peaceful was thy brow! Thy face was
like the sun after rain; like the moon in the silence of
night; calm as the breast of the lake when the loud wind
is laid.
Narrow is thy dwelling now! dark the place of thine
abode! With three steps I compass thy grave, O thou
who wast so great before. Four stones, with their heads
of moss, are the only memorial of thee. A tree with
scarce a leaf, long grass, which whistles in the wind,
mark to the hunter's eye the grave of the mighty Morar,
Morar! thou art low indeed. Thou hast no mother to
mourn thee; no maid with her tears of love. Dead is
156
THE SONGS OF SELMA.
Fallen is the daughter of
she that brought thee forth.
Morglan.
Who on his staff is this? who is this, whose head is
white with age? whose eyes are red with tears? who
quakes at every step? It is thy father, O Morar! the
father of no son but thee. He heard of thy fame in war;
he heard of foes dispersed. He heard of Morar's
renown; why did he not hear of his wound? Weep,
thou father of Morar! weep; but thy son heareth thee
not. Deep is the sleep of the dead; low their pillow of
dust. No more shall he hear thy voice; no more awake
at thy call. When shall it be morn in the grave, to bid
the slumberer awake? Farewell, thou bravest of men!
thou conqueror in the field! but the field shall see thee
no more; nor the dark wood be lightened with the
splendour of thy steel. Thou hast left no son. The
song shall preserve thy name. Future times shall hear of
thee; they shall hear of the fallen Morar!
The grief of all arose, but most the bursting sigh of
Armin. He remembers the death of his son, who fell in
the days of his youth. Carmor was near the hero, the
chief of the echoing Galmal. Why bursts the sigh of
Armin? he said. Is there a cause to mourn? The song
comes, with its music, to melt and please the soul. It is
like soft mist, that, rising from a lake, pours on the silent
vale; the green flowers are filled with dew, but the sun
returns in his strength, and the mist is gone. Why art
thou sad, O Armin ! chief of sea-surrounded Gorma?
Sad! I am! nor small is my cause of woe! Carmor,
thou hast lost no son; thou hast lost no daughter of
THE SONGS OF SELMA.
157
beauty. Colgar the valiant lives; and Annira fairest
maid. The boughs of thy house ascend, O Carmor! but
Armin is the last of his race. Dark is thy bed, O
Daura ! deep thy sleep in the tomb! When shalt thou
awake with thy songs? with all thy voice of music?
Arise, winds of autumn, arise; blow along the heath!
streams of the mountains roar! roar, tempests, in the
groves of my oaks! walk through broken clouds, O
moon! show thy pale face, at intervals! bring to my
mind the night, when all my children fell; when Arindal
the mighty fell; when Daura the lovely failed! Daura,
my daughter! thou wert fair; fair as the moon on Fura;
white as the driven snow; sweet as the breathing gale.
Arindal, thy bow was strong. Thy spear was swift in
the field. Thy look was like mist on the wave: thy
shield, a red cloud in a storm. Armar, renowned in
war,
came, and sought Daura's love.
He was not long
refused fair was the hope of their friends!
Erath, son of Odgal, repined: his brother had been
slain by Armar. He came disguised like a son of the
sea fair was his skiff on the wave; white his locks of
age; calm his serious brow. Fairest of women, he said,
lovely daughter of Armin ! a rock not distant in the sea,
bears a tree on its side; red shines the fruit afar!
There Armar waits for Daura. I come to carry his love!
She went; she called on Armar. Nought answered, but
the son* of the rock, Armar, my love! my love! why
* The vulgar were of opinion, that echo was made by a spirit
within the rock; and they, on that account, called it mac talla;
the son who dwells in the rock.
158
THE SONGS OF SELMA.
tormentest thou me with fear? hear, son of Arnart, hear :
it is Daura who calleth thee! Erath the traitor fled
laughing to the land. She lifted up her voice; she
called for her brother and her father. Arindal! Armin !
none to relieve your Daura !
Her voice came over the sea. Arindal my son
descended from the hill; rough in the spoils of the chase.
His arrows rattled by his side; his bow was in his hand :
five dark grey dogs attend his steps. He saw fierce
Erath on the shore: he seized and bound him to an oak.
Thick wind the thongs of the hide around his limbs; he
loads the wind with his groans. Arindal ascends the
deep in his boat, to bring Daura to land. Armar came
in his wrath, and let fly the grey-feathered shaft. It
sung; it sunk in thy heart, O Arindal my son! for Erath
the traitor thou diedst. The oar is stopped at once; he
panted on the rock and expired. What is thy grief, O
Daura, when round thy feet is poured thy brother's
blood! The boat is broken in twain.
Armar plunges
Sudden a blast
He sunk, and he
into the sea, to rescue his Daura, or die.
from the hill came over the waves.
rose no more.
Alone, on the sea-beat rock, my daughter was heard to
complain. Frequent and loud were her cries. What
could her father do? All night I stood on the shore. I
saw her by the faint beam of the moon. All night I
heard her cries. Loud was the wind; the rain beat hard
on the hill.
Before morning appeared, her voice was
weak. It died away, like the evening-breeze among the
grass of the rocks. Spent with grief she expired; and
THE SONGS OF SELMA.
159
left thee Armin alone. Gone is my strength in war!
fallen my pride among women! When the storms aloft
arise; when the north lifts the wave on high; I sit by
the sounding shore, and look on the fatal rock. Often
by the setting moon, I see the ghosts of my children.
Half-viewless, they walk in mournful conference together.
Will none of you speak in pity? They do not regard
their father. I am sad, O Carmor, nor small is my cause
of woe!
Such were the words of the bards in the days of song ;
when the king heard the music of harps, the tales of
other times! The chiefs gathered from all their hills,
and heard the lovely sound. They praised the voice* of
Cona! the first among a thousand bards! But age is
now on my tongue; my soul has failed! I hear, at
times, the ghosts of bards, and learn their pleasant song.
But memory fails on my mind. I hear the call of years!
They say, as they pass along, why does Ossian sing?
Soon shall he lie in the narrow house, and no bard shall
raise his fame! Roll on, ye dark-brown years; ye bring
no joy on your course! Let the tomb open to Ossian, for
his strength has failed. The sons of song are gone to
rest. My voice remains, like a blast, that roars, lonely,
on a sea-surrounded rock, after the winds are laid. The
dark moss whistles there; the distant mariner sees the
waving trees!
* Ossian is sometimes poetically called the voice of Cona.
*
FINGAL:
AN ANCIENT EPIC POEM.
IN SIX BOOKS.
Book I.
426
ARGUMENT TO BOOK I.
CUTHULLIN (general of the Irish tribes, in the minority of Cor-
mac, king of Ireland) sitting alone beneath a tree, at the gate
of Tura, a castle of Ulster (the other chiefs having gone on a
hunting party to Cromla, a neighbouring hill), is informed of
the landing of Swaran, king of Lochlin, by Moran, the son of
Fithil, one of his scouts. He convenes the chiefs; a council
is held, and disputes run high about giving battle to the
enemy. Connal, the petty king of Togorma, and an intimate
friend of Cuthullin, was for retreating, till Fingal, king of
those Caledonians who inhabited the north-west coast of
Scotland, whose aid had been previously solicited, should
arrive; but Calmar, the son of Matha, lord of Lara, a country
in Connaught, was for engaging the enemy immediately.
Cuthullin, of himself willing to fight, went into the opinion of
Calmar. Marching towards the enemy, he missed three of
his bravest heroes, Fergus, Duchomar, and Cathba. Fergus -
arriving, tells Cuthullin of the death of the two other chiefs;
which introduces the affecting episode of Morna, the daughter
of Cormac. The army of Cuthullin is descried at a distance
by Swaran, who sent the son of Arno to observe the motions
of the enemy, while he himself ranged his forces in order of
battle. The son of Arno returning to Swaran, describes to
him Cuthullin's chariot, and the terrible appearance of that
hero. The armies engage, but night coming on, leaves the
victory undecided. Cuthullin, according to the hospitality of
the times, sends to Swaran a formal invitation to a feast, by
his bard Carril, the son of Kinfena. Swaran refuses to come.
Carril relates to Cuthullin the story of Grudar and Brassolis.
A party, by Connal's advice, is sent to observe the enemy:
which closes the action of the first day.
FINGAL: AN ANCIENT EPIC POEM.
IN SIX BOOKS.
Book I.
UTHULLIN* sat by Tura's wall: by the tree of the
rustling sound. His spear leaned against a rock.
His shield lay on grass by his side. Amid his thoughts
C
* Cuthullin the son of Semo and grandson to Caithbat, a
druid celebrated in tradition for his wisdom and valour.
Cuthullin when very young married Bragela the daughter of
Sorglan, and passing over into Ireland, lived some time with
Connal, grandson by a daughter to Congal the petty king of
Ulster. His wisdom and valour in a short time gained him such
reputation, that in the minority of Cormac the supreme king of
Ireland, he was chosen guardian to the young king, and sole
manager of the war against Swaran king of Lochlin. After a
series of great actions he was killed in battle somewhere in
Connaught, in the twenty-seventh year of his age. He was so
remarkable for his strength, that to describe a strong man it
has passed into a proverb, "He has the strength of Cuthullin.
They show the remains of his palace at Dunscaich in the Isle
of Skye; and a stone to which he bound his dog Luath, goes still
by his name.
164
FINGAL.
"I
of mighty Carbar, a hero slain by the chief in war; the
scout* of ocean comes, Moran the son of Fithil !
Arise," says the youth, "Cuthullin, arise.
I see the
ships of the north! Many, chief of men, are the foe.
Many the heroes of the sea-borne Swaran !" "Moran !"
replied the blue-eyed chief, "thou ever tremblest, son of
Fithil Thy fears have increased the foe. It is Fingal,
kingt of deserts, with aid to green Erin of streams.”
beheld their chief," says Moran, "tall as a glittering
rock. His spear is a blasted pine. His shield the
rising moon! He sat on the shore! like a cloud of mist
on the silent hill! Many, chief of heroes! I said, many
are our hands of war. Well art thou named, the Mighty
Man; but many mighty men are seen from Tura's windy
walls."
"He spoke, like a wave on a rock, who in this land
like me?
appears
Heroes stand not in my presence: they
fall to earth from my hand. Who can meet Swaran in
fight? Who but Fingal, king of Selma of storms? Once
we wrestled on Malmor; our heels overturned the woods.
Rocks fell from their place; rivulets, changing their
* Cuthullin having previous intelligence of the invasion
intended by Swaran, sent scouts all over the coast of Ullin or
Ulster, to give early notice of the first appearance of the enemy,
as the same time that he sent Munan the son of Stirmal to
implore the assistance of Fingal. He himself collected the
flower of the Irish youth to Tura, a castle on the coast, to
stop the progress of the enemy till Fingal should arrive from
Scotland.
Fingal the son of Comhal and Morna the daughter of
Thaddu. His grandfather was Trathal, and great grandfather
Trenmor, both of whom are often mentioned in the poem.
FINGAL.
165
course, fled murmuring from our side. Three days we
renewed the strife; heroes stood at a distance and
trembled. On the fourth, Fingal says, that the king of the
ocean fell! but Swaran says, he stood! Let dark Cuthullin
yield to him, that is strong as the storms of his land!"
"No," replied the blue-eyed chief, "I never yield to
mortal man! Dark Cuthullin shall be great or dead!
Go, son of Fithil, take my spear. Strike the sounding
shield of Semo. It hangs at Tura's rustling gate. The
sound of peace is not its voice! My heroes shall hear
and obey." He went. He struck the bossy shield. The
hills, the rocks reply. The sound spreads along the
wood: deer start by the lake of roes. Curach leaps
from the sounding rock; and Connal of the bloody spear !
Crugal's breast of snow beats high. The son of Favi
leaves the dark-brown hind. It is the shield of war, said
Ronnar! the spear of Cuthullin, said Lugar! son of the
sea put on thy arms! Calmar lift thy sounding steel!
Puno ! dreadful hero, arise! Cairbar from thy red tree of
Cromla! Bend thy knee, O Eth! descend from the
streams of Lenna. Ca-olt stretch thy side as thou movest
along the whistling heath of Mora: thy side that is white
as the foam of the troubled sea, when the dark winds
pour it on rocky Cuthon.
Now I behold the chiefs, in the pride of their former
deeds! Their souls are kindled at the battles of old; at
the actions of other times. Their eyes are flames of fire.
They roll in search of the foes of the land. Their mighty
hands are on their swords. Lightning pours from
their sides of steel. They come like streams from the
166
FINGAL.
mountains ; each rushes roaring from his hill. Bright are
the chiefs of battle, in the armour of their fathers.
Gloomy and dark their heroes follow, like the gathering of
the rainy clouds behind the red meteors of heaven. The
sounds of crashing arms ascend. The grey dogs howl
between. Unequal bursts the song of battle. Rocking
Cromla* echoes round. On Lena's dusky heath they stand,
like mist that shades the hills of autumn: when broken
and dark it settles high, and lifts its head to heaven!
"Hail," said Cuthullin, " sons of the narrow vales !
hail, hunters of the deer! Another sport is drawing
near : It is like the dark rolling of that wave on the
coast! Or shall we fight, ye sons of war! or yield green
Erin to Lochlin! O Connalt speak, thou first of men!
thou breaker of the shields! thou hast often fought with
Lochlin wilt thou lift thy father's spear?"
:
"Cuthullin!" calm the chief replied, "the spear of
Connal is keen. It delights to shine in battle; to mix
with the blood of thousands. But though my hand is
bent on fight, my heart is for the peace of Erin.‡ Behold,
thou first in Cormac's war, the sable fleet of Swaran.
His masts are many on our coast, like reeds in the lake
* A hill on the coast of Ulster.-M. Now the Cave Hill, near
Belfast.-C.
+ Connal, the friend of Cuthullin, was the son of Caith-bait
prince of the Tongorma, or the island of blue waves. For his
services in the war against Swaran he had lands conferred on
him, which, from his name, were called Tir-chonnuil or Tir-
connel-i.e., the land of Connal.
Erin, a name of Ireland; from ear or iar West, and in an
island.
FINGAL.
167
of Lego.
His ships are forests clothed with mist, when
the trees yield by turns to the squally wind. Many are
his chiefs in battle. Connal is for peace!
shun his arm the first of mortal men!
scatters the mighty, as stormy winds the heath; when
streams roar through echoing Cona: and night settles
with all her clouds on the hill!
Fingal would
Fingal, who
"Fly, thou man of peace," said Calmar, "fly," said
the son of Matha; "go, Connal, to thy silent hills,
where the spear never brightens in war! Pursue the
dark-brown deer of Cromla: stop with thine arrows the
bounding roes of Lena. But, blue-eyed son of Semo,
Cuthullin, ruler of the field, scatter thou the sons of
Lochlin !* roar through the ranks of their pride. Let
no vessel of the kingdom of Snow bound on the dark-
rolling waves of Inistore.t Rise, ye dark winds of Erin
rise! roar whirlwinds of Lara of hinds! Amid the
tempest let me die, torn, in a cloud, by angry ghosts of
men; amid the tempest let Calmar die, if ever chase was
sport to him, so much as the battle of shields!"
"Calmar !" Connal slow replied, "I never fled, young
son of Matha! I was swift with my friends in fight; but
small is the fame of Connal! The battle was won in my
presence; the valiant overcame! But, son of Semo,
hear my voice, regard the ancient throne of Cormac.
Give wealth and half the land for peace, till Fingal shall
arrive on our coast. Or, if war be thy choice, I lift the
sword and spear. My joy shall be in the midst of
* The Galic name of Scandinavia in general.
+ The Orkney islands.
168
FINGAL.
thousands; my soul shall lighten through the gloom of
the fight!
""
To me," Cuthullin replies, "pleasant is the noise of
arms! pleasant as the thunder of heaven, before the
shower of spring! But gather all the shining tribes,
that I may view the sons of war! Let them pass along
the heath, bright as the sunshine before a storm; when
the west wind collects the clouds, and Morven echoes
over all her oaks! But where are my friends in battle?
The supporters of my arm in danger? Where art thou,
white-bosomed Câthba? Where is that cloud in war,
Duchômar? Hast thou left me, O Fergus! in the day
of the storm? Fergus, first in our joy at the feast! son
of Rossa! arm of death! comest thou like a roe from
Malmor? Like a hart from thy echoing hills? Hail,
thou son of Rossa! what shades the soul of war?
""
"}
"Four stones," replied the chief, "rise on the grave
of Câthba. These hands have laid in earth Duchômar,
that cloud in war! Câthba, son of Torman! thou wert
a sunbeam in Erin. And thou, O valiant Duchômar! a
mist of the marshy Lano; when it moves on the plains
of autumn, bearing the death of thousands along. Morna!
fairest of maids! calm is thy sleep in the cave of the
rock! Thou hast fallen in darkness, like a star, that
shoots across the desert; when the traveller is alone, and
mourns the transient beam !"
<<
Say," said Semo's blue-eyed son, "say how fell the
chiefs of Erin? Fell they by the sons of Lochlin, striv-
ing in the battle of heroes? Or what confines the strong
in arms to the dark and narrow house ?"
FINGAL.
169
"Câthba," replied the hero, "fell by the sword of
Duchômar at the oak of the noisy streams. Duchômar
came to Tura's cave; he spoke to the lovely Morna.
Morna, fairest among women, lovely daughter of strong-
armed Cormac ! Why in the circle of stones? in the
cave of the rock alone? The stream murmurs along.
The old tree groans in the wind. The lake is troubled
before thee; dark are the clouds of the sky! But thou
art snow on the heath; thy hair is the mist of Cromla;
when it curls on the hill; when it shines to the beam of
the west! Thy breasts are two smooth rocks seen from
Branno of streams. Thy arms, like two white pillars,
in the halls of the great Fingal.'
"From whence," the fair-haired maid replied, "from
whence, Duchômar, most gloomy of men? Dark are thy
brows and terrible! Red are thy rolling eyes! Does
Swaran appear on the sea? What of the foe, Duchômar?"
"From the hill I return, O Morna, from the hill of the
dark-brown hinds. Three have I slain with my bended
yew. Three with my long-bounding dogs of the chase.
Lovely daughter of Cormac, I love thee as my soul ! I
have slain one stately deer for thee. High was his
branchy head; and fleet his feet of wind." "Duchô-
mar!" calm the maid replied, "I love thee not, thou
gloomy man! hard is thy heart of rock; dark is thy
terrible brow. But Câthba, young son of Torman, thou
art the love of Morna. Thou art a sunbeam, in the day
of the gloomy storm. Sawest thou the son of Torman,
lovely on the hill of his hinds? Here the daughter of
Cormac waits the coming of Câthba !”
""
170
FINGAL.
""
Long shall Morna wait," Duchômar said, "long
shall Morna wait for Câthba! Behold this sword un-
sheathed! Here wanders the blood of Câthba. Long
shall Morna wait. He fell by the stream of Branno!
On Croma I will raise his tomb, daughter of blue-shielded
Cormac! Turn on Duchômar thine eyes; his arm is
strong as a storm.' "Is the son of Torman fallen?"
said the wildly-bursting voice of the maid. "Is he fallen
on his echoing hills, the youth with the breast of snow?
The first in the chase of hinds? The foe of the strangers
of ocean? Thou art dark* to me, Duchômar, cruel is thine
arm to Morna! Give me that sword, my foe! I love
the wandering blood of Câthba !"
(C
He gave the sword to her tears. She pierced his manly
breast! He fell, like the bank of a mountain-stream,
and stretching forth his hand, he spoke : “Daughter of
blue-shielded Cormac ! Thou hast slain me in youth!
The sword is cold in my breast: Morna, I feel it cold.
Give me to Moina the maid. Duchômar was the dream
of her night! She will raise my tomb; the hunter shall
raise my fame. But draw the sword from my breast.
Morna, the steel is cold!" She came, in all her tears,
she came; she drew the sword from his breast. He
pierced her white side! He spread her fair locks on the
ground! Her bursting blood sounds from her side : her
white arm is stained with red. Rolling in death she lay.
The cave re-echoed to her sighs.
"Peace," said Cuthullin, "to the souls of the heroes!
their deeds were great in fight. Let them ride around
* She alludes to his name, the dark man.
FINGAL.
171
me on clouds. Let them shew their features of war.
My soul shall then be firm in danger; mine arm like the
thunder of heaven! But be thou on a moonbeam, O
Morna! near the window of my rest; when my thoughts
are of peace; when the din of arms is past. Gather the
strength of the tribes! Move to the wars of Erin!
Attend the car of my battles! Rejoice in the noise of my
course! Place three spears by my side: follow the bound-
ing of my steeds! That my soul may be strong in my
friends, when battle darkens round the beams of my steel!"
As rushes a stream of foam from the dark shady deep
of Cromla; when the thunder is travelling above, and
dark-brown night sits on half the hill. Through the
breaches of the tempest look forth the dim faces of ghosts.
So fierce, so vast, so terrible rushed on the sons of Erin.
The chief like a whale of ocean, whom all his billows
pursue, poured valour forth, as a stream, rolling his might
along the shore. The sons of Lochlin heard the noise,
as the sound of a winter-storm. Swaran struck his bossy
shield: he called the son of Arno, "What murmur rolls
along the hill, like the gathering flies of the eve? The
sons of Erin descend, or rustling winds roar in the distant
wood! Such is the noise of Gormal, before the white
tops of my waves arise. O son of Arno ascend the hill;
""
view the dark face of the heath !
His eyes
He went. He, trembling, swift returned.
"
rolled wildly round. His heart beat high against his
side. His words were faltering, broken, slow. Arise,
son of ocean, arise, chief of the dark-brown shields! I
see the dark, the mountain-stream of battle! The deep-
172
FINGAL.
moving strength of the sons of Erin! The car, the car
of war comes on, like the flame of death! the rapid car
of Cuthullin, the noble son of Semo! It bends behind
like a wave near a rock; like the sun-streaked mist of
the heath. Its sides are embossed with stones, and
sparkle like the sea round the boat of night. Of polished
yew is its beam; its seat of the smoothest bone. The
sides are replenished with spears; the bottom is the
footstool of heroes! Before the right side of the car is
seen the snorting horse! The high-maned, broad
breasted, proud, wide-leaping, strong steed of the hill.
Loud and resounding is his hoof; the spreading of his
mane above is like a stream of smoke on a ridge of rocks.
Bright are the sides of the steed! his name is Sulin-
Sifadda !
"Before the left side of the car is seen the snorting
horse! The thin-maned, high-headed, strong-hoofed,
fleet, bounding son of the hill: his name is Dusronnal,
among the stormy sons of the sword! A thousand
thongs bind the car on high. Hard polished bits shine
in a wreath of foam. Thin thongs, bright studded with
gems, bend on the stately necks of the steeds. The
steeds that like wreaths of mists fly over the streamy
vales! The wildness of deer is in their course, the
strength of eagles descending on their prey. Their noise
is like the blast of winter, on the sides of the snow-
headed Gormal.
"Within the car is seen the chief; the strong-armed son
of the sword. The hero's name is Cuthullin, son of
Semo, king of shells. His red cheek is like my polished
FINGAL.
173
yew. The look of his blue-rolling eye is wide, beneath
the dark arch of his brow. His hair flies from his head
like a flame, as bending forward he wields the spear.
Fly, king of ocean, fly! He comes, like a storm, along
the streamy vale!"
"When did I fly?" replied the king.
"When fled
Swaran from the battle of spears? When did I shrink
from danger, chief of the little soul? I met the storm of
Gormal, when the foam of my waves beat high. I met
the storm of the clouds; shall Swaran fly from a hero?
Were Fingal himself before me, my soul should not
darken with fear. Arise to battle, my thousands !
pour round me like the echoing main. Gather round the
bright steel of your king; strong as the rocks of my land;
that meet the storm with joy, and stretch their dark pines
to the wind!"
Like autumn's dark storms, pouring from two echoing
hills, towards each other approached the heroes. Like
two deep streams from high rocks meeting, mixing,
roaring on the plain; loud, rough and dark in battle
meet Lochlin and Innis-fail. Chief mixes his strokes
with chief, and man with man; steel, clanging, sounds
on steel.
Helmets are cleft on high. Blood bursts and
smokes around. Strings murmur on the polished yews.
Darts rush along the sky. Spears fall like the circles of
light, which gild the face of night. As the noise of the
troubled ocean, when roll the waves on high. As the
last peal of thunder in heaven, such is the din of war!
Though Cormac's hundred bards were there to give the
fight to song; feeble was the voice of a hundred bards to
174
FINGAL.
send the deaths to future times! For many were the
deaths of heroes; wide poured the blood of the brave!
Mourn, ye sons of song, mourn the death of the noble
Sithallin. Let the sighs of Fiona rise, on the lone
plains of her lovely Ardan. They fell, like two hinds of
the desert, by the hands of the mighty Swaran; when, in
the midst of thousands, he roared; like the shrill spirit
of a storm. He sits dim, on the clouds of the north, and
enjoys the death of the mariner. Nor slept thy hand by
thy side, chief of the isle of mist !* many were the deaths
of thine arm, Cuthullin, thou son of Semo! His sword
was like the beam of heaven when it pierces the sons of
the vale; when the people are blasted and fall, and all
the hills are burning around. Dusronnal snorted over
the bodies of heroes. Sifadda bathed his hoof in blood.
The battle lay behind them, as groves overturned on the
desert of Cromla; when the blast has passed the heath,
laden with the spirits of night!
Weep on the rocks of roaring winds, O maid of
Inistore ! Bend thy fair head over the waves, thou
lovelier than the ghost of the hills; when it moves, in
a sunbeam, at noon, over the silence of Morven ! He is
fallen! thy youth is low! pale beneath the sword of
Cuthullin! No more shall valour raise thy love to match
the blood of kings. Trenar, graceful Trenar died, O
maid of Inistore! His grey dogs are howling at home!
they see his passing ghost. His bow is in the hall unstrung.
No sound is in the hill of his hinds!
* The Isle of Sky.
FINGAL.
175
As roll a thousand waves to the rocks, so Swaran's
host came on. As meets a rock a thousand waves, so
Erin met Swaran of spears. Death raises all his voices
around, and mixes with the sounds of shields. Each
hero is a pillar of darkness; the sword a beam of fire in
his hand. The field echoes from wing to wing, as a
hundred hammers that rise, by turns, on the red son of
the furnace. Who are these on Lená's heath, these so
gloomy and dark? Who are these like two clouds and
their swords like lightning above them? The little hills
are troubled around; the rocks tremble with all their
moss. Who is it but Ocean's son and the car-borne
chief of Erin? Many are the anxious eyes of their
friends, as they see them dim on the heath. But night
conceals the chiefs in clouds, and ends the dreadful
fight!
It was on Cromla's shaggy side that Dorglas had
placed the deer; the early fortune of the chase, before
the heroes left the hill. A hundred youths collect the
heath; ten warriors wake the fire; three hundred choose
the polish'd stones. The feast is smoking wide !
Cuthullin, chief of Erin's war, resumed his mighty soul.
He stood upon his beamy spear, and spoke to the son of
songs; to Carril of other times, the grey-haired son of
Kinfena. 'Is this feast spread for me alone and the
king of Lochlin on Erin's shore; far from the deer of his
hills, and sounding halls of his feasts? Rise, Carril of
Tell him from
other times; carry my words to Swaran.
the roaring of waters, that Cuthullin gives his feast.
Here let him listen to the sound of my groves, amidst
176
FINGAL.
the clouds of night. For cold and bleak the blustering
winds rush over the foam of his seas. Here let him praise
the trembling harp, and hear the songs of heroes!"
Old Carril went, with softest voice. He called the
king of dark-brown shields ! "Rise from the skins of
thy chase, rise, Swaran king of groves! Cuthullin gives
the joy of shells. Partake the feast of Erin's blue-eyed
chief!" He answered like the sullen sound of Cromla
before a storm. "Though all thy daughters, Inis-fail!
should stretch their arms of snow; should raise the
heavings of their breasts, and softly roll their eyes
of love; yet, fixed as Lochlin's thousand rocks, here
Swaran should remain; till morn, with the young
beams of the east, shall light me to the death of Cuth-
ullin. Pleasant to my ear is Lochlin's wind! It rushes
over my seas! It speaks aloft in all my shrouds, and
brings my green forests to my mind: The green forests
of Gormal, which often echoed to my winds, when my
spear was red in the chase of the boar. Let dark
Cuthullin yield to me the ancient throne of Cormac; or
Erin's torrents shall show from their hills the red foam of
the blood of his pride!"
"Sad is the sound of Swaran's voice,
"* said Carril of
other times! "Sad to himself alone," said the blue-
eyed son of Semo. "But, Carril, raise the voice on
high; tell the deeds of other times. Send thou the
night away in song; and give the joy of grief. For
many heroes and maids of love, have moved on Inis-fail :
And lovely are the songs of woe that are heard in
* Carril has now returned to Cuthullin.—E.-T.
FINGAL.
177
Albion's rocks; when the noise of the chase is past, and
the streams of Cona answer to the voice of Ossian."*
"In other days," Carril replies, "came the sons of
Ocean to Erin! a thousand vessels bounded on waves to
Ullin's lovely plains. The sons of Inis-fail arose, to
meet the race of dark-brown shields. Cairbar, first of
men, was there, and Grudar, stately youth! Long had
they strove for the spotted bull, that lowed on Golbun's
echoing heath. Each claimed him as his own. Death
was often at the point of their steel! Side by side the
heroes fought; the strangers of Ocean fled. Whose
name was fairer on the hill, than the name of Cairbar and
Grudar! But ah! why ever lowed the bull, on Golbun's
echoing heath. They saw him leaping like snow. The
wrath of the chiefs returned !
"
'On Lubar'st grassy banks they fought; Grudar fell
in his blood. Fierce Cairbar came to the vale, where
Brassolis, fairest of his sisters, all alone, raised the song
of grief. She sung of the actions of Grudar, the youth of
her secret soul! She mourned him in the field of blood;
but still she hoped for his return. Her white bosom is
seen from her robe, as the moon from the clouds of night,
when its edge heaves white on the view, from the dark-
ness which covers its orb. Her voice was softer than the
harp to raise the song of grief. Her soul was fixed on
* The Cona here mentioned is that small river that runs
through Glenco in Argyleshire. One of the hills which environ
that romantic valley is still called Scornafena, or the hill of
Fingal's people.
↑ Lubar, a river in Ulster. Labhar, loud, noisy.
427
178
FINGAL.
Grudar. The secret look of her eye was his.
• When
shalt thou come in thine arms, thou mighty in the war?'
"Take, Brassolis,' Cairbar came and said, 'take,
Brassolis, this shield of blood. Fix it on high within my
hall, the armour of my foe!' Her soft heart beat against
her side. Distracted, pale, she flew. She found her
youth in all his blood; she died on Cromla's heath.
Here rests their dust, Cuthullin these lonely yews
sprung from their tombs, and shade them from the storm.
Fair was Brassolis on the plain! Stately was Grudar on
the hill! The bard shall preserve their names, and send
them down to future times!"*
"Pleasant is thy voice, O Carril," said the blue-eyed
chief of Erin. "Pleasant are the words of other times!
They are like the calm shower of spring; when the sun
looks on the field, and the light cloud flies over the hills.
O strike the harp in praise of my love, the lonely sun-
beam of Dunscaith! Strike the harp in the praise of
Bragéla; she that I left in the Isle of Mist, the spouse of
Semo's son! Dost thou raise thy fair face from the rock
to find the sails of Cuthullin? The sea is rolling distant
far; its white foam deceives thee for my sails. Retire,
for it is night, my love; the dark winds sing in thy hair.
* This episode is introduced with propriety. Calmar and
Connal, two of the Irish heroes, had disputed warmly before
the battle about engaging the enemy. Carril endeavours to
reconcile them with the story of Cairbar and Grudar; who,
though enemies before, fought side by side in the war. The
poet obtained his aim, for we find Calmar and Connal perfectly
reconciled in the third book.
FINGAL
179
Retire to the halls of my feasts; think of the times that
are past. I will not return till the storm of war is ceased.
O Connal! speak of war and arms, and send her from
my mind. Lovely with her flowing hair is the white-
bosomed daughter of Sorglan."
""
Connal, slow to speak, replied, "Guard against the race
of Ocean. Send thy troop of night abroad, and watch
the strength of Swaran. Cuthullin! I am for peace till
the race of Selma come; till Fingal come, the first of
men, and beam, like the sun, on our fields !' The hero
struck the shield of alarms, the warriors of the night
moved on! The rest lay in the heath of the deer, and
slept beneath the dusky wind. The ghosts* of the lately
dead were near, and swam on the gloomy clouds: And
far distant, in the dark silence of Lena, the feeble voices
of death were faintly heard.
* It was long the opinion of the ancient Scots that a ghost
was heard shrieking near the place where a death was to
happen soon after.
Book II.
ARGUMENT то Воок 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 Cuth-
ullin 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 give way. Cuthullin and
Connal cover their retreat; Carril leads them to a neighbour-
ing 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.
Book II.
CONO
ONNAL 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!
66
CC
"C
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
* From this Campbell infers that Cuthullin attacked Swaran
immediately he landed on the beach-a fine sandy one-of
Belfast Lough.-E.-T.
184
FINGAL.
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 ?"
"C
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 counsel 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 fight? Hast thou inquired where is his cave? The
FINGAL.
185
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 Bragéla. 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 his 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 |
186
FINGAL.
"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 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!
"offer
"Go, Morla, go," said the king of Lochlin,
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
FINGAL.
187
nations bow to his sword. Leave Erin's streamy plains
to us, and give thy spouse and dog. Thy spouse high-
bosom'd, 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 Luäth."
"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 green-hilled 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 Cuth-
ullin live! O Connal, first of mighty men, thou hear'st
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 sunshine 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
188
FINGAL.
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
strangert in the hall of her grief. But who is she, that,
like a sunbeam, 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 thistle; Swaran wasted Erin. Curach
*The ancient Scots, as well as the present Highlanders,
drunk in shells; hence it is that we so often meet, in the old
poetry, with the chief of shells, and the halls of shells.
+ Crugal had married Degrena but a little time before the
battle.
FINGAL.
189
fell by his hand, Cairbar of the bossy shield!
Morglan dies 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 leaped
around for joy; and the youths of the chase prepared the
bow!
Still Swaran advanced, as a stream, that bursts from
the desert. 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
190
FINGAL.
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. Sith-
fadda 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 Cuthul-
lin, "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."
FINGAL.
191
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 o Semo, "unhappy is the hand of Cuthullin, since
he slew his friend! Ferda, son of Damman, I loved
thee as myself!
(C
>>
(6
'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
rainbow 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 chase 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 I will 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 that bull to Cairbar. The wrath of Deugala rose !
"Son of Damman," begun the fair, "Cuthullin hath
* A place in Ulster.
(C
در
192
FINGAL.
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,
sunbeam of youth! Thine 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 faltering said to
"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 sunbeam of battle fell: the first of Cuthullin's
friends! Unhappy is the hand of Cuthullin since the
hero fell!
me:
"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 !"
FINGAL.
193
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 sunbeam
among women. Her hair was the wing of the raven.
Her dogs were taught to the chase. Her bowstring
sounded on the winds. Her soul was fixed on Comal.
Often met their eyes of love. Their course in the chase
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 chase, when the mist had con-
cealed 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 clothed 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
428
194
FINGAL.
drew the bow. The arrow flew.
Galbina fell in blood!
He ran 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.
Book III.
ARGUMENT TO BOOK III.
CUTHULLIN, pleased with the story of Carril, insists with that
bard for more of his songs. He relates the actions of Fingal
in Lochlin, and death of Agandecca the beautiful sister of
Swaran. He had scarce finished when Calmar the son of
Matha, who had advised the first battle, came wounded from
the field, and told them of Swaran's design to surprise the
remains of the Irish army. He himself proposes to withstand
singly the whole force of the enemy, in a narrow pass, till the
Irish should make good their retreat. Cuthullin, touched
with the gallant proposal of Calmar, resolves to accompany
him, and orders Carril to carry off the few that remained of
the Irish. Morning comes, Calmar dies of his wounds; and,
the ships of the Caledonians appearing, Swaran gives over
the pursuit of the Irish, and returns to oppose Fingal's
landing. Cuthullin ashamed, after his defeat, to appear
before Fingal, retires to the cave of Tura. Fingal engages
the enemy, puts them to flight; but the coming on of night
makes the victory not decisive. The king, who had observed
the gallant behaviour of his grandson Oscar, gives him advices
concerning his conduct in peace and war. He recommends
him to place the example of his fathers before his eyes, as the
best model for his conduct; which introduces the episode
concerning Fainasollis, the daughter of the king of Craca,
whom Fingal had taken under his protection, in his youth.
Fillan and Oscar are dispatched to observe the motions of the
enemy by night; Gaul the son of Morni desires the command
of the army, in the next battle; which Fingal promises to
give him. Some general reflections of the poet close the third
day.
Book III
"PLEAS
LEASANT are the words of the song," said
Cuthullin! "lovely the tales of other times !
They are like the calm dew of the morning on the hill of
roes; when the sun is faint on its side, and the lake is
settled and blue in the vale. O Carril, raise again thy
voice! let me hear the song of Selma: which was sung
in my halls of joy, when Fingal king of shields was
there, and glowed at the deeds of his fathers."
"C
'Fingal thou dweller of battle," said Carril, "early
were thy deeds in arms. Lochlin was consumed in thy
wrath, when thy youth strove with the beauty of maids.
They smiled at the fair-blooming face of the hero; but
death was in his hands. He was strong as the waters of
Lora. His followers were the roar of a thousand
streams. They took the king of Lochlin in war; they
restored him to his ships. His big heart swelled with
pride; the death of the youth was dark in his soul. For
none ever, but Fingal, had overcome the strength of the
mighty Starno. He sat in the hall of his shells in
Lochlin's woody land. He called the grey-haired
Snivan, that often sung round the circle* of Loda:
* This passage most certainly alludes to the religion of
Lochlin, and the stone of power here mentioned is the image of
one of the deities of Scandinavia.
198
FINGAL.
when the stone of power heard his voice, and battle
turned in the field of the valiant!"
Co
""
'Go; grey-haired Snivan," Starno said, "
go to
Ardven's sea-surrounded rocks. Tell to the king of
Selma; he the fairest among his thousands, tell him
I give him my daughter, the loveliest maid that ever
heaved a breast of snow. Her arms are white as the
foam of my waves. Her soul is generous and mild. Let
him come with his bravest heroes, to the daughter of the
secret hall! Snivan came to Selma's hall: Fair-
haired Fingal attended his steps. His kindled soul flew
to the maid, as he bounded on the waves of the north.
"Welcome," said the dark browed Starno, " welcome,
king of rocky Morven: welcome his heroes of might,
sons of the distant isle! Three days within my halls
shall ye feast; three days pursue my boars; that your
fame may reach the maid who dwells in the secret hall."
Starno designed their death. He gave the feast of
shells. Fingal, who doubted the foe, kept on his arms.
of steel. The sons of death were afraid: They fled
from the eyes of the king. The voice of sprightly mirth
arose. The trembling harps of joy were strung. Bards
sung the battle of heroes: They sung the heaving breast
of love. Ullin, Fingal's bard, was there: the sweet
voice of resounding Cona. He praised the daughter of
Lochlin; and Morven's* high-descended chief. The
daughter of Lochlin overheard. She left the hall of her
secret sigh! She came in all her beauty, like the moon
* Morven, (perhaps otherwise Ardven,) part of Argyle.
FINGAL.
199
from the cloud of the east.
Loveliness was around her
She saw
as light. Her steps were the music of songs.
the youth and loved him. He was the stolen sigh of her
soul. Her blue eye rolled on him in secret: she blest
the chief of resounding Morven.
The third day, with all its beams, shone bright on the
wood of boars. 'Forth moved the dark-browed Starno;
and Fingal, king of shields. Half the day they spent in
the chase; the spear of Selma was red in blood. It was
then the daughter of Starno, with blue eyes rolling in
tears; it was then she came with her voice of love, and
spoke to the king of Morven. Fingal, high-descended
chief, trust not Starno's heart of pride. Within that
wood he has placed his chiefs. Beware of the wood of
death. But, remember, son of the isle, remember
Agandecca: save me from the wrath of my father, king
of the windy Morven !"
(6
The youth, with unconcern, went on; his heroes by
his side. The sons of death fell by his hand; and
Gormal echoed around! Before the halls of Starno the
sons of the chase convened. The king's dark brows
"
were like clouds. His eyes like meteors of night.
"Bring hither," he said, Agandecca to her lovely
king of Morven ! His hand is stained with the blood of
my people; her words have not been in vain!" She
came with the red eye of tears. She came with loosely
flowing locks. Her white breast heaved with broken
sighs, like the foam* of the streamy Lubar. Starno
* A characteristic of the Six-mile Water--E.-T.
200
FINGAL.
pierced her side with steel. She fell, like a wreath
of snow,
which slides from the rocks of Ronan; when
the woods are still, and echo deepens in the vale! Then
Fingal eyed his valiant chiefs, his valiant chiefs took
arms. The gloom of battle roared; Lochlin fled or
died. Pale, in his bounding ship he closed the maid of
the softest soul. Her tomb ascends on Ardven; the sea
roars round her narrow dwelling.
"Blessed be her soul," said Cuthullin; "blessed be
the mouth of the song. Strong was the youth of Fingal;
strong is his arm of age. Lochlin shall fall again before
the king of echoing Morven. Shew thy face from a cloud,
O moo! light his white sails on the wave: and if any
strong spirit of heaven sits on that low-hung cloud;
turnhis dark ships from the rock, thou rider of the
storm ! "
Such were the words of Cuthullin at the sound of the
mountain-stream; when Calmar ascended the hill, the
wounded son of Matha. From the field he came in his
blood. He leaned on his bending spear. Feeble is the
arm of battle! but strong the soul of the hero!
"Welcome! O son of Matha," said Connal, "welcome
art thou to thy friends! Why bursts that broken sigh,
from the breast of him who never feared before? And
never, Connal, will he fear, chief of the pointed steel!
My soul brightens in danger: in the noise of arms.
am of the race of battle. My fathers never feared.
I
"Cormar was the first of my race. He sported
through the storms of waves. His black skiff bounded
on ocean; he travelled on the wings of the wind. A
FINGAL
201
spirit once embroiled the night. Seas swell, and rocks
resound. Winds drive along the clouds. The lightning
flies on wings of fire. He feared, and came to land:
then blushed that he feared at all. He rushed again
among the waves to find the son of the wind. Three
youths guide the bounding bark; he stood with sword
unsheathed. When the low-hung vapour passed, he took
it by the curling head. He searched its dark womb
with his steel. The son of the wind forsook the air.
The moon and stars returned! Such was the boldness
of my race. Calmar is like his fathers. Danger flies
from the lifted sword. They best succeed who dare!
"But now, ye sons of green Erin, retire from Lena's
bloody heath. Collect the sad remnant of our friends,
and join the sword of Fingal, I heard the sound
of Lochlin's advancing arms! Calmar will remain and
fight. My voice shall be such, my friends, as if thousands
were behind me. But, son of Semo, remember me.
Remember Calmar's lifeless corse. When Fingal shall
have wasted the field, place me by some stone of re-
membrance, that future times may hear my fame; that
the mother of Calmar may rejoice in my renown."
"No: son of Matha," said Cuthullin, “I will never
leave thee here. My joy is in unequal fight: my soul
increases in danger. Connal, and Carril of other times,
carry off the sad sons of Erin. When the battle is over,
search for us in this narrow way. For near this oak we
shall fall, in the stream of the battle of thousands!"
"O Fithil's son, with flying speed rush over the heath of
Lena. Tell to Fingal that Erin is fallen. Bid the king
202
FINGAL.
of Morven come. O let him come, like the sun in a
storm, to lighten, to restore the isle !"
Morning is grey on Cromla, The sons of the sea
ascend. Calmar stood forth to meet them in the pride
of his kindling soul. But pale was the face of the chief.
He leaned on his father's spear. That spear which he
brought from Lara, when the soul of his mother was sad;
the soul of the lonely Alclétha, waning in the sorrow of
years. But slowly now the hero falls, like a tree on the
plain. Dark Cuthullin stands alone like a rock in a
sandy vale. The sea comes with its waves, and roars on
its hardened sides. Its head is covered with foam; the
hills are echoing around.
Now from the grey mist of the ocean, the white-sailed
ships of Fingal appear. High is the grove of their masts,
as they nod, by turns, on the rolling wave. Swaran saw
them from the hill. He returned from the sons of Erin.
As ebbs the resounding sea, through the hundred isles of
Inistore; so loud, so vast, so immense returned the sons
of Lochlin against the king. But bending, weeping, sad,
and slow, and dragging his long spear behind, Cuthullin
sunk in Cromla's wood, and mourned his fallen friends.
He feared the face of Fingal, who was wont to greet him
from the fields of renown!
"How many lie there of my heroes! the chiefs of
Erin's race! they that were cheerful in the hall, when the
sound of the shells arose! No more shall I find their
steps in the heath. No more shall I hear their voice in
the chase. Pale, silent, low on bloody beds, are they
who were my friends! O spirits of the lately dead, meet
FINGAL.
203
Cuthullin on his heath! Speak to him on the wind,
when the rustling tree of Tura's cave resounds. There,
far remote, I shall lie unknown. No bard shall hear of
me. No grey stone shall rise to my renown.
Mourn me
with the dead, O Bragela! departed is my fame." Such
were the words of Cuthullin, when he sunk in the woods
of Cromla!
Fingal, tall in his ship, stretched his bright lance before
him. Terrible was the gleam of the steel it was like
the green meteor of death, setting in the heath of Malmor,
when the traveller is alone, and the broad moon is
darkened in heaven.
Ascend that hill on
"The battle is past," said the king. "I behold the
blood of my friends. Sad is the heath of Lena ! mournful
the oaks of Cromla! The hunters have fallen in their
strength: the son of Semo is no more. Ryno and Fillan,
my sons, sound the horn of Fingal.
the shore; call the children of the foe.
the grave of Lamdarg, the chief of other times.
voice like that of your father, when he enters the battles
of his strength. I wait for the mighty stranger. I wait
on Lena's shore for Swaran. Let him come with all his
race; strong in battle are the friends of the dead!"
Call them from
Be your
Fair Ryno as lightning gleamed along: Dark Fillan
rushed like the shade of autumn. On Lena's heath their
voice is heard. The sons of ocean heard the horn of
Fingal. As the roaring eddy of ocean returning from the
kingdom of snows; so strong, so dark, so sudden came
down the sons of Lochlin. The king in their front
appears, in the disinal pride of his arms! Wrath burns
204
FINGAL.
on his dark-brown face: his eyes roll in the fire of his
valour. Fingal beheld the son of Starno: he remembered
Agandecca. For Swaran with the tears of youth had
mourned his white-bosomed sister. He sent Ullin of
songs to bid him to the feast of shells: For pleasant on
Fingal's soul returned the memory of the first of his loves!
Ullin came with aged steps, and spoke to Starno's son.
"O thou that dwellest afar, surrounded like a rock, with
thy waves! come to the feast of the king, and pass the
day in rest. To-morrow let us fight, O Swaran, and
break the echoing shields." "To-day," said Starno's
wrathful son, ""
we break the echoing shields: to-morrow
my feast shall be spread; but Fingal shall lie on earth.”
"To-morrow let his feast be spread," said Fingal with a
smile. "To-day, O my sons! we shall break the echoing
shields. Ossian, stand thou near my arm. Gaul, lift
thy terrible sword, Fergus, bend thy crooked yew.
Throw, Fillan, thy lance through heaven. Lift your
shields, like the darkened moon. Be your spears the
meteors of death. Follow me in the path of my fame.
Equal my deeds in battle."
As a hundred winds on Morven ; as the streams of a
hundred hills; as clouds fly successive over heaven; as
the dark ocean assails the shore of the desert; so roaring,
so vast, so terrible, the armies mixed on Lena's echoing
heath. The groan of the people spread over the hills:
it was like the thunder of night, when the cloud bursts
on Cona; and a thousand ghosts shriek at once on the
hollow wind. Fingal rushed on in his strength, terrible
as the spirit of Trenmor; when, in a whirlwind, he comes
FINGAL.
205
to Morven, to see the children of his pride. The oaks
resound on their mountains, and the rocks fall down
before him. Dimly seen, as lightens the night, he strides
largely from hill to hill. Bloody was the hand of my
father, when he whirled the gleam of his sword. He
remembers the battles of his youth. The field is wasted
in his course!
Ryno went on like a pillar of fire. Dark is the brow
of Gaul. Fergus rushed forward with feet of wind.
Fillan like the mist of the hill. Ossian, like a rock, came
down. I exulted in the strength of the king. Many
were the deaths of my arm! dismal the gleam of my
sword! My locks were not then so grey; nor trembled
my hands with age. My eyes were not closed in dark-
ness; my feet failed not in the race!
Who can relate the deaths of the people? Who the
deeds of mighty heroes? when Fingal, burning in his
wrath, consumed the sons of Lochlin? groans swelled on
groans from hill to hill, till night had covered all. Pale,
staring like a herd of deer, the sons of Lochlin convene
on Lena.*
We sat and heard the sprightly harp, at
Lubar's gentle stream. Fingal himself was next to the
foe. He listened to the tales of his bards. His godlike
race were in the song, the chiefs of other times. Atten-
tive, leaning on his shield, the king of Morven sat. The
wind whistled through his locks; his thoughts are of the
days of other years. Near him on his bending spear, my
*Fingal apparently had driven his foes "from hill to hill"
over some five miles of country from Carmona (Belfast) to the
banks of Lubar (Six-mile Water).-C. and E.-T.
206
FINGAL.
young, my valiant Oscar stood. He admired the king of
Morven his deeds were swelling in his soul!
:
race.
"Son of my son," begun the king, "O Oscar, pride of
youth! I saw the shining of thy sword. I gloried in my
Pursue the fame of our fathers; be thou what they
have been, when Trenmor lived, the first of men, and
Trathal the father of heroes! They fought the battle in
their youth. They are the song of bards. O Oscar !
bend the strong in arm: but spare the feeble hand. Be
thou a stream of many tides against the foes of thy
people; but like the gale, that moves the grass, to those
who ask thine aid. So Trenmor lived; such Trathal
was; and such has Fingal been. My arm was the
support of the injured; the weak rested behind the
lightning of my steel.
"Oscar! I was young like thee, when lovely Faina-
sóllis came that sunbeam! that mild light of love! the
daughter of Craca's* king! I then returned from Cona's
heath, and few were in my train. A white-sailed boat
appeared far off; we saw it like a mist, that rode on
ocean's wind. It soon approached. We saw the fair.
Her white breast heaved with sighs. The wind was in
her loose dark hair : her rosy cheek had tears.
"Daughter of beauty," calm I said, "what sigh is in
thy breast? Can I, young as I am, defend thee, daughter
of the sea? My sword is not unmatched in war, but
dauntless is my heart."
((
To thee I fly," with sighs she said, "O prince
* Probably one of the Shetland Isles.
FINGAL.
207
•
of mighty men! To thee I fly, chief of the generous
shells, supporter of the feeble hand! The king of
Craca's echoing isle owned me the sunbeam of his race.
Cromala's hills have heard the sighs of love for unhappy
Fainasóllis! Sora's chief beheld me fair; he loved the
daughter of Craca.
His sword is a beam of light upon
the warrior's side. But dark is his brow; and tempests
are in his soul. I shun him, on the roaring sea; but
Sora's chief pursues.
""
"Rest thou," I said, "behind my shield; rest in
peace, thou beam of light! The gloomy chief of Sora
will fly, if Fingal's arm is like his soul. In some lone
cave I might conceal thee, daughter of the sea! But
Fingal never flies. Where the danger threatens, I rejoice
in the storm of spears." I saw the tears upon her cheek.
I pitied Craca's fair. Now, like a dreadful wave afar,
appeared the ship of stormy Borbar. His masts high-
bended over the sea behind their sheets of snow. White
roll the waters on either side. The strength of ocean
sounds. Come thou," I said, "from the roar of ocean,
thou rider of the storm! Partake the feast within my
hall. It is the house of strangers."
The maid stood trembling by my side. He drew the
bow. She fell. "Unerring is thy hand," I said, "but
feeble was the foe!" We fought, nor weak the strife of
death! He sunk beneath my sword. We laid them in
two tombs of stone; the hapless lovers of youth! Such
have I been in my youth, O Oscar! be thou like the age
of Fingal. Never search thou for battle; nor shun it
when it comes,
208
FINGAL.
"Fillan and Oscar of the dark-brown hair! ye, that
are swift in the race! fly over the heath in my presence.
View the sons of Lochlin. Far off I hear the noise of
their feet, like distant sounds in woods. Go: that they
may not fly from my sword, along the waves of the north.
For many chiefs of Erin's race lie here on the dark bed of
death. The children of war are low; the sons of echo-
ing Cromla."
The heroes flew like two dark clouds: two dark
clouds that are the chariots of ghosts; when air's dark
children come forth to frighten hapless men.
It was
then that Gaul,* the son of Morni, stood like a rock in
night. His spear is glittering to the stars; his voice like
many streams.
"Son of battle," cried the chief, "O Fingal, king of
shells! let the bards of many songs soothe Erin's friends
to rest. Fingal, sheath thou thy sword of death; and let
thy people fight. We wither away without our fame;
our king is the only breaker of shields! When morning
rises on our hills, behold, at a distance, our deeds. Let
Lochlin feel the sword of Morni's son; that bards may
sing of me. Such was the custom heretofore of Fingal's
noble race. Such was thine own, thou king of swords,
in battles of the spear."
* Gaul, the son of Morni, was chief of a tribe that disputed
long the pre-eminence with Fingal himself. They were reduced
at last to obedience, and Gaul, from an enemy, turned Fingal's
best friend and greatest hero. His character is something like
that of Ajax in the Iliad; a hero of more strength than conduct
in battle.
FINGAL.
209
"O son of Morni," Fingal replied, "I glory in thy
fame. Fight; but my spear shall be near, to aid thee
in the midst of danger. Raise, raise the voice, ye sons
of song! and lull me into rest. Here will Fingal lie,
amidst the wind of night. And if thou, Agandecca, art
near, among the children of thy land; if thou sittest
on a blast of wind, among the high-shrouded masts of
Lochlin; come to my dreams, my fair one.
Shew thy
bright face to my soul."
arose.
Many a voice and many a harp, in tuneful sounds
Of Fingal's noble deeds they sung; of Fingal's
noble race: And sometimes, on the lovely sound, was
heard the name of Ossian. I often fought, and often
won, in battles of the spear. But blind, and tearful, and
forlorn I walk with little men! O Fingal, with thy race
of war I now behold thee not! The wild roes feed on
the green tomb of the mighty king of Morven ! Blest be
thy soul, thou king of swords, thou most renowned on
the hills of Cona!
429
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 Everallin, 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 tne 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.
Book IV.*
WHO
HO 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!
CC
'Daughter of the hand of snow! I was not so mourn-
ful and blind. I was not so dark and forlorn, when
Everallin loved me! Everallin with the dark-brown
hair, the white-bosomed daughter of Branno! A thou-
sand 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
* This book, as many of Ossian's other compositions, Is
addressed to the beautiful Malvina, the daughter of Toscar.
She appears to have been in love with Oscar, and to have
affected the company of the father after the death of the son.
+ Campbell observes that the Legon has no sable surge until
one arrives near Lisburn, between which place and Belfast it
glides along oozy and reedy shores. Here therefore probably
was the seat of Branno.—E.-T.
214
FINGAL
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 Ever-
allin. 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 Tos-
car, 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?
С.
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
FINGAL.
215
The
his head away.
Five times I shook it by the lock.
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 Everallin 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 poet returns to his subject.
216
FINGAL.
I have seen the
The ghosts of night shriek afar:
meteors of death. Let me awake the king of Morven,
he that smiles in danger! He that is like the sun of
heaven, rising in a storm!"
Fingal had started from a dream, and leaned on
Trenmor's shield; the dark-brown shield of his father's;
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 desert: 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
FINGAL.
217
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 desert, 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 hands.
Protect the friends of your father. Remember the chiefs
of old. My children, I will see you yet, though here you
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
218
FINGAL.
is the light of his armour; two
His grey hair falls on the wind.
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.
spears are in his hand.
He often looks back on
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 sunbeam 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.
Everallin 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;
FINGAL
219
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 desert 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 to 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.
"Re-
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.
mind 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
220
FINGAL.
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.
of generous steeds, cut down the foe.
hero's heart beat high. But Swaran
He cleft the shield of Gaul in twain.
fled.
Son of the chief
Destroy!"
The
came with battle.
The sons of Selma
Fingal at once arose in arms. Thrice he reared his
dreadful voice. Cromla answered around. The sons of
the desert 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
FINGAL.
221
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!"
"C
""
((
'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,"
* Fingal's standard. To begin a battle is expressed, in old
composition, by lifting of the sunbeam.
222
FINGAL.
said Fingal of the mildest look. "Swaran, king of
roaring waves, thou art the choice of Fingal !"
Now, like an 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,"
FINGAL.
223
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, Oye ghosts of the
lonely Cromla! ye souls of chiefs that are no more! be
* In the craggy south side of the Cave-hill there still remain
three caves, the highest, however, now inaccessible.-E.-T.
224
FINGAL
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 sunbeam of my soul!"
Book V.
430
ARGUMENT TO BOOK V.
CUTHULLIN and Connal still remain on the hill. Fingal and
Swaran meet; the combat is described. Swaran is over-
come, bound, and delivered over as a prisoner to the care of
Ossian and Gaul the son of Morni; Fingal, his younger sons,
and Oscar, still pursue the enemy. The episode of Orla, a
chief of Lochlin, who was mortally wounded in the battle, is
introduced. Fingal, touched with the death of Orla, orders
the pursuit to be discontinued; and calling his sons together,
he is informed that Ryno, the youngest of them, was slain.
He laments his death, hears the story of Lamderg and
Gelchossa, and returns towards the place where he had left
Swaran. Carril, who had been sent by Cuthullin to con-
gratulate Fingal on his victory, comes in the meantime to
Ossian. The conversation of the two poets closes the action
of the fourth day.
Book V.
ΟΝ
N Cromla's resounding side, Connal spoke to the
chief of the noble car. "Why that gloom, son of
Semo? Our friends are the mighty in fight. Renowned
art thou, O warrior! many were the deaths of thy steel.
Often has Bragela met, with blue-rolling eyes of joy :
often has she met her hero, returning in the midst of the
valiant; when his sword was red with slaughter; when
his foes were silent in the fields of the tomb. Pleasant
to her ears were thy bards, when thy deeds arose in
song.
"But behold the king of Morven ! He moves, below,
like a pillar of fire. His strength is like the stream of
Lubar, or the wind of the echoing Cromla; when the
branchy forests of night are torn from all their rocks!
Happy are thy people, O Fingal ! thine arm shall finish
their wars. Thou art the first in their dangers: the
wisest in the days of their peace. Thou speakest, and
thy thousands obey: armies tremble at the sound of thy
steel. Happy are thy people, O Fingal! king of
resounding Selma ! Who is that so dark and terrible
coming in the thunder of his course? who but Starno's
son to meet the king of Morven ? Behold the battle of
the chiefs! it is the storm of the ocean, when two spirits
228
FINGAL.
meet far distant, and contend for the
The hunter hears the noise on his hill.
billows advancing to Ardven's shore !"
Such were the words of Connal, when the heroes met,
in fight. There was the clang of arms! there every blow,
like the hundred hammers of the furnace! Terrible is
the battle of the kings; dreadful the look of their eyes.
Their dark-brown shields are cleft in twain. Their steel
flies, broken, from their helms. They fling their weapons
down. Each rushes to his hero's grasp; their sinewy
arms bend round each other: they turn from side to side,
and strain and stretch their large spreading limbs below.
But when the pride of their strength arose, they shook
the hill with their heels. Rocks tumble from their
places on high; the green-headed bushes are overturned.
At length the strength of Swaran fell: the king of the
groves is bound.
Thus have I seen on Cona; but Cona
I behold no more! thus have I seen two dark hills,
removed from their place, by the strength of the bursting
stream. They turn from side to side in their fall; their
tall oaks meet one another on high. Then they tumble
together with all their rocks and trees. The streams are
turned by their side. The red ruin is seen afar.
"Sons of distant Morven," said Fingal: "guard the
king of Lochlin! He is strong as his thousand waves.
His hand is taught to war. His race is of the times of
old. Gaul, thou first of my heroes; Ossian, king of
songs, attend. He is the friend of Agandecca; raise to
joy his grief. But, Oscar, Fillan, and Ryno, ye children
of the race! pursue Lochlin over Lena; that no vessel
rolling of waves.
He sees the high
FINGAL.
229
M
may hereafter bound, on the dark-rolling waves of
Inistore!"
They flew sudden across the heath. He slowly moved,
like a cloud of thunder, when the sultry plain of summer
is silent and dark! His sword is before him as a sun-
beam; terrible as the streaming meteor of night. He
came toward a chief of Lochlin. He spoke to the son of
the wave.
"Who is that so dark and sad, at the rock of
the roaring stream? He cannot bound over its course :
How stately is the chief! His bossy shield is on his
side; his spear, like the tree of the desert! Youth of
the dark-red hair, art thou of the foes of Fingal ? "
""
"I am a son of Lochlin," he cries, "strong is my arm
in war.
My spouse is weeping at home. Orla shall
never return ! "Or fights or yields the hero?" said
Fingal of the noble deeds; "foes do not conquer in my
presence: my friends are renowned in the hall. Son of
the wave, follow me, partake the feast of my shells:
pursue the deer of my desert: be thou the friend of
Fingal." "No:" said the hero, "I assist the feeble.
My strength is with the weak in arms. My sword has
been always unmatched, O warrior! let the king of
Morven yield!" "I never yielded, Orla! Fingal never
yielded to man. Draw thy sword and choose thy foe.
Many are my heroes!
"
(C
"Does then the king refuse the fight?" said Orla of
the dark-brown shield. Fingal is a match for Orla :
and he alone of all his race!" "But king of Morven, if
I shall fall; as one time the warrior must die; raise my
tomb in the midst; let it be the greatest on Lena. Send,
230
FINGAL.
"
over the dark-blue wave, the sword of Orla to the spouse
of his love; that she may shew it to her son, with tears,
to kindle his soul to war. "Son of the mournful tale,'
said Fingal; "why dost thou awaken my tears? One
day the warriors must die, and the children see their
useless arms in the hall. But, Orla ! thy tomb shall rise.
Thy white-bosomed spouse shall weep over thy sword."
They fought on the heath of Lena. Feeble was the
arm of Orla. The sword of Fingal descended, and cleft
his shield in twain. It fell and glittered on the ground,
as the moon on the ruffled stream. "King of Morven,"
said the hero, "lift thy sword and pierce my breast.
Wounded and faint from battle, my friends have left me
here. The mournful tale shall come to my love, on the
banks of the streamy Lota; when she is alone in the
wood; and the rustling blast in the leaves !"
"No;" said the king of Morven, "I will never
wound thee, Orla. On the banks of Lota let her see
thee, escaped from the hands of war. Let thy grey-
haired father, who, perhaps, is blind with age; let him
hear the sound of thy voice, and brighten within his hall.
With joy let the hero rise, and search for his son with his
hands!' "But never will he find him, Fingal;” said
the youth of the streamy Lota. "On Lena's heath I
must die foreign bards shall talk of me.
:
My broad
belt covers my wound of death. I give it to the
19
wind!"
The dark blood poured from his side, he fell pale on
the heath of Lena. Fingal bent over him as he dies, and
called his younger chiefs. "Oscar and Fillan, my sons,
FINGAL.
231
raise high the memory of Orla. Here let the dark-
haired hero rest, far from the spouse of his love. Here
let him rest in his narrow house far from the sound of
Lota. The feeble will find his bow at home; but will
not be able to bend it. His faithful dogs howl on his
hills; his boars, which he used to pursue, rejoice.
Fallen is the arm of battle! the mighty among the
valiant is low! Exalt the voice, and blow the horn, ye
sons of the king of Morven ! Let us go back to Swaran,
to send the night away on song. Fillan, Oscar, and
Ryno, fly over the heath of Lena. Where, Ryno, art
thou, young son of fame? Thou art not wont to be the
last to answer thy father's voice!"
68
'Ryno," said Ullin, first of bards, "is with the awful
forms of his fathers. With Trathal, king of shields;
with Trenmor of mighty deeds. The youth is low, the
youth is pale, he lies on Lena's heath!" 'Fell the
swiftest in the race," said the king, "the first to bend
the bow? Thou scarce hast been known to me! why
did young Ryno fall? But sleep thou softly on Lena,
Fingal shall soon behold thee. Soon shall my voice
be heard no more, and my footsteps cease to be seen.
The bards will tell of Fingal's name. The stones will
talk of me. But, Ryno, thou art low indeed! thou hast
not received thy fame. Ullin, strike the harp for Ryno;
tell what the chief would have been. Farewell, thou
first in every field! No more shall I direct thy dart!
Thou that hast been so fair! I behold thee not. Fare-
well.' The tear is on the cheek of the king, for terrible
was his son in war, His son that was like a beam of
232
FINGAL.
fire by night on a hill; when the forests sink down in its
course, and the traveller trembles at the sound! But the
winds drive it beyond the steep. It sinks from sight,
and darkness prevails.
"Whose fame is in that dark-green tomb?" begun the
king of generous shells; "four stones with their heads of
moss stand there ! They mark the narrow house of
death. Near it let Ryno rest. A neighbour to the brave
let him lie. Some chief of fame is here, to fly, with my
son, on clouds. O Ullin! raise the songs of old.
Awake their memory in their tomb. If in the field they
never fled, my son shall rest by their side. He shall
rest, far distant from Morven, on Lena's resounding
plains!"
<<
'Here," said the bard of song, "here rest the first of
heroes. Silent is Lamderg in this place: dumb is Ullin
king of swords: And who, soft smiling from her cloud,
shews me her face of love? Why, daughter, why so
pale art thou, first of the maids of Cromla? Dost thou
sleep with the foes in battle, white-bosomed daughter of
Tuathal? Thou hast been the love of thousands, but
Lamderg was thy love. He came to Tura's mossy
towers, and, striking his dark buckler, spoke:
'Where is Gelchossa, my love, the daughter of the noble
Tuathal? I left her in the hall of Tura, when I fought
with great Ulfada.' 'Return soon, O Lamderg!' she said,
'for here I sit in grief.' Her white breast rose with sighs.
Her cheek was wet with tears. But I see her not
coming to meet me; to sooth my soul after war. Silent
is the hall of my joy! I hear not the voice of the bard.
FINGAL
233
Bran does not shake his chains at the gate, glad at the
coming of Lamderg. Where is Gelchossa, my love, the
mild daughter of the generous Tuathal?'
666
'Lamderg!' says Ferchios, son of Aidon, Gelchossa
moves stately on Cromla. She and the maids of the
bow pursue the flying deer!' 'Ferchios!' replied the
chief of Cromla, 'no noise meets the ear of Lamderg!
No sound is in the woods of Lena. No deer fly in my
sight. No panting dog pursues. I see not Gelchossa,
my love, fair as the full moon setting on the hills. Go,
Ferchios, go to Allad, the grey-haired son of the rock.
His dwelling is in the circle of stones. He may know
of the bright Gelchossa!'
(6
"The son of Aidon went. He spoke to the ear of
age. Allad! dweller of rocks: thou that tremblest
alone! what saw thine eyes of age?' 'I saw,'
answered Allad the old, 'Ullin the son of Cairbar.
He came, in darkness, from Cromla. He hummed a
surly song, like a blast in a leafless wood, He entered
the hall of Tura. Lamderg," he said, "most dreadful
of men, fight, or yield to Ullin. 'Lamderg?" replied
Gelchossa, "the son of battle is not here.
He fights
Ulfada mighty chief. He is not here, thou first of men!
But Lamderg never yields. He will fight the son of
Cairbar!" Lovely art thou," said terrible Ullin,
46 daughter of the generous Tuathal. I carry thee to
Cairbar's halls. The valiant shall have Gelchossa.
Three days I remain on Cromla, to wait that son of
battle, Lamderg. On the fourth Gelchossa is mine; if
the mighty Lamderg flies."
·
66
""
(6
234
FINGAL.
"Allad !' said the chief of Cromla, 'peace to thy
dreams in the cave. Ferchois, sound the horn of Lam-
derg, that Ullin may hear in his halls.' Lamderg, like
a roaring storm, ascended the hill from Tura. He
hummed a surly song as he went, like the noise of a
falling stream. He darkly stood upon the hill, like a
cloud varying its form to the wind. He rolled a stone,
the sign of war. Ullin heard in Cairbar's hall. The
hero heard, with joy, his foe. He took his father's
spear. A smile brightens his dark-brown cheek, as he
places his sword by his side. The dagger glittered in his
hand. He whistled as he went.
6
"Gelchossa saw the silent chief, as a wreath of mist
ascending the hill. She struck her white and heaving
breast; and silent, tearful, feared for Lamderg. 'Cair-
bar, hoary chief of shells,' said the maid of the tender
hand, I must bend the bow on Cromla. I see the
dark-brown hinds !' She hasted up the hill. In vain !
the gloomy heroes fought. Why should I tell to Selma's
king, how wrathful heroes fight? Fierce Ullin fell.
Young Lamderg came, all pale to the daughter of
generous Tuathal ! 'What blood, my love?' she
trembling said: 'what blood runs down my warrior's
side?' 'It is Ullin's blood,' the chief replied, thou
fairer than the snow! Gelchossa, let me rest here a little
while.' The mighty Lamderg died! 'And sleepest
thou so soon on earth, O chief of shady Tura ?' Three
days she mourned beside her love. The hunters found
her cold. They raised this tomb above the three. Thy
son, O king of Morven, may rest here with heroes!"
FINGAL.
235
""
"The
"And here my son shall rest," said Fingal.
voice of their fame is in mine ears. Fillan and Fergus!
bring hither Orla; the pale youth of the stream of Lota!
Not unequalled shall Ryno lie in earth, when Orla is by
his side. Weep, ye daughters of Morven ! ye maids of
the streamy Lota weep! Like a tree they grew on the
hills. They have fallen like the oak of the desert; when
it lies across a stream, and withers in the wind. Oscar!
chief of every youth! thou seest how they have fallen.
Be thou like them, on earth renowned. Like them the
song of bards. Terrible were their forms in battle; but
calm was Ryno in the days of peace. He was like the
bow of the shower seen far distant on the stream; when
the sun is setting on Mora; when silence dwells on the
hill of deer. Rest, youngest of my sons! rest, O Ryno !
on Lena. We too shall be no more. Warriors one day
must fall!
Such was thy grief, thou king of swords, when Ryno
lay on earth.
What must the grief of Ossian be, for thou
thyself art gone! I hear not thy distant voice on Cona.
My eyes perceive thee not. Often forlorn and dark I sit
at thy tomb; and feel it with my hands. When I think
I hear thy voice, it is but the passing blast.
long since fallen asleep, the ruler of the war!
Fingal has
Then Gaul and Ossian sat with Swaran, on the soft
green banks of Lubar. I touched the harp to please the
king. But gloomy was his brow. He rolled his red
eyes towards Lena. The hero mourned his host. I raised
mine eyes to Cromla's brow. I saw the son of generous
Semo. Sad and slow, he retired, from his hill, towards
236
FINGAL.
the lonely cave of Tura. He saw Fingal victorious, and
mixed his joy with grief. The sun is bright on his
armour. Connal slowly strode behind. They sunk
behind the hill, like two pillars of the fire of night: when
winds pursue them over the mountain, and the flaming
heath resounds! Beside a stream of roaring foam his
cave is in a rock. One tree bends above it. The
rushing winds echo against its sides. Here rests the
chief of Erin, the son of generous Semo. His thoughts
are on the battles he lost. The tear is on his cheek.
He mourned the departure of his fame, that fled like the
mist of Cona. O Bragela! thou art too far remote, to
cheer the soul of the hero. But let him see thy bright
form in his mind: that his thoughts may return to the
lonely sunbeam of his love!
(6
Who comes with the locks of age?
songs. Hail, Carril of other times!
like the harp in the halls of Tura. Thy words are
pleasant as the shower which falls on the sunny field.
Carril of the times of old, why comest thou from the son
of the generous Semo ?"
It is the son of
Thy voice is
Ossian, king of swords," replied the bard, "thou
best can raise the song. Long hast thou been known to
Carril, thou ruler of war! Often have I touched the harp
to lovely Everallin. Thou too hast often joined my
voice, in Branno's hall of generous shells. And often,
amidst our voices, was heard the mildest Everallin.
One day she sung of Cormac's fall, the youth who died
for her love. I saw the tears on her cheek, and on thine,
thou chief of men! Her soul was touched for the
FINGAL.
237
unhappy, though she loved him not. How fair among
a thousand maids was the daughter of generous Branno!"
Bring not, Carril," I replied, "bring not her
memory to my mind. My soul must melt at the
remembrance. My eyes must have their tears. Pale in
the earth is she, the softly-blushing fair of my love! But
sit thou on the heath, O bard! and let us hear thy voice.
It is pleasant as the gale of spring, that sighs on the
hunter's ear; when he awakens from dreams of joy, and
has heard the music of the spirits of the hill !"
Book VI.
ARGUMENT TO BOOK VI.
NIGHT comes on. Fingal gives a feast to his army, at which
Swaran is present. The king commands Ullin his bard to
give the song of peace; a custom always observed at the end
of a war. Ullin relates the actions of Trenmor, great grand-
father to Fingal, in Scandinavia, and his marriage with
Inibaca, the daughter of a king of Lochlin who was ancestor
to Swaran; which consideration, together with his being
brother to Agandecca, with whom Fingal was in love in
his youth, induced the king to release him, and permit him to
return with the remains of his army into Lochlin, upon his
promise of never returning to Ireland in a hostile manner.
The night is spent in settling Swaran's departure, in songs of
bards, and in a conversation in which the story of Grumal is
introduced by Fingal. Morning comes, Swaran departs;
Fingal goes on a hunting party, and finding Cuthullin in the
cave of Tura, comforts him, and sets sail the next day for
Scotland; which concludes the poem.
3300k VI.
THE
HE clouds of night come rolling down. Darkness
rests on the steeps of Cromla. The stars of the
north arise over the rolling of Erin's waves: they shew
their heads of fire, through the flying mist of heaven. A
distant wind roars in the wood. Silent and dark is the
plain of death! Still on the dusky Lena arose in my
ears the voice of Carril. He sung of the friends of our
youth; the days of former years; when we met on the
banks of Lego: when we sent round the joy of the shell.
Cromla answered to his voice. The ghosts of those he
sung came in their rustling winds. They were seen to
bend with joy, towards the sound of their praise!
Be thy soul blest, O Carril! in the midst of thy eddy-
ing winds.
O that thou wouldst come to my hall, when
I am alone by night! And thou dost come, my friend.
I hear often thy light hand on my harp; when it hangs,
on the distant wall, and the feeble sound touches my ear.
Why dost thou not speak to me in my grief, and tell
when I shall behold my friends? But thou passest away
in thy murmuring blast; the wind whistles through the
grey hair of Ossian !
Now, on the side of Mora, the heroes gathered to the
feast. A thousand aged oaks are burning to the wind.
431
242
FINGAL
*
The strength of the shells goes round. The souls of
warriors brighten with joy. But the king of Lochlin is
silent. Sorrow reddens in the eyes of his pride. He
often turned toward Lena. He remembered that he fell.
Fingal leaned on the shield of his fathers. His grey
locks slowly waved on the wind, and glittered to the
beam of night. He saw the grief of Swaran, and spoke
to the first of bards.
"Raise, Ullin, raise the song of peace. O soothe my
soul from war! Let mine ear forget, in the sound, the
dismal noise of arms. Let a hundred harps be near to
gladden the king of Lochlin. He must depart from us
with joy. None ever went sad from Fingal. Oscar!
the lightning of my sword is against the strong in fight.
Peaceful it lies by my side when warriors yield in war.”
"Trenmor," said the mouth of songs, "lived in the
days of other years. He bounded over the waves of the
north companion of the storm! The high rocks of the
land of Lochlin; its groves of murmuring sounds
appeared to the hero through mist; he bound his white-
bosomed sails. Trenmor pursued the boar, that roared
through the woods of Gormal. Many had fled from its
presence: but it rolled in death on the spear of Trenmor.
Three chiefs, who beheld the deed, told of the mighty
stranger. They told that he stood, like a pillar of fire,
in the bright arms of his valour. The king of Lochlin
* The ancient Celta brewed beer, and they were no strangers
to mead.
+ Great grandfather to Fingal.
FINGAL.
243
prepared the feast. He called the blooming Trenmor.
Three days he feasted at Gormal's windy towers; and
received his choice in the combat. The land of Lochlin
had no hero, that yielded not to Trenmor. The shell
of joy went round with songs, in praise of the king of
Morven. He that came over the waves, the first of
mighty men!"
Now when the fourth grey morn arose, the hero
launched his ship. He walked along the silent shore,
and called for the rushing wind: for loud and distant
he heard the blast murmuring behind the groves.
Covered over with arms of steel, a son of the woody
Gormal appeared. Red was his cheek and fair his
hair. His skin like the snow of Morven. Mild rolled
his blue and smiling eye, when he spoke to the king of
swords.
"Stay, Trenmor, stay, thou first of men, thou hast not
conquered Lonval's son. My sword has often met the
brave. The wise shun the strength of my bow."
"Thou fair-haired youth," Trenmor replied, "I will
not fight with Lonval's son. Thine arm is feeble, sun-
beam of youth! Retire to Gormal's dark-brown hinds.”
"But I will retire," replied the youth, "with the sword
of Trenmor; and exult in the sound of my fame.
fame. The
virgins shall gather with smiles, around him who con-
quered mighty Trenmor. They shall sigh with the sighs
of love, and admire the length of thy spear; when I
shall carry it among thousands; when I lift the glittering
point to the sun.”
"Thou shalt never carry my spear," said the angry
244
FINGAL.
"
king of Morven. Thy mother shall find thee pale on
the shore; and, looking over the dark-blue deep, see the
sails of him that slew her son ! "I will not lift the
spear," replied the youth, "my arm is not strong with
years. But, with the feathered dart, I have learned to
pierce a distant foe. Throw down that heavy mail of
steel. Trenmor is covered from death. I, first, will lay
my mail on earth. Throw now thy dart, thou king of
Morven !" He saw the heaving of her breast. It was
the sister of the king. She had seen him in the hall:
and loved his face of youth. The spear dropt from the
hand of Trenmor: he bent his red cheek to the ground.
She was to him a beam of light that meets the sons of the
cave ; when they revisit the fields of the sun, and bend
their aching eyes!
'Chief of the windy Morven," begun the maid of the
arms of snow, "let me rest in thy bounding ship, far
from the love of Corlo. For he, like the thunder of the
desert, is terrible to Inibaca. He loves me in the gloom
of pride. He shakes ten thousand spears!" "Rest thou
in peace," said the mighty Trenmor, "rest behind the
shield of my fathers. I will not fly from the chief, though
he shakes ten thousand spears !" Three days he waited
on the shore. He sent his horn abroad. He called
Corlo to battle, from all his echoing hills. But Corlo
came not to battle. The king of Lochlin
his hall. He feasted on the roaring shore.
maid to Trenmor !
"C
((
descends from
He gave the
'King of Lochlin," said Fingal, "thy blood flows in
the veins of thy foe. Our fathers met in battle, because
FINGAL.
245
:
they loved the strife of spears. But often did they feast
in the hall and send round the joy of the shell. Let
thy face brighten with gladness, and thine ear delight in
the harp. Dreadful as the storm of thine ocean, thou
hast poured thy valour forth; thy voice has been like the
voice of thousands when they engage in war. Raise, to-
morrow, raise thy white sails to the wind, thou brother of
Agandecca! Bright as the beam of noon, she comes on
my mournful soul. I have seen thy tears for the fair one.
I spared thee in the halls of Starno; when my sword
was red with slaughter; when my eye was full of tears for
the maid. Or dost thou choose the fight? The combat
which thy fathers gave to Trenmor is thine! that thou
mayest depart renowned, like the sun setting in the west !"
King of the race of Morven !" said the chief of
resounding Lochlin, "never will Swaran fight with thee,
first of a thousand heroes! I have seen thee in the
halls of Starno: few were thy years beyond my own.
When shall I, I said to my soul, lift the spear like the
noble Fingal? We have fought heretofore, O warrior,
on the side of the shaggy Malmor; after my waves had
carried me to thy halls, and the feast of a thousand shells
was spread. Let the bards send his name who overcame
to future years, for noble was the strife of Malmor! But
many of the ships of Lochlin have lost their youths on
Lena. Take these, thou king of Morven, and be the
friend of Swaran! When thy sons shall come to
Gormal, the feast of shells shall be spread, and the
combat offered on the vale."
"(
"Nor ship," replied the king, "shall Fingal take, nor
246
FINGAL.
land of many hills. The desert is enough to me, with
all its deer and woods. Rise on thy waves again, thou
noble friend of Agandecca! Spread thy white sails to
the beam of the morning; return to the echoing hills of
Gormal." (C
'Blest be thy soul, thou king of shells,"
said Swaran of the dark-brown shield. "In peace thou
art the gale of spring. In war the mountain-storm.
Take now my hand in friendship, king of echoing
Selma! Let thy bards mourn those who fell. Let Erin
give the sons of Lochlin to earth. Raise high the mossy
stones of their fame: that the children of the north here-
after may behold the place where their fathers fought.
The hunter may say, when he leans on a mossy tomb,
here Fingal and Swaran fought, the heroes of other
years.
Thus hereafter shall he say, and our fame shall
last for ever!"
"Swaran," said the king of hills, "to-day our fame is
greatest. We shall pass away like a dream. No sound
will remain in our fields of war. Our tombs will be lost
in the heath. The hunter shall not know the place of
our rest. Our names may be heard in song. What avails
it when our strength hath ceased? O Ossian, Carril, and
Ullin! you know of heroes that are no more.
Give us
the song of other years. Let the night pass away on the
sound, and morning return with joy.'
""
We gave the song to the kings. An hundred harps
mixed their sound with our voice. The face of Swaran
brightened, like the full moon of heaven; when the
clouds vanish away, and leave her calm and broad in the
midst of the sky!
FINGAL.
247
""
"Where, Carril," said the great Fingal, "Carril of
other times! Where is the son of Semo, the king of the
isle of mist? has he retired like the meteor of death, to
the dreary cave of Tura?" 'Cuthullin," said Carril of
other times! "lies in the dreary cave of Tura. His hand
is on the sword of his strength. His thoughts on the
battles he lost. Mournful is the king of spears; till now
unconquered in war. He sends his sword to rest on the
side of Fingal: for, like the storm of the desert, thou
hast scattered all his foes. Take, O Fingal! the sword
of the hero. His fame is departed like mist, when it
flies, before the rustling wind, along the brightening
vale."
"No:" replied the king, "Fingal shall never take his
sword. His arm is mighty in war : his fame shall never
fail. Many have been overcome in battle; whose renown
arose from their fall. O Swaran! king of resounding
woods, give all thy grief away. The vanquished, if
brave, are renowned. They are like the sun in a cloud,
when he hides his face in the south, but looks again on
the hills of grass!
"Grumal was a chief of Cona. He fought the battle
on every coast. His soul rejoiced in blood; his ear in
the din of arms. He poured his warriors on Craca;
Craca's king met him from his grove: for then, within
the circle of Brumo,* he spoke to the stone of power.
Fierce was the battle of the heroes, for the maid of the
breast of snow. The fame of the daughter of Craca had
* This passage alludes to the religion of the King of Craca.
248
FINGAL
reached Grumal at the streams of Cona: he vowed to
have the white-bosomed maid, or die on echoing Craca.
Three days they strove together, and Grumal on the
fourth was bound. Far from his friends they placed him
in the horrid circle of Brumo; where often, they said,
the ghosts of the dead howled round the stone of their
fear. But he afterwards shone, like a pillar of the light
of heaven. They fell by his mighty hand. Grumal had
all his fame!
""
<<
Raise, ye bards of other times," continued the great
Fingal, "raise high the praise of heroes: that my soul
may settle on their fame; that the mind of Swaran may
cease to be sad.' They lay in the heath of Mora. The
dark winds rustled over the chiefs. A hundred voices,
at once, arose; a hundred harps were strung. They
sung of other times; the mighty chiefs of former years!
When now shall I hear the bard? When rejoice at the
fame of my fathers? The harp is not strung on Morven.
The voice of music ascends not on Cona. Dead, with
the mighty, is the bard. Fame is in the desert no more.
Morning trembles with the beam of the east; it
glimmers on Cromla's side. Over Lena is heard the horn
of Swaran. The sons of the ocean gather around. Silent
and sad they rise on the wave. The blast of Erin is
behind their sails. White, as the mist of Morven, they
float along the sea.
"Call," said Fingal,
"call my
dogs, the long-bounding sons of the chase. Call white-
breasted Bran, and the surly strength of Luath! Fillan,
and Ryno; but he is not here! My son rests on the bed
of death. Fillan and Fergus, blow the horn, that the joy
FINGAL.
249
of the chase may arise: that the deer of Cromla may hear
and start at the lake of roes.
""
The sons of
The shrill sound spreads along the wood.
heathy Cromla* arise. A thousand dogs fly off at once,
grey-bounding through the heath. A deer fell by every
dog; three by the white-breasted Bran. He brought
them, in their flight, to Fingal, that the joy of the king
might be great! One deer fell at the tomb of Ryno.
The grief of Fingal returned. He saw how peaceful lay
the stone of him, who was the first at the chase!
more shalt thou rise, O my son! to partake of the feast
of Cromla. Soon will thy tomb be hid, and the grass
grow rank on thy grave. The sons of the feeble shall
pass along. They shall not know where the mighty lie.
"No
"Ossian and Fillan, sons of my strength! Gaul, chief
of the blue steel of war! let us ascend the hill to the cave
of Tura. Let us find the chief of the battles of Erin.
Are these the walls of Tura? grey and lonely they rise on
the heath. The chief of shells is sad, and the halls are
silent and lonely. Come, let us find Cuthullin, and give
him all our joy. But is that Cuthullin, O Fillan, or a
pillar of smoke on the heath? The wind of Cromla is on
my eyes. I distinguish not my friend."
""
Fingal !" replied the youth, "it is the son of Semo!
Gloomy and sad is the hero! his hand is on his sword.
Hail to the son of battle, breaker of the shields! "
"Hail to thee,” replied Cuthullin, "hail to all the sons
of Morven ! Delightful is thy presence, O Fingal! it is
* Ridge of hills near Lough Larne.-E. T.
250
FINGAL.
>>
the sun on Cromla; when the hunter mourns his absence
for a season, and sees him between the clouds. Thy sons
are like stars that attend thy course. They give light
in the night. It is not thus thou hast seen me, O Fingal!
returning from the wars of thy land: when the kings of
the world* had fled, and joy returned to the hill of
hinds! "Many are thy words, Cuthullin," said Connan
of small renown. "Thy words are many, son of Semo,
but where are thy deeds in arms? Why did we come,
over ocean, to aid thy feeble sword? Thou flyest to thy
cave of grief, and Connan fights thy battles, Resign to
me these arms of light. Yield them, thou chief of Erin."
"No hero," replied the chief, "ever sought the arms of
Cuthullin and had a thousand heroes sought them, it
were in vain, thou gloomy youth! I fled not to the cave
of grief, till Erin failed at her streams.
""
"Youth of the feeble arm," said Fingal, "Connan,
cease thy words ! Cuthullin is renowned in battle;
terrible over the world. Often have I heard thy fame,
thou stormy chief of Inis-fail. Spread now thy white
sails for the isle of mist. See Bragela leaning on her
rock. Her tender eye is in tears; the winds lift her
long hair from her heaving breast. She listens to the
breeze of night, to hear the voice of thy rowers ;† to
hear the song of the sea! the sound of thy distant harp ! "
* The Roman Emperor is distinguished in old compositions
by the title of king of the world.
+ The practice of singing when they row is universal among
the inhabitants of the north-west coast of Scotland and the
isles. It deceives time, and inspirits the rowers.
FINGAL.
251
Long shall she listen in vain. Cuthullin shall never
return! How can I behold Bragela, to raise the sigh of
her breast? Fingal, I was always victorious, in battles
of other spears!" "And hereafter thou shalt be
victorious," said Fingal of generous shells. "The fame
of Cuthullin shall grow, like the branchy tree of Cromla.
Many battles await thee, O chief! Many shall be the
wounds of thy hand! Bring hither, Oscar, the deer!
Prepare the feast of shells. Let our souls rejoice after
danger, and our friends delight in our presence!"
We sat. We feasted. We sung.
Cuthullin rose. The strength of his arm returned.
Gladness brightened along his face. Ullin gave the
song; Carril raised the voice.
I joined the bards, and
Battles! where I often
The soul of
sung of battles of the spear.
fought. Now I fight no more!
deeds is ceased. I sit forlorn at the tombs of my
friends !
The fame of my former
''
Thus the night passed away in song. We brought
back the morning with joy. Fingal arose on the heath,
and shook his glittering spear. He moved first toward
the plains of Lena. We followed in all our arms.
"Spread the sail," said the king, "seize the winds as
they pour from Lena." We rose on the wave with
songs. We rushed, with joy, through the foam of the
deep.
LATHMON: A POEM.
ARGUMENT.
LATHMON, a British prince, taking advantage of Fingal's absence
on an expedition in Ireland, made a descent on Morven, and
advanced within sight of Selma, the royal residence. Fingal
arrived in the meantime, and Lathmon retreated to a hill,
where his army was surprised by night, and himself taken
prisoner by Ossian and Gaul the son of Morm. The poem
opens, with the first appearance of Fingal on the coast of
Morven, and ends, it may be supposed, about noon the next
day.
LATHMON: A POEM.
SE
ELMA, thy halls are silent. There is no sound in
the woods of Morven. The wave tumbles alone
on the coast. The silent beam of the sun is on the
field. The daughters of Morven come forth, like the
bow of the shower; they look towards green Erin for the
white sails of the king. He had promised to return, but
the winds of the north arose !
like a stream of
He has heard of
the wind of the
Why dost thou
Who pours from the eastern hill,
darkness? It is the host of Lathmon.
the absence of Fingal. He trusts in
north. His soul brightens with joy.
come, O Lathmon ? The mighty are not in Selma.
Why comest thou with thy forward spear? Will the
daughters of Morven fight? But stop, O mighty stream,
in thy course! Does not Lathmon behold these sails?
Why dost thou vanish, Lathmon, like the mist of the
lake? But the squally storm is behind thee; Fingal
pursues thy steps!
The king of Morven had started from sleep, as we
rolled on the dark-blue wave. He stretched his hand to
his spear, his heroes rose around. We knew that he had
256
LATHMON.
seen his fathers, for they often descended to his dreams,
when the sword of the foe rose over the land; and the
battle darkened before us. "Whither hast thou fled, O
wind!" said the king of Morven. "Dost thou rustle in the
chambers of the south, pursuest thou the shower in other
lands? Why dost thou not come to my sails? to the
blue face of my seas? The foe is in the land of Morven,
and the king is absent far. But let each bind on his
mail, and each assume his shield. Stretch every spear
over the wave; let every sword be unsheathed.
Lathmon* is before us with his host: he that fled from
Fingal on the plains of Lona. But he returns, like a
collected stream, and his roar is between our hills."
Such were the words of Fingal. We rushed into
Carmona's bay.† Ossian ascended the hill: he thrice
struck his bossy shield. The rock of Morven replied:
the bounding roes came forth. The foe was troubled in
my presence: he collected his darkened host. I stood,
like a cloud on the hill, rejoicing in the arms of my
youth.
:
Morni sat beneath a tree, at the roaring waters of
Strumon his locks of age are grey: he leans forward on
his staff; young Gaul is near the hero, hearing the
battles of his father. Often did he rise, in the fire of his
*
It is said by tradition, that it was the intelligence of
Lathmon's invasion that occasioned Fingal's return from
Ireland; though Ossian, more poetically, ascribes the cause of
Fingal's knowledge to his dream.
† Here, says Campbell, & fragment of the poem appears lost—
the passage from Carmona (Carrickfergus) to Morven.-E.-T.
LATHMON.
257
soul, at the mighty deeds of Morni. The aged heard the
sound of Ossian's shield: he knew the sign of war. He
started at once from his place. His grey hair parted on
his back. He remembered the deeds of other years.
My son," he said to fair-haired Gaul, "I hear the
sound of war. The king of Morven is returned, his
signals are spread on the wind. Go to the halls of
Strumon; bring his arms to Morni. Bring the shield of
my father's latter years, for my arm begins to fail. Take
thou thy armour, O Gaul! and rush to the first of thy
battles. Let thine arm reach to the renown of thy
fathers. Be thy course in the field, like the eagle's wing.
Why shouldst thou fear death, my son? the valiant fall
with fame; their shields turn the dark stream of danger
away; renown dwells on their aged hairs. Dost thou
not see, O Gaul! how the steps of my age are honoured?
Morni moves forth, and the young meet him, with awe,
and turn their eyes, with silent joy, on his course. But
I never fled from danger, my son ! my sword lightened
through the darkness of war. The stranger melted before
me; the mighty were blasted in my presence.'
""
Gaul brought the arms to Morni: the aged warrior is
covered with steel. He took the spear in his hand,
which was stained with the blood of the valiant. He
came towards Fingal, his son attended his steps. The
son of Comhal arose before him with joy, when he
came in his locks of age.
Chief of roaring Strumon!" said the rising soul of
Fingal; "do I bebold thee in arms, after thy strength
has failed? Often has Morni shone in fight, like the
"C
432
258
LATHMON.
beam of the ascending sun; when he disperses the storms
of the hill, and brings peace to the glittering fields. But
why didst thou not rest in thine age? Thy renown is in
the song.
The people behold thee, and bless the
departure of mighty Morni. Why didst thou not rest in
thine age? The foe will vanish before Fingal !"
"Son of Comhal," replied the chief, "the strength of
Morni's arm has failed. I attempt to draw the sword of
my youth, but it remains in its place. I throw the spear,
but it falls short of the mark. I feel the weight of my
shield. We decay like the grass of the hill: our strength
returns no more. I have a son, O Fingal! his soul has
delighted in Morni's deeds; but his sword has not been
liſted against a foe, neither has his fame begun. I come
with him to war; to direct his arm in fight. His renown
will be a light to my soul, in the dark hour of my de-
parture. O that the name of Morni were forgot among the
people! that the heroes would only say, 'Behold the
father of Gaul !'"
"King of Strumon," Fingal replied, "Gaul shall
lift the sword in fight. But he shall lift it before Fingal ;
my arm shall defend his youth. But rest thou in the
halls of Selma; and hear of our renown. Bid the harp
to be strung, and the voice of the bard to arise, that
those who fall may rejoice in their fame; and the soul of
Morni brighten with joy. Ossian! thou hast fought in
battles: the blood of strangers is on thy spear: thy
course be with Gaul, in the strife; but depart not from
the side of Fingal lest the foe should find you alone,
and your fame fail in my presence.
LATHMON.
259
"I saw Gaul in his arms; my soul was mixed with
his. The fire of the battle was in his eyes! he looked to
the foe with joy. We spoke the words of friendship in
secret; the lightning of our swords poured together; for
we drew them behind the wood, and tried the strength
of our arms on the empty air."
Night came down on Morven. Fingal sat at the beam
of the oak. Morni sat by his side with all his grey
waving locks. Their words were of other times, of the
mighty deeds of their fathers. Three bards, at times,
touched the harp: Ullin was near with his song. He
sung of the mighty Comhal; but darkness gathered on
Morni's brow. He rolled his red eye on Ullin: at once
ceased the song of the bard. Fingal observed the aged
hero, and he mildly spoke. "Chief of Strumon, why
that darkness? Let the days of other years be forgot.
Our fathers contended in war; but we meet together, at
the feast. Our swords are turned on the foe of our
land: he melts before us on the field. Let the days of
our fathers be forgot, hero of mossy Strumon ! "
(6
""
King of Morven," replied the chief, I remember
thy father with joy. He was terrible in battle; the rage
of the chief was deadly. My eyes were full of tears,
when the king of heroes fell. The valiant fall, O
Fingal! the feeble remain on the hills! How many
heroes have passed away, in the days of Morni! Yet I
did not shun the battle; neither did I fly from the strife
of the valiant. Now let the friends of Fingal rest; for
the night is around; that they may rise, with strength, to
battle against car-borne Lathmon. I hear the sound of
260
LATHMON.
his host, like thunder moving on the hills. Ossian ! and
fair-haired Gaul! ye are young and swift in the race.
Observe the foes of Fingal from that woody hill. But
approach them not, your fathers are not near to shield
you. Let not your fame fall at once. The valour of
youth may fail ! "
We heard the words of the chief with joy. We moved
in the clang of our arms. Our steps are on the woody
hill. Heaven burns with all its stars. The meteors of
death fly over the field. The distant noise of the foe
reached our ears. It was then Gaul spoke, in his valour:
his hand half-unsheathed the sword.
"Son of Fingal!" he said, "why burns the soul
of Gaul? My heart beats high. My steps are dis-
ordered; my hand trembles on my sword. When I look
towards the foe, my soul lightens before me. I see their
sleeping host. Tremble thus the souls of the valiant in
battles of the spear? How would the soul of Morni rise
if we should rush on the foe! Our renown would grow
in song our steps would be stately in the eyes of the
brave.'
"Son of Morni," I replied, "my soul delights in war.
I delight to shine in battle alone, to give my name to the
bards. But what if the foe should prevail; can I behold
the eyes of the king? They are terrible in his dis-
pleasure, and like the flames of death. But I will not
behold them in his wrath! Ossian shall prevail or fall.
But shall the fame of the vanquished rise? They pass
like a shade away. But the fame of Ossian shall rise !
His deeds shall be like his father's. Let us rush in
LATHMON.
261
our arms; son of Morni, let us rush to fight. Gaul if
thou shouldst return, go to Selma's lofty hall. Tell to
Everallin that I fell with fame; carry this sword to
Branno's daughter. Let her give it to Oscar, when the
years of his youth shall arise.”
"Son of Fingal," Gaul replied with a sigh ; "shall I
return after Ossian is low? What would my father say,
what Fingal, the king of men? The feeble would turn
their eyes and say, 'Behold Gaul, who left his friend in
his blood!' Ye shall not behold me, ye feeble, but in
the midst of my renown! Ossian! I have heard from
my father the mighty deeds of heroes; their mighty
deeds when alone; for the soul increases in danger."
"Son of Morni," I replied, and strode before him on
the heath, " our fathers shall praise our valour when they
mourn our fall. A beam of gladness shall rise on their
souls, when their eyes are full of tears. They will say,
'Our sons have not fallen unknown: they spread death
around them.' But why should we think of the narrow
house? The sword defends the brave. But death pur-
sues the flight of the feeble; their renown is never
heard."
We rushed forward through night; we came to the
roar of a stream, which bent its blue course round the
foe, through trees that echoed to its sound. We came to
the bank of the stream, and saw the sleeping host.
Their fires were decayed on the plain; the lonely steps
of their scouts were distant far. I stretched my spear
before me to support my steps over the stream. But
Gaul took my hand, and spoke the words of the brave.
262
LATHMON.
"Shall the son of Fingal rush on the sleeping foe?
Shall he come like a blast by night, when it overturns
the young trees in secret? Fingal did not thus receive
his fame, nor dwells renown on the grey hairs of Morni,
for actions like these. Strike, Ossian, strike the shield,
and let their thousands rise! Let them meet Gaul in his
first battle, that he may try the strength of his arm."
My soul rejoiced over the warrior: my bursting tears
came down. "And the foe shall meet thee, Gaul !" I
said: "the fame of Morni's son shall arise. But rush not
too far, my hero: let the gleam of thy steel be near
to Ossian. Let our hands join in slaughter. Gaul!
dost thou not behold that rock? Its grey side dimly
gleams to the stars. Should the foe prevail, let our back
be towards the rock. Then shall they fear to approach
our spears; for death is in our hands!"
I struck thrice my echoing shield. The starting foe
arose. We rushed on in the sound of our arms. Their
crowded steps fly over the heath. They thought that
the mighty Fingal was come. The strength of their
arms withered away. The sound of their flight was like
that of flame, when it rushes through the blasted groves.
It was then the spear of Gaul flew in its strength; it was
then his sword arose. Cremor fell; and mighty Leth.
Dunthormo struggled in his blood. The steel rushed
through Crotho's side, as bent, he rose on his spear; the
black stream poured from the wound, and hissed on the
half-extinguished oak. Cathmin saw the steps of the
hero behind him, he ascended a blasted tree; but the
spear pierced him from behind. Shrieking, panting, he
LATHMON.
263
fell. Moss and withered branches pursue his fall, and
strew the blue arms of Gaul.
Such were thy deeds, son of Morni, in the first of thy
battles. Nor slept the sword by thy side, thou last of
Fingal's race! Ossian rushed forward in his strength;
the people fell before him; as the grass by the staff of
the boy, when he whistles along the field, and the grey
beard of the thistle falls. But careless the youth moves
on; his steps are towards the desert. Grey morning
rose around us; the winding streams are bright along the
heath. The foe gathered on a hill; and the rage of
Lathmon rose. He bent the red eye of his wrath: he is
silent in his rising grief. He often struck his bossy
shield; and his steps are unequal on the heath.
I saw
the distant darkness of the hero, and I spoke to Morni's
son.
"Car-borne chief of Strumon, dost thou behold the
foe? They gather on the hill in their wrath.
Let our
steps be towards the king.* He shall rise in his
strength, and the host of Lathmon vanish. Our fame is
around us, warrior, the eyes of the agedt will rejoice.
But let us fly, son of Morni, Lathmon descends the hill."
"Then let our steps be slow," replied the fair-haired
Gaul; "lest the foe say, with a smile, 'Behold the
warriors of night. They are, like ghosts, terrible in
darkness; they melt away before the beam of the east.'
Ossian, take the shield of Gormar who fell beneath thy
spear. The aged heroes will rejoice beholding the deeds
of their sons.
""
* Fingal.
† Fingal and Morni,
264
LATHMON.
(C
Such were our words on the plain, when Sulmath
came to car-borne Lathmon : Sulmath, chief of Dutha at
the dark-rolling stream of Duvranna.* Why dost thou
not rush, son of Nuäth, with a thousand of thy
heroes ? Why dost thou not descend with thy host,
before the warriors fly? Their blue arms are beaming
to the rising light, and their steps are before us on the
heath!"
"shall my
"Son of the feeble hand," said Lathmon,
host descend! They are but two, son of Dutha! shall a
thousand lift their steel! Nuäth would mourn, in his
hall, for the departure of his fame. His eyes would turn
from Lathmon, when the tread of his feet approached.
Go thou to the heroes, chief of Dutha! I behold the
stately steps of Ossian. His fame is worthy of my steel!
let us contend in fight."
The noble Sulmath came. I rejoiced in the words of
the king. I raised the shield on my arm; Gaul placed
in my hand the sword of Morni. We returned to the
murmuring stream; Lathmon came down in his strength.
His dark husi rolled, like clouds, behind him : but the
son of Nuäth was bright in his steel!
"Son of Fingal," said the hero, "thy fame has grown
on our fall. How many lie there of my people by thy
hand, thou king of men! Lift now thy spear against
* A river in Scotland, which falls into the sea at Banff, still
retains the name of Duvran. If that is meant in this passage,
Lathmon must have been a prince of the Pictish nation, or
those Caledonians who inhabited of old the eastern coast of
Scotland.
LATHMON.
265
Lathmon; lay the son of Nuäth low! Lay him low
among his warriors, or thou thyself must fall! It shall
never be told in my halls that my people fell in my pres-
ence; that they fell in the presence of Lathmon when
his sword rested by his side: the blue eyes of Cutha
would roll in tears; her steps be lonely in the vales of
Dunlathmon!"
"Neither shall it be told," I replied, "that the son of
Fingal fled. Were his steps covered with darkness, yet
would not Ossian fly! his soul would meet him and say,
'Does the bard of Selma fear the foe?' No: he
does not fear the foe. His joy is in the midst of
battle!"
Lathmon came on with his spear. He pierced the
shield of Ossian. I felt the cold steel by my side. I
drew the sword of Morni. I cut the spear in twain. The
bright point fell glittering on earth. The son of Nuäth
burnt in his wrath. He lifted high his sounding shield.
His dark eyes rolled above it, as bending forward, it
shone like a gate of brass! But Ossian's spear pierced
the brightness of its bosses, and sunk in a tree that rose
behind. The shield hung on the quivering lance! but
Lathmon still advanced! Gaul foresaw the fall of the
chief. He stretched his buckler before my sword; when
it descended, in a stream of light, over the king of
Dunlathmon!
Lathmon beheld the son of Morni. The tear started
from his eye.
He threw the sword of his fathers on
earth, and spoke the words of the brave.
Lathmon fight against the first of men?
""
Why should
Your souls are
266
LATHMON,
beams from heaven; your swords the flames of death!
Who can equal the renown of the heroes, whose deeds
are so great in youth! O that ye were in the halls of
Nuäth, in the green dwelling of Lathmon! then would
my father say, that his son did not yield to the weak:
But who comes, a mighty stream, along the echoing
heath? the little hills are troubled before him; a
thousand ghosts are on the beams of his steel; the
ghosts of those who are to fall, by the arm of the king of
resounding Morven. Happy art thou, O Fingal! thy
sons shall fight thy wars. They go forth before thee;
they return with the steps of their renown!"
Fingal came, in his mildness, rejoicing in secret over
the deeds of his son. Morni's face brightened with
gladness; his aged eyes look faintly through tears of joy.
We came to the halls of Selma. We sat around the
feast of shells. The maids of song came into our
presence, and the mildly-blushing Everallin! Her hair
spreads on her neck of snow, her eye rolls in secret on
Ossian. She touched the harp of music; we blessed the
daughter of Branno !
Fingal rose in his place, and spoke to Lathmon, king
of spears.
The sword of Trenmor shook by his side, as
high be raised his mighty arm. "Son of Nuäth," he
said, "why dost thou search for fame in Morven? We
are not of the race of the feeble; our swords gleam not
over the weak. When did we rouse thee, O Lathmon!
with the sound of war? Fingal does not delight in
battle, though his arm is strong! My renown grows on
the fall of the haughty. The light of my steel pours on
LATHMON.
267
the proud in arms. The battle comes! and the tombs
of the valiant rise; the tombs of my people rise, O my
fathers! I at last must remain alone i But I will
remain renowned; the departure of my soul shall be a
stream of light! Lathmon! retire to thy place! Turn
thy battles to other lands! The race of Morven are
renowned; their foes are the sons of the unhappy!"
DAR-THULA: A POEM.
ARGUMENT.
It may not be improper here, to give the story which is the
foundation of this poem, as it is handed down by tradition.
Usnoth, lord of Etha, which is probably that part of Argyle-
shire which is near Loch Eta, an arm of the sea in Lorn, had
three sons, Nathos, Althos, and Ardan, by Slissáma, the
daughter of Semo, and sister to the celebrated Cuthullin.
The three brothers, when very young, were sent over to
Ireland, by their father, to learn the use of arms, under their
uncle, Cuthullin, who made a great figure in that kingdom.
They were just landed in Ulster when the news of Cuthullin's
death arrived. Nathos, though very young, took the com-
mand of Cuthullin's army, made head against Cairbar the
usurper, and defeated him in several battles. Cairbar at last
having found means to murder Cormac the lawful king, the
army of Nathos shifted sides, and he himself was obliged to
return to Ulster, in order to pass over into Scotland.
Dar-thula, the daughter of Colla, with whom Cairbar was
in love, resided, at that time, in Selâma, a castle in Ulster:
she saw, fell in love, and fled with Nathos; but a storm
rising at sea, they were unfortunately driven back on that
part of the coast of Ulster where Cairbar was encamped with
his army. The three brothers, after having defended them-
selves, for some time, with great bravery, were overpowered
and slain, and the unfortunate Dar-thula killed herself upon
the body of her beloved Nathos.
The poem opens, on the night preceding the death of the
sons of Usnoth, and brings in, by way of episode, what passed
before. It relates the death of Dar-thula differently from the
common tradition; this account is the most probable, as
suicide seems to have been unknown in those early times: for
no traces of it are found in the old poetry.
DAR-THULA: A POEM.
DA
AUGHTER of heaven, fair art thou! the silence
of thy face is pleasant! Thou comest forth in
loveliness. The stars attend thy blue course in the east.
The clouds rejoice in thy presence, O moon! They
brighten their dark-brown sides. Who is like thee in
heaven, light of the silent night? The stars are ashamed
in thy presence. They turn away their sparkling eyes.
Whither dost thou retire from thy course, when the
darkness of thy countenance grows? Hast thou thy hall,
like Ossian? Dwellest thou in the shadow of grief?
Have thy sisters fallen from heaven? Are they who
rejoiced with thee, at night, no more? Yes! they have
fallen, fair light! and thou dost often retire to mourn.
But thou thyself shalt fail, one night; and leave thy blue
path in heaven. The stars will then lift their heads:
they, who were ashamed in thy presence, will rejoice.
Thou art now clothed with thy brightness. Look from
thy gates in the sky. Burst the cloud, O wind! that the
daughter of night may look forth that the shaggy
mountains may brighten, and the ocean roll its white
waves, in light.
272
DAR-THULA.
Nathos is on the deep, and Althos, that beam of youth.
Ardan is near his brothers. They move in the gloom
of their course. The sons of Usnoth move in darkness,
from the wrath of Cairbar of Erin. Who is that, dim by
their side. The night has covered her beauty! Her
hair sighs on ocean's winds. Her robe streams in dusky
wreaths. She is like the fair spirit of heaven in the
midst of his shadowy mist. Who is it but Dar-thula,*
the first of Erin's maids? She has fled from the love of
Cairbar, with blue-shielded Nathos. But the winds
deceive thee, O Dar-thula ! They deny the woody
Etha, to thy sails. These are not the mountains of
Nathos; nor is that the roar of his climbing waves.
The halls of Cairbar are near: the towers of the foe lift
their heads! Erin stretches its green head into the sea.
Tura's bay receives the ship. Where have ye been, ye
southern winds! when the sons of my love were
deceived? But ye have been sporting on plains,
pursuing the thistle's beard. O that ye had been
rustling in the sails of Nathos, till the hills of Etha
arose! till they arose in their clouds, and saw their
returning chief! Long hast thou been absent, Nathos!
the day of thy return is past!
But the land of strangers saw thee, lovely! thou wast
lovely in the eyes of Dar-thula. Thy face was like the
Dar-thúla, or Dart-'huile, a woman with fine eyes. She was
the most famous beauty of antiquity. To this day, when a
woman is praised for her beauty, the common phrase is, that
she is as lovely as Dar-thula.
X.
DAR-THULA.
273
Thy hair like the raven's wing.
light of the morning.
Thy soul was generous and mild, like the hour of the
setting sun. Thy words were the gale of the reeds; the
gliding stream of Lora! But when the rage of battle
rose, thou wast a sea in a storm, The clang of thy arms
was terrible; the host vanished at the sound of thy
course. It was then Dar-thula beheld thee, from the top
of her mossy tower: from the tower of Seláma, where
her fathers dwelt.
"Lovely art thou, O stranger!" she said, for her
trembling soul arose. "Fair art thou in thy battles,
friend of the fallen Cormac ! Why dost thou rush on in
thy valour, youth of the ruddy look? Few are thy hands
in fight, against the dark-browed Cairbar! O that I
might be freed from his love!* that I might rejoice in the
presence of Nathos!
Blest are the rocks of Etha! they
will behold his steps at the chase! they will see his white
bosom, when the winds lift his flowing hair!" Such
were thy words, Dar-thula, in Seláma's mossy towers.
But, now, the night is around thee. The winds have
deceived thy sails. The winds have deceived thy sails,
Dar-thula! Their blustering sound is high. Cease a
little while, O north wind! Let me hear the voice of
the lovely. Thy voice is lovely, Dar-thula, between the
rustling blasts!
"Are these the rocks of Nathos ?" she said.
"This
the roar of his mountain-streams?
Comes that beam of
light from Usnoth's nightly hall? The mist spreads
* That is, of the love of Cairbar.
433
274
DAR-THULA.
around; the beam is feeble and distant far. But the
light of Dar-thula's soul dwells in the chief of Etha!
Son of the generous Usnoth, why that broken sigh?
Are we in the land of strangers, chief of echoing Etha !'
"These are not the rocks of Nathos," he replied, “nor
this the roar of his streams. No light comes from Etha's
halls, for they are distant far. We are in the land of
strangers, in the land of cruel Cairbar. The winds have
deceived us, Dar-thula. Erin lifts here her hills. Go
towards the north, Althos: be thy steps, Ardan, along
the coast; that the foe may not come in darkness,
and our hopes of Etha fail. I will go towards that
mossy tower, to see who dwells about the beam. Rest,
Darthula, on the shore ! rest in peace, thou lovely light!
the sword of Nathos is around thee, like the lightning of
heaven!"
He went.
wave.
She sat alone; she heard the rolling of the
The big tear is in her eye. She looks for
returning Nathos. Her soul trembles at the blast. She
turns her ear towards the tread of his feet. The tread of
his feet is not heard. "Where art thou, son of my love!
The roar of the blast is around me. Dark is the cloudy
night. But Nathos does not return.
chief of Etha? Have the foes met the hero in the strife
of the night?"
What detains thee,
He returned, but his face was dark. He had seen his
departed friend! It was the wall of Tura.* The ghost of
* Campbell remarks here-"There is no place in Ireland so
veiled in the mists of antiquity as Carrickfergus Castle. That
place and Connor-Temora-were considered the most ancient
DAR-THULA.
275
Cuthullin stalked there alone: The sighing of his breast
was frequent. The decayed flame of his eyes was
terrible! His spear was a column of mist. The stars
looked dim through his form. His voice was like
hollow wind in a cave: his eye a light seen afar. He
told the tale of grief. The soul of Nathos was sad, like
the sun in the day of mist, when his face is watery and
dim.
"Why art thou sad, O Nathos ?" said the lovely
daughter of Colla. "Thou art a pillar of light to Dar-
thula. The joy of her eyes is in Etha's chief. Where is
my friend, but Nathos? My father, my brother is fallen!
Silence dwells on Seláma. Sadness spreads on the blue
streams of my land. My friends have fallen with Cormac.
The mighty were slain in the battles of Erin. Hear, son
of Usnoth hear, O Nathos! my tale of grief.
<<
My seat was
Truthil past
He that was
Evening darkened on the plain. The blue streams
failed before mine eyes. The unfrequent blast came
rustling, in the tops of Seláma's groves.
beneath a tree, on the walls of my fathers.
before my soul; the brother of my love:
absent in battle, against the haughty Cairbar!
on his spear, the grey-haired Colla came.
face is dark, and sorrow dwells in his soul. His sword
is on the side of the hero; the helmet of his fathers on
his head. The battle grows in his breast. He strives to
hide the tear.
Bending
His downcast
as far back as 1316, when Sir Edward, brother of King Robert
Bruce, landed in Ireland."—E.-T.
276
DAR-THULA.
"Dar-thula, my daughter,' he said, 'thou art the
last of Colla's race! Truthil is fallen in battle. The
chief of Seláma is no more!
no more! Cairbar comes, with his
thousands, towards Seláma's walls. Colla will meet his
pride, and revenge his son. But where shall I find thy
safety, Dar-thula with the dark-brown hair! thou art
lovely as the sunbeam of heaven, and thy friends are
low!' 'Is the son of battle fallen ?' I said, with a
bursting sigh. 'Ceased the generous soul of Truthil to
lighten through the field? My safety, Colla, is in that
bow. I have learned to pierce the deer. Is not
Cairbar like the hart of the desert, father of fallen
Truthil?'
"The face of age brightened with joy. The crowded
tears of his eyes poured down. The lips of Colla
trembled. His grey beard whistled in the blast. 'Thou
art the sister of Truthil,' he said; thou burnest in the
fire of his soul. Take, Dar-thula, take that spear, that
brazen shield, that burnished helm: they are the spoils
of a warrior, a son of early youth! When the light
rises on Seláma, we go to meet the car-borne Cairbar.
But keep thou near the arm of Colla, beneath the
shadow of my shield. Thy father, Dar-thula, could
once defend thee; but age is trembling on his hand.
The strength of his arm has failed. His soul is darkened
with grief.'
"We passed the night in sorrow. The light of
morning rose. I shone in the arms of battle. The
grey-haired hero moved before. The sons of Seláma
convened, around the sounding shield of Colla. But few
DAR-THULA.
277
were they in the plain, and their locks were grey. The
youths had fallen with Truthil, in the battle of car-
borne Cormac. 'Friends of my youth!' said Colla,
'it was not thus you have seen me in arms. It was not
thus I strode to battle, when the great Confaden fell.
But ye are laden with grief. The darkness of age comes
like the mist of the desert. My shield is worn with
years! my sword is fixed* in its place! I said to my
soul, Thy evening shall be calm: thy departure like a
fading light. But the storm has returned. I bend like
an aged oak. My boughs are fallen on Seláma. I
tremble in my place. Where art thou, with thy fallen
heroes, O my beloved Truthil! Thou answerest not
from thy rushing blast. The soul of thy father is sad.
But I will be sad no more, Cairbar or Colla must fall!
I feel the returning strength of my arm. My heart leaps
at the sound of war.'
"The hero drew his sword, The gleaming blades of
his people rose. They moved along the plain. Their
grey hair streamed in the wind. Cairbar sat at the feast,
in the silent plain of Lona. He saw the coming of the
heroes. He called his chiefs to war. Why should I tell
to Nathos, how the strife of battle grew? I have seen
thee in the midst of thousands, like the beam of heaven's
fire it is beautiful, but terrible; the people fall in its
* It was the custom of ancient times, that every warrior at a
certain age, or when he became unfit for the field, fixed his
arms in the great hall.-M.
+ "The plains," near Belfast, are now called Ma-Lona.-
Campbell.
278
DAR-THULA.
dreadful course. The spear of Colla flew. He remem-
bered the battles of his youth. An arrow came with its
sound. It pierced the hero's side. He fell on his echo-
ing shield. My soul started with fear. I stretched my
buckler over him; but my heaving breast was seen!
Cairbar came with his spear. He beheld Seláma's maid.
Joy rose on his dark-brown face. He stayed the lifted
steel. He raised the tomb of Colla. He brought me
weeping to Seláma. He spoke the words of love, but
my soul was sad. I saw the shields of my fathers; the
sword of car-borne Truthil. I saw the arms of the dead;
the tear was on my cheek! Then thou didst come, O
Nathos and gloomy Cairbar fled. He fled like the
ghost of the desert before the morning's beam. His
host was not near and feeble was his arm against thy
steel! Why art thou sad, O Nathos?' said the lovely
daughter of Colla?
"I have met," replied the hero, "the battle in my
youth. My arm could not lift the spear when danger
first arose. My soul brightened in the presence of war,
as the green narrow vale, when the sun pours his streamy
beams, before he hides his head in a storm. The lonely
traveller feels a mournful joy. He sees the darkness,
that slowly comes. My soul brightened in danger before
I saw Seláma's fair; before I saw thee, like a star, that
shines on the hill, at night: the cloud advances, and
threatens the lovely light! We are in the land of foes.
The winds have deceived us, Dar-thula! The strength
of our friends is not near, nor the mountains of Etha.
Where shall I find thy peace, daughter of mighty Colla!
DAR-THULA.
279
The brothers of Nathos are brave! and his own sword
has shone in fight. But what are the sons of Usnoth to
the host of dark-browed Cairbar! O that the winds had
brought thy sails, Oscar king of men! Thou didst
promise to come to the battles of fallen Cormac ! Then
would my hand be strong, as the flaming arm of death.
Cairbar would tremble in his halls, and peace dwell
round the lovely Dar-thula. But why dost thou fall, my
soul? The sons of Usnoth may prevail !
""
"And they will prevail, O Nathos!" said the rising
soul of the maid. "Never shall Dar-thula behold the
halls of gloomy Cairbar. Give me those arms of brass,
that glitter to the passing meteor. I see them dimly in
the dark-bosomed ship. Dar-thula will enter the battle
of steel. Ghost of the noble Colla! do I behold thee on
that cloud? Who is that dim beside thee? Is it the car-
borne Truthil? Shall I behold the halls of him that slew
Seláma's chief! No: I will not behold them, spirits of
my love!"
Joy rose in the face of Nathos, when he heard the white-
bosomed maid. "Daughter of Seláma! thou shinest
along my soul. Come, with thy thousands, Cairbar! the
strength of Nathos is returned! Thou, O aged Usnoth !
shalt not hear that thy son has fled. I remember thy
words on Etha; when my sails began to rise: when I
spread them towards Erin, towards the mossy walls of
Tura! 'Thou goest,' he said, 'O Nathos, to the king
of shields! Thou goest to Cuthullin, chief of men, who
never fled from danger. Let not thine arm be feeble:
neither be thy thoughts of flight; lest the son of Semo
280
DAR-THULA.
should say, that Etha's race are weak.
His words may
come to Usnoth, and sadden his soul in the hall.' The
tear was on my father's cheek. He gave his shining sword!
"I came to Tura's bay: but the halls of Tura were
silent. I looked around, and there was none to tell of
the son of generous Semo. I went to the hall of shells,
where the arms of his fathers hung. But the arms were
gone, and aged Lamhor sat in tears. 'Whence are the
arms of steel?' said the rising Lamhor. 'The light of
the spear has long been absent from Tura's dusky walls.
Come ye from the rolling sea? Or from Temora's*
mournful halls?'
1
"We come from the sea,' I said, 'from Usnoth's
rising towers. We are the sons of Slis-sáma, the
daughter of car-borne Semo. Where is Tura's chief, son
of the silent hall? But why should Nathos ask? for I
behold thy tears. How did the mighty fall, son of the
lonely Tura?' 'He fell not,' Lamhor replied, 'like
the silent star of night, when it flies through darkness
and is no more. But he was like a meteor that shoots
into a distant land. Death attends its dreary course.
Itself is the sign of wars. Mournful are the banks of
Lego; and the roar of streamy Lara! There the hero
fell, son of the noble Usnoth !' 'The hero fell in the
midst of slaughter,' I said with a bursting sigh.
'His
hand was strong in war.
Death dimly sat behind his
sword.'
* Temora was the residence of the supreme kings of Ireland.
It is here called mournful, on account of the death of Cormac,
who was murdered there by Cairbar, who usurped his throne.
DAR-THULA.
281
"We came to Lego's sounding banks. We found his
rising tomb. His friends in battle are there : his bards
of many songs. Three days we mourned over the hero :
on the fourth, I struck the shield of Caithbat. The
heroes gathered around with joy, and shook their beamy
spears. Corlath was near with his host, the friend of
car-borne Cairbar. We came like a stream by night,
His heroes fell before us. When the people of the
valley rose, they saw their blood with morning's light.
But we rolled away, like wreaths of mist, to Cormac's
echoing hall. Our swords rose to defend the king. But
Temora's halls were empty. Cormac had fallen in his
youth. The king of Erin was no more!
"Sadness seized the sons of Erin. They slowly,
gloomily retired: like clouds that, long having threatened
rain, vanish behind the hills. The sons of Usnoth moved,
in their grief, towards Tura's sounding bay. We passed by
Seláma. Cairbar retired like Lano's mist, when driven
before the winds. It was then I beheld thee, O Dar-
thula! like the light of Etha's sun. 'Lovely is that
beam!' I said. The crowded sigh of my bosom rose.
Thou camest in thy beauty, Dar-thula, to Etha's
mournful chief. But the winds have deceived us,
daughter of Colla, and the foe is near !"
"Yes, the foe is near, said the rushing strength of
Althos. 'I heard their clanging arms on the coast. I
saw the dark wreaths of Erin's standard. Distinct is the
CL
در
* Althos has just returned from viewing the coast of Lena,
whither he had been sent by Nathos, the beginning of the
night.
282
DAR-THULA.
voice of Cairbar.* Loud as Cromla's falling stream.
He had seen the dark ship on the sea, before the dusky
night came down. His people watch on Lena's plain.
They lift ten thousand swords." "And let them lift ten
thousand swords," said Nathos with a smile. "The
sons of car-borne Usnoth will never tremble in danger!
Why dost thou roll with all thy foam, thou roaring sea of
Erin? Why do ye rustle, on your dark wings, ye
whistling storms of the sky? Do ye think, ye storms,
that ye keep Nathos on the coast? No: his soul detains
him, children of the night! Althos! bring my father's
arms: thou seest them beaming to the stars.
Bring the
spear of Semo.
It stands in the dark-bosomed ship!"
He brought the arms. Nathos covered his limbs, in
all their shining steel. The stride of the chief is lovely.
The joy of his eyes was terrible. He looks towards the
coming of Cairbar. The wind is rustling in his hair.
Dar-thula is silent at his side. Her look is fixed on the
chief. She strives to hide the rising sigh. Two tears
swell in her radiant eyes!
"Althos!" said the chief of Etha,
that rock. Place Dar-thula there.
"I see a cave in
Let thy arm, my
* Cairbar had gathered an army, to the coast of Ulster, in
order to oppose Fingal, who prepared for an expedition into
Ireland to re-establish the house of Cormac on the throne,
which Cairbar had usurped. Between the wings of Cairbar's
army was the bay of Tura, into which the ship of the sons of
Usnoth was driven: so that there was no possibility of their
escaping.
+ There is a large cave in the rock of Carrickfergus Castle.--
E.-T.
DAR-THULA.
283
brother, be strong. Ardan! we meet the foe: call to
battle gloomy Cairbar. O that he came in his sounding
steel, to meet the son of Usnoth! Dar-thula! if thou
shalt escape, look not on the fallen Nathos !
Lift thy
sails, O Althos! towards the echoing groves of my land."
"Tell the chief,* that his son fell with fame; that
my sword did not shun the fight. Tell him I fell in
the midst of thousands. Let the joy of his grief be great.
Daughter of Colla! call the maids to Etha's echoing hall!
Let their songs arise for Nathos, when shadowy autumn
returns. O that the voice of Cona, that Ossian, might be
heard in my praise! then would my spirit rejoice in the
midst of the rushing winds."
And my voice shall praise
thee, Nathos, chief of the woody Etha! The voice of
Ossian shall rise in thy praise, son of the generous
Usnoth ! Why was I not on Lena, when the battle rose?
Then would the sword of Ossian defend thee; or himself
fall low!"
66
We sat, that night, in Selma round the strength of the
shell. The wind was abroad, in the oaks. The spirit of
the mountaint roared. The blast came rustling through
the hall, and gently touched my harp. The sound was
mournful and low, like the song of the tomb. Fingal
heard it the first. The crowded sighs of his bosom rose.
"Some of my heroes are low," said the grey-haired king
of Morven. "I hear the sound of death on the harp.
Ossian, touch the trembling string. Bid the sorrow rise;
* Usnoth.
That deep and melancholy sound which precedes a storm;
well known to those who live in a high country.
284
DAR-THULA.
that their spirits may fly with joy to Morven's woody
hills!" I touched the harp before the king; the sound
was mournful and low. "Bend forward from your
clouds," I said, "ghosts of my fathers! bend. Lay by
the red terror of your course. Receive the falling chief;
whether he comes from a distant land, or rises from the
rolling sea.
Let his robe of mist be near; his spear that
is formed of a cloud. Place an half-extinguished meteor
by his side, in the form of the hero's sword. And, oh!
let his countenance be lovely, that his friends may delight
in his presence. Bend from your clouds," I said,
ghosts of my fathers! bend!"
Such was my song, in Selma, to the lightly-trembling
harp. But Nathos was on Erin's shore, surrounded by
the night. He heard the voice of the foe, amidst the
roar of tumbling waves. Silent he heard their voice, and
rested on his spear! Morning rose, with its beams.
The sons of Erin appear, like grey rocks, with all their
trees, they spread along the coast. Cairbar stood in the
midst. He grimly smiled when he saw the foe. Nathos
rushed forward, in his strength: nor could Dar-thula
stay behind. She came with the hero, lifting her shining
"And who are these, in their armour, in the
pride of youth? Who but the sons of Usnoth, Althos,
and dark-haired Arden ?"
spear.
""
Come," said Nathos, "come! chief of high Temora !
Let our battle be on the coast, for the white-bosomed
maid. His people are not with Nathos; they are
behind these rolling seas. Why dost thou bring thy
thousands against the chief of Etha? Thou didst
DAR-THULA.
285
fly* from him in battle, when his friends were around his
spear." "Youth of the heart of pride, shall Erin's king
fight with thee? Thy fathers were not among the
renowned, nor of the kings of men. Are the arms of
foes in their halls? Or the shields of other times?
Cairbar is renowned in Temora, nor does he fight with
feeble men!"
The tear started from car-borne Nathos. He turned
his eyes to his brothers. Their spears flew at once,
Three heroes lay on earth. Then the light of their
swords gleamed on high. The ranks of Erin yield; as a
ridge of dark clouds before a blast of wind! Then
Cairbar ordered his people, and they drew a thousand
bows. A thousand arrows flew. The sons of Usnoth
fell in blood. They fell like three young oaks, which
stood alone on the hill: The traveller saw the lovely
trees, and wondered how they grew so lonely: the blast
of the desert came by night, and laid their green heads
low; next day he returned, but they were withered, and
the heath was bare!
Dar-thula stood in silent grief, and beheld their fall!
No tear is in her eye. But her look is wildly sad. Pale
was her cheek. Her trembling lips broke short an half-
formed word. Her dark hair flew on wind. The gloomy
Cairbar came. "Where is thy lover now? the car-borne
chief of Etha? Hast thou beheld the halls of Usnoth ?
Or the dark-brown hills of Fingal? My battle would
have roared on Morven, had not the winds met Dar-
* The flight of Cairbar from Seláma.
286
DAR-THULA.
thula. Fingal himself would have been low, and sorrow
dwelling in Selmo?" Her shield fell from Dar-thula's
arm. Her breast of snow appeared. It appeared; but
was stained with blood. An arrow was fixed in her
side. She fell on the fallen Nathos, like a wreath of
snow! Her hair spreads wide on his face. Their blood
is mixing round!
"Daughter of Colla! thou art low!" said Cairbar's
hundred bards. "Silence is at the blue streams of
Selâma. Truthil's* race have failed. When wilt thou rise
in thy beauty, first of Erin's maids? Thy sleep is long
in the tomb. The morning distant far. The sun shall
not come to thy bed and say, 'Awake, Dar-thula !
awake thou first of women! the wind of spring is abroad.
The flowers shake their heads on the green hills. The
winds wave their growing leaves.' Retire, O sun! the
daughter of Colla is asleep. She will not come forth
in her beauty. She will not move in the steps of her
loveliness!"
Such was the song of the bards, when they raised the
tomb. I sung over the grave, when the king of Morven
came; when he came to green Erin to fight with the car-
borne Cairbar!
* Truthil was the founder of Dar-thula's family.
THE DEATH OF CUTHULLIN:
A POEM.
ARGUMENT.
CUTHULLIN, after the arms of Fingal had expelled Swaran from
Ireland, continued to manage the affairs of that kingdom as
the guardian of Cormac, the young king. In the third year of
Cuthullin's administration, Torlath, the son of Cantéla,
rebelled in Connaught; and advanced to Temora to dethrone
Cormac. Cuthullin marched against him, came up with him
at the lake of Lego, and totally defeated his forces. Torlath
fell in battle by Cuthullin's hand; but as he too eagerly
pressed on the enemy, he was mortally wounded. The affairs
of Cormac, though, for some time, supported by Nathos, as
mentioned in the preceding poem, fell into confusion at the
death of Cuthullin. Cormac himself was slain by the rebel
Cairbar; and the re-establishment of the royal family of
Ireland by Fingal, furnishes the subject of the epic poem of
Temora.
THE
DEATH OF CUTHULLIN:
"IS
Is
A POEM.
the wind on the shield of Fingal? Or is the
voice of past times in my hall? Sing on, sweet
voice! for thou art pleasant. Thou carriest away my
night with joy. Sing on, O Bragela, daughter of car-
borne Sorglan!
"It is the white wave of the rock, and not Cuthullin's
sails. Often do the mists deceive me for the ship of my
love! when they rise round some ghost, and spread their
grey skirts on the wind. Why dost thou delay thy
coming, son of the generous Semo? Four times has
autumn returned with its winds, and raised the seas of
Togorma,* since thou hast been in the roar of battles,
and Bragéla distant far! Hills of the isle of mist! when
will ye answer to his hounds? But ye are dark in your
* Togorma-i.e., the island of blue waves—one of the Hebrides,
was subject to Connal, the son of Caithbat, Cuthullin's friend,
Connal, a few days before the news of Torlath's revolt came
to Temora, had sailed to Togorma, his native isle; where he
was detained by contrary winds during the war in which
Cuthullin was killed.
434
290
THE DEATH OF CUTHULLIN.
clouds. Sad Bragéla calls in vain! Night comes roll-
ing down. The face of ocean fails. The heath-cock's
head is beneath his wing The hind sleeps, with the
hart of the desert. They shall rise with morning's light,
and feed by the mossy stream. But my tears return
with the sun. My sighs come on with the night.
When wilt thou come in thine arms, O chief of Erin's
wars ?"
Pleasant is thy voice in Ossian's ear, daughter of car-
borne Sorglan! But retire to the hall of shells; to the
beam of the burning oak. Attend to the murmur of the
sea: it rolls at Dunscai's walls: let sleep descend on thy
blue eyes.
Let the hero arise in thy dreams!
Cuthullin sits at Lego's lake, at the dark rolling of
waters. Night is around the hero. His thousands
spread on the heath. A hundred oaks burn in the
midst. The feast of shells is smoking wide. Carril
strikes the harp beneath a tree. His grey locks glitter
in the beam. The rustling blast of night is near, and
lifts his aged hair. His song is of the blue Togorma, and
of its chief, Cuthullin's friend! "Why art thou absent,
Connal, in the day of the gloomy storm? The chiefs of
the south have convened, against the car-borne Cormac.
The winds detain thy sails. Thy blue waters roll around
thee. But Cormac is not alone. The son of Semo fights
his wars! Semo's son his battles fights! the terror of the
stranger! He that is like the vapour of death, slowly
borne by sultry winds. The sun reddens in its presence:
The people fall around,"
Such was the song of Carril, when a son of the foe
THE DEATH OF CUTHULLIN.
291
He
appeared. He threw down his pointless spear.
spoke the words of Torlath! Torlath, chief of heroes,
from Lego's sable surge! He that led his thousands to
battle, against car-borne Cormac. Cormac who was
distant far, in Temora's echoing halls: he learned to
bend the bow of his fathers; and to lift the spear. Nor
long didst thou lift the spear, mildly-shining beam of
youth! death stands dim behind thee, like the darkened
half of the moon behind its glowing light! Cuthullin
rose before the bard,* that came from generous Torlath.
He offered him the shells of joy. He honoured the son
of songs.
"Sweet voice of Lego!" he said,
he said, "what are
the words of Torlath? Comes he to our feast or battle,
the car-borne son of Cantéla ?”
"He comes to thy battle," replied the bard, "to the
sounding strife of spears. When morning is grey on
Lego, Torlath will fight on the plain. Wilt thou meet
him, in thine arms, king of the isle of mist? Terrible is
the spear of Torlath! it is a meteor of night. He lifts
it, and the people fall! death sits in the lightning of his
sword!" "Do I fear," replied Cuthullin, "the spear
of car-borne Torlath? He is brave as a thousand heroes:
but my soul delights in war! The sword rests not by
the side of Cuthullin, bard of the times of old! Morning
shall meet me on the plain, and gleam on the blue arms
of Semo's son. But sit thou on the heath, O bard! and
let us hear thy voice. Partake of the joyful shell: and
hear the songs of Temora !'
* The bards were the heralds of ancient times and their
persons were sacred on account of their office.
292 THE DEATH OF CUTHULLIN.
"This is no time," replied the bard, "to hear the
song of joy: when the mighty are to meet in battle, like
the strength of the waves of Lego. Why art thou so
dark, Slimora! with all thy silent woods? No star
trembles on thy top. No moonbeam on thy side. But
the meteors of death are there: the grey watery forms of
ghosts. Why art thou dark, Slimora! with thy silent
woods?" He retired, in the sound of his song. Carril
joined his voice. The music was like the memory of joys
that are past, pleasant and mournful to the soul. The.
ghosts of departed bards heard on Slimora's side. Soft
sounds spread along the wood. The silent valleys of
night rejoice. So, when he sits in the silence of the day,
in the valley of his breeze, the humming of the mountain
bee comes to Ossian's ear: the gale drowns it in its
course; but the pleasant sound returns again! Slant
looks the sun on the field! gradual grows the shade of
the hill !
"Raise," said Cuthullin, to his hundred bards, "the
song of the noble Fingal : that song which he hears at
night, when the dreams of his rest descend: when the
bards strike the distant harp, and the faint light gleams
on Selma's walls. Or let the grief of Lara rise: the
sighs of the mother of Calmar,* when he was sought, in
* Calmar, the son of Matha. His death is related at large in
the third book of Fingal. He was the only son of Matha; and
the family was extinct in him. The seat of the family was on the
banks of the river Lara, in the neighbourhood of Lego, and prob-
ably near the place where Cuthullin lay: which circumstance
suggested to him, the lamentation of Alclétha over her son.
THE DEATH OF CUTHULLIN.
293
vain, on his hills; when she beheld his bow in the hall.
Carril, place the shield of Caithbat on that branch. Let
the spear of Cuthullin be near; that the sound of my
battle may rise, with the grey beam of the east." The
hero leaned on his father's shield: the song of Lara rose !
The hundred bards were distant far: Carril alone is
near the chief. The words of the song were his: the
sound of his harp was mournful.
"Alclétha with the aged locks! mother of car-borne
Calmar! why dost thou look toward the desert, to
behold the return of thy son? These are not his heroes
dark on the heath: nor is that the voice of Calmar. It
is but the distant grove, Alclétha! but the roar of the
mountain wind!" "Who* bounds over Lara's stream,
sister of the noble Calmar? Does not Alclétha behold
his spear? But her eyes are dim!
Matha, daughter of my love?"
Is it not the son of
"It is but an aged oak, Alclétha!" replied the lovely
weeping Alona. "It is but an oak, Alclétha, bent over
Lara's stream. But who comes along the plain? sorrow
is in his speed. He lifts high the spear of Calmar.
Alclétha, it is covered with blood !" "But it is covered
with the blood of foes,† sister of car-borne Calmar! His
spear never returned unstained with blood: nor his bow
from the strife of the mighty. The battle is consumed in
* Alclétha speaks. Calmar had promised to return by a cer-
tain day, and his mother and his sister Alona are represented as
looking, with impatience, towards that quarter where they
expected Calmar should make his first appearance.
+ Alclétha speaks.
434*
294 THE DEATH OF CUTHULLIN.
his presence: he is a flame of death, Alona ! Youth* of
the mournful speed ! where is the son of Alclétha? Does
he return with his fame, in the midst of his echoing
shields? Thou art dark and silent! Calmar is then no
more ! Tell me not, warrior, how he fell. I must not
hear of his wound!" Why dost thou look towards the
desert, mother of low-laid Calmar?
Such was the song of Carril, when Cuthullin lay on his
shield. The bards rested on their harps. Sleep fell
softly around. The son of Semo was awake alone. His
soul was fixed on war. The burning oaks began to
decay. Faint red light is spread around. A feeble voice
is heard! The ghost of Calmar came! He stalked
dimly along the beam. Dark is the wound in his side.
His hair is disordered and loose. Joy sits pale on his
face. He seems to invite Cuthullin to his cave.
"Son of the cloudy night!" said the rising chief of
Erin. 'Why dost thou bend thy dark eyes on me,
ghost of the noble Calmar? Wouldest thou frighten me,
O Matha's son ! from the battles of Cormac ?. Thy hand
was not feeble in war: neither was thy voice for peace.
How art thou changed, chief of Lara! if thou dost
advise to fly! But, Calmar, I never fled. I never feared
the ghosts of night. Small is their knowledge, weak
their hands; their dwelling is in the wind. But my soul
grows in danger, and rejoices in the noise of steel.
Retire thou to thy cave.
He delighted in battle.
Thou art not Calmar's ghost.
His arm was like the thunder of
* She addresses herself to Larnir, Calmar's friend, who had
returned with the news of his death.
THE DEATH OF CUTHULLIN.
295
heaven! He retired in his blast with joy, for he had
heard the voice of his praise.
The faint beam of the morning rose. The sound of
Caithbat's buckler spread.
Green Erin's warriors con-
vened, like the roar of many streams. The horn of war
is heard over Lego. The mighty Torlath came! "Why
dost thou come with thy thousands, Cuthullin ?" said the
chief of Lego. "I know the strength of thy arm. Thy soul
is an unextinguished fire. Why fight we not on the plain,
and let our hosts behold our deeds? Let them behold
us like roaring waves, that tumble round a rock the
mariners hasten away, and look on their strife with fear."
:
"Thou risest, like the sun, on my soul," replied the
son of Semo. "Thine arm is mighty, O Torlath! and
worthy of my wrath. Retire, ye men of Ullin, to
Slimora's shady side. Behold the chief of Erin, in the
day of his fame. Carril! tell to mighty Connal, if
Cuthullin must fall, tell him I accused the winds, which
roar on Togorma's waves. Never was he absent in
battle, when the strife of my fame arose. Let his sword
be before Cormac, like the beam of heaven. Let his
counsel sound in Temora, in the day of danger!"
He rushed, in the sound of his arms, like the terrible
spirit of Loda,* when he comes, in the roar of a thousand
storms, and scatters battles from his eyes. He sits on a
cloud over Lochlin's seas. His mighty hand is on his
sword. Winds lift his flaming locks! The waning
moon half-lights his dreadful face. His features blended
* Probably Odin, the great deity of the northern nations.
""
296 THE DEATH OF CUTHULLIN.
in darkness arise to view. So terrible was Cuthullin in
the day of his fame. Torlath fell by his hand. Lego's
heroes mourned. They gather around the chief, like the
clouds of the desert. A thousand swords rose at once;
a thousand arrows flew; but he stood like a rock in the
midst of a roaring sea.
He strode in
blood. Dark Slimora echoed wide.
They fell around.
They fell around.
The sons of Ullin
came. The battle spread over Lego. The chief of Erin
overcame. He returned over the field with his fame.
But pale he returned! The joy of his face was dark. He
rolled his eyes in silence. The sword hung, unsheathed,
in his hand. His spear bent at every step!
"Carril," said the chief in secret, "the strength of
Cuthullin fails. My days are with the years that are
past. No morning of mine shall arise. They shall seek
me at Temora, but I shall not be found. Cormac will
weep in his hall, and say, 'Where is Erin's chief?'
But my name is renowned! my fame in the song of bards.
The youth will say in secret, O let me die as Cuthullin
died! Renown clothed him like a robe. The light of
his fame is great. Draw the arrow from my side. Lay
Cuthullin beneath that oak. Place the shield of Caithbat
near, that they may behold me amidst the arms of my
fathers!"
•
"And is the son of Semo fallen ?" said Carril with a
sigh. "Mournful are Tura's walls. Sorrow dwells at
Dunscäi. Thy spouse is left alone in her youth. The
son* of thy love alone! He shall come to Bragéla, and
* Conloch, who was afterwards very famous for his great
exploits in Ireland.
THE DEATH OF CUTHULLIN.
297
ask her why she weeps? He shall lift his eyes to the
wall, and see his father's sword. 'Whose sword is
that?' he will say. The soul of his mother is sad. Who
is that, like the hart of the desert, in the murmur of his
course? His eyes look wildly round in search of his
friend. Connal, son of Colgar, where hast thou been,
when the mighty fell? Did the seas of Congorma roll
around thee? Was the wind of the south in thy sails?
The mighty have fallen in battle, and thou wast not
there. Let none tell it in Selma, nor in Morven's woody
land. Fingal will be sad, and the sons of the desert
mourn !"
By the dark rolling waves of Lego they raised the
hero's tomb. Luäth,* at a distance, lies. The song of
bards rose over the dead.
ઃઃ Blest+ be thy soul, son of Semo! Thou wert mighty
in battle. Thy strength was like the strength of a
stream: thy speed like the eagle's wing. Thy path in
battle was terrible: the steps of death were behind thy
sword. Blest be thy soul, son of Semo, car-borne chief
of Dunscäi! Thou hast not fallen by the sword of the
mighty, neither was thy blood on the spear of the brave.
The arrow came, like the sting of death in a blast: nor
did the feeble hand, which drew the bow, perceive it.
Peace to thy soul, in thy cave, chief of the isle of mist!
* It was, of old, the custom to bury the favourite dog near the
master.
+ This is the song of the bards over Cuthullin's tomb. Every
stanza closes with some remarkable title of the hero, which was
always the custom in funeral elegies.
298
THE DEATH OF CUTHULLIN.
"The mighty are dispersed at Temora : there is none
in Cormac's hall. The king mourns in his youth. He
does not behold thy return. The sound of thy shield is
ceased: his foes are gathering round. Soft be thy rest
in thy cave, chief of Erin's wars! Bragéla will not hope
for thy return, or see thy sails in ocean's foam. Her
steps are not on the shore: nor her ear open to the voice
of thy rowers. She sits in the hall of shells. She sees
the arms of him that is no more. Thine eyes are full of
tears, daughter of car-borne Sorglan Blest be thy soul
in death, O chief of shady Tura!"
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