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Fortia facta patrum.Virgil
The translator thinks it necessary to make the public
acquainted with the motives which induced him to depart from his proposals concerning the
Originals. Some men of genius, whom he has the honour to number among his friends, advised
him to publish proposals for printing by subscription the whole Originals, as a better way
of satisfying the public concerning the authenticity of the poems, than depositing
manuscript copies in any public library. This he did; but no subscribers appearing, he
takes it for the judgment of the public that neither the one nor the other is necessary.
However, there is a design on foot to print the Originals, as soon as the translator shall
have time to transcribe them for the press; and if this publication shall not take place,
copies will then be deposited in one of the public libraries, to prevent so ancient a
monument of genius from being lost.
The translator thanks the public for the more than ordinary
encouragement given him, for executing this work. The number of his subscribers does him
honour. He could have presented to the public the first names in the nation; but, though
more have come to his hands, than have appeared before the works of author of established
reputation, yet many more have subscribed; and he chuses to print none at all rather than
an imperfect list. Deeply sensible of the generosity of a certain noble person, the
translator yet avoids to name him, as his exalted station as well as merit has raised him
above the panegyric of one so little known.
The love of novelty, which, in some degree, is common to all
mankind, is more particularly the characteristic of that mediocrity of parts, which
distinguishes more than one half of the human species. This inconstant disposition is
never more conspicuous, than in what regards the article of amusement. We change our
sentiments concerning it every moment, and the distance between our admiration and extreme
contempt, is so very small, that the one is almost a sure presage of the other. The poets,
whose business it is to please, if they want to preserve the fame they have once acquired,
must very often forfeit their own judgments to this variable temper of the bulk of their
readers, and accommodate their writings to this unsettled taste. A fame so fluctuating
deserves not to be much valued.
Poetry, like virtue, receives its reward after death. The fame
which men pursued in vain, when living, is often bestowed upon them when they are not
sensible of it. This neglect of living authors is not altogether to be attributed to that
reluctance which men shew in praising and rewarding genius. It often happens, that
This consideration might induce a man, diffident of his
abilities, to ascribe his own compositions to a person, whose remote antiquity and whose
situation, when alive, might well answer for faults which would be inexcusable in a writer
of this age. An ingenious gentleman made this observation, before he knew any thing but
the name of the epic poem, which is printed in the following collection. When he had read
it, his sentiments were changed. He found it abounded too much with those ideas, that only
belong to the most early state of society, to be the work of a modern poet. Of this, I am
persuaded, the public will be as thoroughly convinced, as this gentleman was, when they
shall see the poems; and that some will think, notwithstanding the disadvantages with
which the works ascribed to Ossian appear, it would be a very uncommon instance of
self-denial in me to disown them, were they really of my
composition.
I would not have dwelt so long upon this subject, especially as
I have answered all reasonable objections to the genuineness of the poems in the
Dissertation, were it not on account of the prejudices of the present age against the
ancient inhabitants of Britain, who are thought to have been incapable of the generous
sentiments to be met with in the poems of Ossian.—If we err in praising too much
the times of our forefathers, it is also as repugnant to good sense
It is now two years since the first translations from the Galic
language were handed about among people of taste in Scotland. They became at last so much
corrupted, through the carelessness of transcribers, that, for my own sake, I was obliged
to print the genuine copies. Some other pieces were added, to swell the publication into a
pamphlet, which was entitled, Fragments of Ancient Poetry.—The Fragments, upon
their first appearance, were so much approved of, that several people of rank, as well as
taste, prevailed with me to make a journey into the Highlands and western isles, in order
to recover what remained of the works of the old bards, especially those of Ossian, the
son of Fingal, who was the best, as well as most ancient, of those who are celebrated in
tradition for their poetical genius.——I undertook this journey, more from a
desire
Artho, supreme king of Ireland, dying at Temora the royal
palace of the Irish kings, was succeeded by Cormac, his son, a minor. Cuchullin, the son
of Semo, lord of the Ιsle of Mist, one of the Hebrides, being at
that time in Ulster, and very famous for his great exploits, was, in a convention of the
petty kings and heads of tribes assembled for that purpose at Temora, unanimously chosen
guardian to the young king.—He had not managed the affairs of Cormac long, when
news was brought, that Swaran, the son of Starno, king of Lochlin, or Scandinavia,
intended to invade Ireland. Cuchullin immediately dispatched Munan, the son of Stirmal, an
Irish chief, to Fingal, king of those Caledonians who inhabited the western coast of
Scotland, to implore his aid. Fingal, as well from a principle of generosity, as from his
connection with the royal family of Ireland, resolved on an expedition into that country;
but before his arrival, the enemy had landed in Ulster.——Cuchullin in the
mean time had gathered the flower of the Irish tribes to Tura, a castle of
Cuchullin, sitting alone
beneath a tree, at the gate of Tura, for the other chiefs had gone on a hunting party to
Cromla, a neighbouring hill, is informed of Swaran's landing 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
Cuchullin, was for retreating till Fingal shiould arrive; but Calmar, the son of Matha,
lord of Lara, a country in Connaught, was for engaging the enemy
immediately.—Cuchullin, 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 Caithbat. Fergus arriving, tells Cuchullin of the death of the two other
chiefs; which introduces the affecting episode of Morna, the daughter of Cormac—The
army of Cuchullin is deferred 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 Cuchullin's
chariot, and the terrible appearance of that hero. The armies engage, but night coming on,
leaves the victory undecided. Cuchullin, 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 Cuchullin 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.
The ghost of Crugal, one of
the Irish heroes who was killed in battle, appearing to Connal, foretels the defeat of
Cuchullin in the next battle; and earnestly advises him to make peace with Swaran. Connal
communicates the vision; but Cuchullin is inflexible from a principle of honour that he
would not be the first to sue for peace, and resolved to continue the war. Morning comes;
Swaran proposes dishonourable terms to Cuchullin, which are rejected. The battle begins,
and is obstinately fought for some time, until, upon the flight of Grumal, the whole Irish
army gave way. Cuchullin and Connal cover their retreat: Carril leads them to a
neighbouring hill, whither they are soon followed by Cuchullin himself, who descries the
fleet of Fingal making towards the coast; but, night coming on, he lost sight of it again.
Cuchullin, 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.
Cuchullin, pleased with
Carril's story, insists with him for more of his songs. The bard 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. Cuchullin, 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
The action of the poem being
suspended by night, Ossian takes that opportunity to relate his own actions at the lake of
Lego, and his courtship of Evirallin, who was the mother of Oscar, and had died some time
before the expedition of Fingal into Ireland. Her ghost appears to him, and tells him that
Oscar, who had been sent, the beginning of the night, to observe the enemy, was engaged
with an advanced party, and almost overpowered. Ossian relieves his son; and an alarm is
given to Fingal of the approach of Swaran. The king rises, calls his army together, and,
as he had promised the preceding night, devolves the command on Gaul the son of Morni,
while he himself, after charging his sons to behave gallantly and defend his people,
retires to a hill, from whence he could have a view of the battle. The battle joins; the
poet relates Oscar's great actions. But when Oscar, in conjunction with his father,
conquered in one wing, Gaul, who was attacked by Swaran in person,
In the mean time Fingal and
Swaran meet; the combat is described: Swaran is overcome, 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 killed. He laments his death, hears the story of Lamdarg and
Gelchossa, and returns towards the place where he had left Swaran. Carril, who had been
sent by Cuchullin to congratulate Fingal on his victory, comes in the mean time to Ossian.
The conversation of the two poets closes the action of the fourth day.
Night comes on. Fingal gives
a feast to his army, at which Swaran is present. The king commands Ullin his bard to give
thesong of peace; a custom always observed at the end of a war. Ullin
relates the actions of Trenmor, great grandfather 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 Cuchullin in the cave of Tura,
comforts him, and sets sail, the next day, for Scotland; which concludes the poem.
The story of this poem is so little interlarded with fable,
that one cannot help thinking it the genuine history of Fingal's expedition, embellished
by poetry. In that case, the compositions of Ossian are not less valuable for the light
they throw on the ancient state of Scotland and Ireland than they are for their poetical
merit. Succeeding generations founded on them all their traditions concerning that period;
and they magnified or varied them, in proportion as they were swayed by credulity or
design. The bards of Ireland, by ascribing to Ossian compositions which are evidently
their own, have occasioned a general belief, in that country, that Fingal was of Irish
extraction, and not of the ancient Caledonians, as is said in the genuine poems of Ossian.
The inconsistencies between those spurious pieces prove the ignorance of their authors. In
one of them Ossian is made to mention himself as baptised by St. Patrick, in another he
speaks of the famous crusade, which was not begun in Europe for many centuries after.
Though this anachronism quite destroys the authority of the
bards with respect to Fingal; yet their desire to make him their countryman shews how
famous he was in Ireland as well as in the north of Scotland.
Had the Senachies of Ireland been as well acquainted with the
antiquities of their nation as they pretended, they might derive as much honour from
Fingal's being a Caledonian, as if he had been an Irishman; for both nations were almost
the same people in the days of that hero. The Celtæ, who inhabited Britain and
Ireland before the invasion of the Romans, though they were divided into numerous tribes,
yet, as the same language and customs, and the memory of their common origin remained
among them, they considered themselves as one nation. After South Britain became a
province of Rome, and its inhabitants begun to adopt the language and customs of their
conquerors, the Celtæ beyond the pale of the empire, considered them as a distinct
people, and consequently treated them as enemies. On the other hand, the strictest amity
subsisted between the Irish and Scots Celtæ for many ages, and the customs and
ancient language of both still remaining, leave no room to doubt that they were of old one
and the same nation.
It was at first intended to prefix to Ossian's poems a
discourse concerning the ancient inhabitants of Britain; but as a gentleman, in the north
of Scotland, who has thoroughly examined the antiquities of this island, and is perfectly
acquainted with all the branches of the Celtic tongue, is just now preparing for the press
a work on that subject, the curious are referred to it.
Inquiries into the antiquities of nations afford more pleasure
than any real advantage to mankind. The ingenious may form systems of history on
probabilities and a few facts; but at a great distance of time, their accounts must be
vague and uncertain. The infancy of states and kingdoms is as destitute of great events,
as of the means of transmitting them to posterity. The arts of polished life, by which
alone facts can be preserved with certainty, are the production of a well formed
community. It is then historians begin to write, and public transactions to be worthy
remembrance. The actions of former times are left in obscurity, or magnified by uncertain
traditions. Hence it is that we find so much of the marvellous in the origin of every
nation; posterity being always ready to believe any thing, however fabulous, that reflects
honour on their ancestors. The Greeks and Romans were remarkable for this weakness. They
swallowed the most absurd fables concerning the high antiquities of their respective
nations. Good historians, however, rose very early
Of all the Celtic nations, that which possessed old Gaul is the
most renowned; not perhaps on account of worth superior to the rest, but for their wars
with a people who had historians to transmit the fame of their enemies, as well as their
own, to posterity.
The colony from Gaul possessed themselves, at first, of that
part of Britain which was next to their own country; and spreading northward, by degrees,
as they increased in numbers, peopled the whole island. Some adventurers passing over from
those parts of Britain that are within sight of Ireland, were the founders of the Irish
nation: which is a more probable story than the idle fables of Milesian and Gallician
colonies.
Tacitus was of opinion that the ancient Caledonians were of
German extract. By the language and customs which always prevailed in the North of
Scotland, and which are undoubtedly Celtic, one would be tempted to differ in opinion from
that celebrated writer. The Germans, properly so called, were not the same with the
ancient Celtæ. The manners and customs of the two nations were similar; but their
language different.
But whether the Caledonians were a colony of the Celtic
Germans, or the same with the Gauls that first possessed themselves of Britain, is a
matter of no moment at this distance of time. Whatever their origin was, we find them very
numerous in the time of Julius Agricola, which is a presumption that they were long before
settled in the country. The form of their government was a mixture of aristocracy and
monarchy, as it was in all the countries where the Druids bore the chief sway. This order
of men seems to have been formed on the same system with the Dactyli Idæi and
Curetesthe man to judge.
The continual wars of the Caledonians against the Romans
hindered the nobility from initiating themselves, as the custom formerly was, into the
order of the Druids. The precepts of their religion were confined to a few, and were not
much attended to by a people inured to war. The Vergobretus, or chief magistrate, was
chosen without the concurrence of the hierarchy, or continued in his office against their
will. Continual power strengthened his interest
On occasion of a new war against the King of
the World, as the poems emphatically call the Roman emperor, the Druids, to
vindicate the honour of the order, began to resume their ancient privilege of chusing the
Vergobretus. Garmal, the son of Tarno, being deputed by them, came to the grandfather of
the celebrated Fingal, who was then Vergobretus, and commanded him, in the name of the
whole order, to lay down his office. Upon his refusal, a civil war commenced, which soon
ended in almost the total extinction of the religious order of the Druids. A few that
remained, retired to the dark recesses of their groves, and the caves they had formerly
used for their meditations. It is then we find them in the circle of
stones, and unheeded by the world. A total disregard for the order, and utter
abhorrence of the Druidical rites ensued. Under this cloud of public hate, all that had
any knowledge of the religion of the Druids became extinct, and the nation fell into the
last degree of ignorance of their rites and ceremonies.
It is no matter of wonder then, that Fingal and his son Ossian
make so little, if any, mention of the Druids, who were the declared enemies to their
succesion in the supreme magistracy. It is a singular case, it must be allowed, that there
are no traces of religion in the poems ascribed to Ossian; as the poetical compositions of
other nations are so closely connected with their mythology. It is hard to account for it
to those who are not made acquainted with the manner of the old Scottish bards. That race
of men carried their notions of martial honour to an extravagant pitch. Any aid given
their heroes in battle, was thought to derogate from their fame; and the bards
Had Ossian brought down gods, as often as Homer hath done, to
assist his heroes, this poem had not consisted of elogiums on his friends, but of hymns to
these superior beings. To this day, those that write in the Galic language seldom mention
religion in their profane poetry; and when they professedly write of religion, they never
interlard with their compositions, the actions of their heroes. This custom alone, even
though the religion of the Druids had not been previously extinguished, may, in some
measure, account for Ossian's silence concerning the religion of his own times.
To say, that a nation is void of all religion, is the same
thing as to say, that it does not consist of people endued with reason. The traditions of
their fathers, and their own observations on the works of nature, together with that
superstition which is inherent in the human frame, have, in all ages, raised in the minds
of men some idea of a superior being.—Hence it is, that in the darkest times, and
amongst the most barbarous nations, the very populace themselves had some faint notion, at
least, of a divinity. It would be doing injustice to Ossian, who, upon no occasion, shews
a narrow mind, to think, that he had not opened his conceptions to that primitive and
greatest of all truths. But let Ossian's religion be what it will, it is certain he had no
knowledge of Christianity, as there is not the least allusion to it, or any of its rites,
in his poems; which absolutely fixes him to an æra prior to the introduction of that
religion. The persecution begun by Dioclesian, in the year 303, is the most probable time
in which the first dawning of Christianity in the north of Britain can be
fixed.—The humane and mild character of Constantius Chlorus, who commanded then
in
These missionaries, either through choice, or to give more
weight to the doctrine they advanced, took possession of the cells and groves of the
Druids; and it was from this retired life they had the name of CuldeesCuldees that
Ossian, in his extreme old age, is said to have disputed concerning the Christian
religion. This dispute is still extant, and is couched in verse, according to the custom
of the times. The extreme ignorance on the part of Ossian, of the Christian tenets, shews,
that that religion had only been lately introduced, as it is not easy to conceive, how one
of the first rank could be totally unacquainted with a religion that had been known for
any time in the country. The dispute bears the genuine marks of antiquity. The obsolete
phrases and expressions peculiar to the times, prove it to be no forgery. If Ossian then
lived at the introduction of Christianity, as by all appearance he did, his epoch will be
the latter end of the third, and beginning of the fourth century. What puts this point
beyond dispute, is the allusion in his poems to the history of the times.
The exploits of Fingal against Caraculterrible eye.King of the World, are among the first brave actions of his youth. A
complete poem, which relates to this subject, is printed in this collection.
The Caracul of Fingal is no other than Caracalla, who, as the
son of Severus, the Emperor of Rome, whose dominions were extended almost over the known
world, was not without reason called in the poems of Ossian, the Son of
the King of the World. The space of time between 211, the year Severus died, and
the beginning of the fourth century, is not so great, but Ossian the son of Fingal, might
have seen the Christians whom the persecution under Dioclesian had driven beyond the pale
of the Roman empire.
Ossian, in one of his many lamentations on the death of his
beloved son Oscar, mentions among his great actions, a battle which he fought against
Caros, king of ships, on the banks of the winding CarunWinding river.the King of Ships. The winding Carun is that
small river retaining still the name of Carron, and runs in the neighbourhood of
Agricola's wall, which Carausius repaired to obstruct the incursions of the Caledonians.
Several other passages in the poems allude to the wars of the Romans; but the two just
mentioned clearly fix the epoch of Fingal to the third century; and this account agrees
exactly with the Irish histories, which place the death of Fingal, the son of Comhal, in
the year 283, and that of Oscar and their own celebrated Cairbre, in the year 296.
Some people may imagine, that the allusions to the Roman
history might have been industriously inserted into the poems, to give them the appearance
of antiquity. This fraud must then have been committed at least three ages ago, as the
passages in which the allusions are made, are alluded to often in the compositions of
those times.
Every one knows what a cloud of ignorance and barbarism
overspread the north of Europe three hundred years ago. The minds of men, addicted to
superstition, contracted a narrowness that destroyed genius. Accordingly we find the
compositions of those times trivial and puerile to the last degree. But let it be allowed,
that, amidst all the untoward circumstances of the age, a genius might arise, it is not
easy to determine what could induce him to give the honour of his compositions to an age
so remote. We find no fact that he has advanced, to favour any designs which could be
entertained by any man who lived in the fifteenth century. But should we suppose a poet,
through humour, or for reasons which cannot be seen at this distance of time, would
ascribe his own compositions to Ossian, it is next to impossible, that he could impose
The strongest objection to the authenticity of the poems now
given to the public under the name of Ossian, is the improbability of their being handed
down by tradition through so many centuries. Ages of barbarism some will say, could not
produce poems abounding with the disinterested and generous sentiments sο conspicuous in
the compositions of Ossian; and could these ages produce them, it is impossible but they
must be lost, or altogether corrupted in a long succession of barbarous generations.
These objections naturally suggest themselves to men
unacquainted with the ancient state of the northern parts of Britain. The bards, who were
an inferior order of the Druids, did not share their bad fortune. They were spared by the
victorious king, as it was through their means only he could hope for immortality to his
fame. They attended him in the camp, and contributed to establish his power by their
songs. His great actions were magnified, and the populace, who had no ability to examine
into his character narrowly, were dazzled with his fame in the rhimes of the bards. In the
mean time, men affirmed sentiments that are rarely to be met with in an age of barbarism.
The bards who were originally the disciples of the Druids, had their minds opened, and
their ideas enlarged, by being initiated in the learning of that celebrated order. They
could form a perfect hero in their own minds, and ascribe that character to their prince.
The inferior chiefs made this ideal character the model of their conduct, and by degrees
brought their minds to that generous spirit which breathes in all the poetry of the times.
The prince, flattered by
When virtue in peace, and bravery in war, are the
characteristics of a nation, their actions become interesting, and their fame worthy of
immortality. A generous spirit is warmed with noble actions, and becomes ambitious of
perpetuating them. This is the true source of that divine inspiration, to which the poets
of all ages pretended. When they found their themes inadequate to the warmth of their
imaginations, they varnished them over with fables, supplied by their own fancy, or
furnished by absurd traditions. These fables, however ridiculous, had their abettors;
posterity either implicitly believed them, or through a vanity natural to mankind,
pretended that they did. They loved to place the founders of their families in the days of
fable, when poetry, without the fear of contradiction, could give what characters she
pleased of her heroes. It is to this vanity that we owe the preservation of what remain of
the works of Ossian. His poetical merit made his heroes famous in a country where heroism
was much esteemed and admired. The posterity of these heroes, or those who pretended to be
descended from them, heard with pleasure the eulogiums of their ancestors; bards were
employed to repeat the poems, and to record the connection of their patrons with chiefs so
renowned. Every chief in process of time had a bard in his family, and the office became
at last hereditary. By the succession of these bards, the poems concerning the ancestors
of the family were handed down from generation to generation, they were repeated to the
whole clan on
The use of letters was not known in the North of Europe till
long after the institution of the bards: the records of the families of their patrons,
their own, and more ancient poems were handed down by tradition. Their poetical
compositions were admirably contrived for that purpose. They were adapted to music; and
the most perfect harmony observed. Each verse was so connected with those which preceded
or followed it, that if one line had been remembered in a stanza, it was almost impossible
to forget the rest. The cadences followed in so natural a gradation, and the words were sο
adapted to the common turn of the voice, after it is raised to a certain key, that it was
almost impossible, from a fimilarity of sound, to substitute one word for another. This
excellence is peculiar to the Celtic tongue, and is perhaps to be met with in no other
language. Nor does this choice of words clog the sense or weaken the expression. The
numerous flections of consonants, and variation in declension, make the language very
copious.
The descendants of the Celtæ, who inhabited Britain and
its isles, were not singular in this method of preserving the most precious monuments of
their nation. The ancient laws of the Greeks were couched in verse, and handed down by
tradition. The Spartans, through a long habit, became so fond of this custom, that they
would never allow their laws to be committed to writing. The actions of great men, and the
elogiums of kings and heroes were preserved in the same manner. All the historical
monuments of theAbbá de la
Bleterie Remarques sur la Germanie
It will feem strange to some, that poems admired for many
centuries in one part of this kingdom should be hitherto unknown in the other; and that
the British, who have carefully traced out the works of genius in other nations, should so
long remain strangers to their own. This, in a great measure, is to be imputed to those
who understood both languages and never attempted a translation. They, from being
acquainted but with detached pieces, or from a
This was long the opinion of the translator of the following
collection; and though he admired the poems, in the original, very early, and gathered
part of them from tradition for his own amusement, yet he never had the smallest hopes of
seeing them in an English dress. He was sensible that the strength and manner of both
languages were very different, and that it was next to impossible to translate the Galic
poetry into any thing of tolerable English verse; a prose translation he could never think
of, as it must necessarily fall short of the majesty of an original. It was a gentleman,
who has himself made a figure in the poetical world, that gave him the first hint
concerning a literal prose translation. He tried it at his desire, and the specimen was
approved. Other gentlemen were earnest in exhorting him to bring more to the light, and it
is to their uncommon zeal that the world owes the Galic poems, if they have any merit.
It was at first intended to make a general collection of all
the ancient pieces of genius to be found in the Galic language; but the translator had his
reasons for confining himself to the remains of the works of Ossian. The action of the
poem that stands the first, was not the greatest or most celebrated of the exploits of
Fingal. His wars were very numerous, and each of them afforded a theme which employed the
genius of his son. But, excepting the present poem, those pieces are irrecoverably lost,
and there only remain a few fragments
The complete work, now printed, would, in a short time, have
shared the fate of the rest. The genius of the highlanders has suffered a great change
within these few years. The communication with the rest of the island is open, and the
introduction of trade and manufactures has destroyed that leisure which was formerly
dedicated to hearing and repeating the poems of ancient times. Many have now learned to
leave their mountains, and seek their fortunes in a milder climate; and though a certain
amor patriæ may sometimes bring them back, they have, during
their absence, imbibed enough of foreign manners to despise the customs of their
ancestors. Bards have been long disused, and the spirit of genealogy has greatly subsided.
Men begin to be less devoted to their chiefs, and consanguinity is not so much regarded.
When property is established, the human mind confines its views to the pleasure it
procures. It does not go back to antiquity, or look forward to succeeding ages. The cares
of life increase, and the actions of other times no longer amuse. Hence it is, that the
taste for their ancient poetry is at a low ebb among the highlanders. They have not,
however, thrown off the good qualities of their ancestors. Hospitality still subsists, and
an uncommon civility to strangers. Friendship is inviolable, and revenge less blindly
followed than formerly.
To say any thing, concerning the poetical merit of the poems,
would be an anticipation on the judgment of the public. The poem which stands first in the
collection is truly epic. The characters are strongly marked, and the sentiments breathe
heroism. The subject of it is an invasion of Ireland by Swaran king of Lochlin, which is
the
All that can be said of the translation, is that it is literal, and that simplicity is studied. The arrangement of the words in the original is imitated, and the inversions of the style observed. As the translator claims no merit from his version, he hopes for the indulgence of the public where he fails. He wishes that the imperfect semblance he draws, may not prejudice the world against an original, which contains what is beautiful in simplicity, and grand in the sublime.
Cuchullinan inferior bard.
Rise, said the youth, Cuchullin, rise; I see the ships of
Swaran. Cuchullin, many are the foe: many the heroes of the dark-rolling sea.
Moran! replied the blue-eyed chief, thou ever tremblest, son
of Fithil: Thy fears have much increased the foe. Perhaps it is the king
I saw their chief, says Moran, tall as a rock of ice. His
spear is like that blasted fir. His shield like the rising moona great
hill.
No: replied the blue-eyed chief, I will never yield to man.
Dark Cuchullin will be great or dead. Go, Fithil's son, and take my spear: strike the
sounding shield of Cabait
He went and struck the bossy shield. The hills and their
rocks replied. The sound spread along the wood: deer start by the lake of roes.
Curachthe madness of
battle.fair-complexioned.the mournful sound of waves.
Now I behold the chiefs in the pride of their former deeds;
their souls are kindled at the battles of old, and the actions of other times. Their
eyes are like flames of fire, and roll in search of the foes of the
land.——Their mighty hands are on their swords; and lightning pours from
their sides of steel.——They came like streams from the mountains; each
rushed roaring from his hill. Bright are the chiefs of battle in the armour of their
fathers.——Gloomy and dark their heroes followed, like the gathering of the
rainy clouds behind the red meteors of heaven.——The sounds of crashing
arms ascend. The gray dogs howl between.——Unequally bursts the song of
battle; and rocking Cromla
Hail, said Cuchullin, sons of the narrow vales, hail ye
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 ofi.e. the island of the Fa-il or
Falans.island of blue waves, probably one of the Hebrides. His mother was Fioncoma
the daughter of Congal. He had a son by Foba of Conachar-nessar, who was afterwards
king of Ulster. 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.
Cuchullin! calm the chief replied, the spear of Connal is
keen. It delights to shine in battle, and to mix with the blood of thousands. But tho'
my hand is bent on war, my heart is for the peace of Erinear or iar West,
and in an island. This name was not always confined to Ireland,
for there is the highest probability that the Ierne of the
ancients was Britain to the North of the Forth.—For Ierne is said to be to the
North of Britain, which could not be meant of Ireland.
Fly, thou chief of peace, said Calmara strong man.the island of whales, the ancient name of the Orkney
islands.
O ye dark winds of Erin rise! and roar ye whirlwinds of the
heath! Amidst the tempest let me die, torn in a cloud by angry ghosts of men; amidst the
tempest let Calmar die, if ever chace was sport to him so much as the battle of
shields.
Calmar! slow replied the chief, I never fled, O Matha's son.
I was swift with my friends in battle, but small is the fame of Connal. The battle was
won in my presence, and 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 come
with battle. Or, if war be thy choice, I lift the sword and spear. My joy shall be in
the midst of thousands, and my soul brighten in the gloom of the fight.
To me, Cuchullin 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 move along the heath, bright as the sun-shine before a storm;
when the west wind collects the clouds and the oaks of Morven
But where are my friends in battle? The companions of my arm
in danger? Where art thou, white-bosom'd Cathbat? Where is that cloud in war,
Duchomara black well-shaped
man.the man of the word; or a commander of an
army.Be thou like a
roe or young hart on the mountains of Bether.
Four stonesThe
grave.——The house appointed for all living.
Cathbat, replied the hero, fell by the sword of Duchomar at
the oak of the noisy streams. Duchomar came to Tura's cave, and spoke to the lovely
Morna.
Mornaa woman beloved by all.
From whence, the white-armed maid replied, from whence,
Duchomar the 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, Duchomar?
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 chace.——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.
Duchomar! calm the maid replied, I love thee not, thou gloomy
man.——Hard is thy heart of rock, and dark thy terrible brow. But Cathbat,
thou son of Tormanthunder. This is
the true origin of the Jupiter Taramis of the ancients.
And long shall Morna wait, Duchomar said, his blood is on my
sword.—Long shall Morna wait for him. He fell at Branno's stream. High on Cromla
I will raise his tomb, daughter of Cormac-cairbar; but fix thy love on Duchomar, his arm
is strong as a storm.—
And is the son of Torman fallen? said the maid of the tearful
eye. Is he fallen on his the dark man.
He gave the sword to her tears; but she pierced his manly
breast. He fell, like the bank of a mountain-stream; stretched out his arm and said;
Daughter of Cormac-cairbar, thou hast slain Duchomar. The
sword is cold in my breast: Morna, I feel it cold. Give me to Moinasoft in temper and person.
She came, in all her tears, she came, and drew it from his
breast. He pierced her white side with steel; and spread her fair locks on the ground.
Her bursting blood sounds from her side: and her white arm is stained with red. Rolling
in death she lay and Tura's cave answered to her sighs.——
Peace, said Cuchullin, to the souls of the heroes; their
deeds were great in danger. Let them ride around
As rushes a streamAut ubi decursu rapido de montibus
alcis,Dant sonitum spumost amnes, & in æquora
currunt,Quisque suum populatus iter.
The sons of Lochlin heard the noise as the sound of a
winter-stream. Swaran struck his bossy shield, and called the son of Arno. What murmur
rolls along the hill like the gathered flies of evening?
He went, and trembling, swift returned. His eyes rolled
wildly round. His heart beat high against his side. His words were faultering, broken,
slow.
Rise, son of ocean, rise chief of the dark-brown shields. I
see the dark, the mountain-stream of the battle. The deep-moving strength of the sons of
Erin.——The car, the car of battle comes, like the flame of death; the
rapid car of Cuchullin, the noble son of Semo. It bends behind like a wave near a rock;
like the golden 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, and its seat of the
smoothest bone. The sides are replenished with spears; and the bottom is the foot-stool
of heroes. Before the right side of the car is seen the snorting horse. The high-maned,
broad-breasted, proud, high-leaping strong steed of the hill. Loud and resounding is his
hoof; the spreading of his mane above is like that stream of smoke on the heath. Bright
are the sides of the steed, and his name is Sulin-Sifadda.
Before the left side of the car is seen the snorting horse.
The thin-maned, high-headed, strong-hooffed, 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 mist fly over the streamy vales. The wildness of deer
Within the car is seen the chief; the strong stormy son of
the sword; the hero's name is Cuchullin, son of Semo king of shells. His red cheek is
like my polished 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, from the battle of many
spears? When did I fly, son of Arno, chief of the little soul? I met the storm of Gormal
when the foam of my waves was high; I met the storm of the clouds and shall I fly from a
hero? Were it Fingal himself my soul should not darken before him.——Rise
to the battle, my thousands; pour round me like the
As autumn'sJam clypeus clypeis, umbone repellitur umbo,Ense minax ensis, pede pes, & cuspide cufpis,
&c.
As the troubled noise of the ocean when roll the waves on
high; as the last peal of the thunder of heaven, such is the noise of battle. Though
Cormac's hundred bards were there to give the war to song; feeble were the voices of a
hundred bards to send the deaths to future times. For many were the falls of the heroes;
and wide poured the blood of the valiant.
Mourn, ye sons of the song, the death of the noble
Sithallina handsome
man,—Fiona, a fair maid;—and Ardan, pride.
Nor slept thy hand by thy fide, chief of the isle of
mistisle of mist as its high hills, which catch the clouds from the western ocean,
occasion almost continual rains.i.e. a long stride.
Weep on the rocks of roaring winds, O maid of InistoreThe maid of Inistore was the daughter of Gorlo
king of Inistore or Orkney islands. Trenar was brother to the king of Iniscon,
supposed to be one of the islands of Shetland. The Orkneys and Shetland were at that
time subject to the king of Lochlin. We find that the dogs of Trenar are sensible at
home of the death of their master, the very instant he is killed,——It
was the opinion of the times, that the souls of heroes went immediately after death to
the hills of their country, and the scenes they frequented the most happy time of
their life. It was thought too that dogs and horses saw the ghosts of the
deceased.
As roll a thousand waves to the rocks, so Swaran's host came
on; as meets a rock a thousand waves, so Inisfail met Swaran. Death raises all his
voices around, and mixes with the sound of shields.—Each hero is a pillar of
darkness, and the sword a beam of fire in his hand. The field
Cuchullin, 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
gray-haired son of Kinfenai.e. the
head of the people.
Old Carril went, with softest voice, and called the king of
dark-brown shields. Rise from the skins of thy chace, rise, Swaran king of
groves.——Cuchullin 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, Inisfail! should extend their arms of snow; raise high the heavings of
their breasts, and softly roll their eyes of love; yet, fixed as Lochlin's thousand
rocks, here Swaran shall remain; till morn, with the young beams of my east, shall light
me to the death of Cuchullin. Pleasant to my ear is Lochlin's wind. It rushes over my
seas. It speaks aloft in all my shrowds, and brings my green forests to my mind; the
green forests of Gormal that often
Sad is the sounds of Swaran's voice, said Carril of other
times:——
Sad to himself alone, said the blue-eyed son of Semo. But,
Carril, raise thy voice on high, and 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 on Albion's rocks; when the
noise of the chace is over, and the streams of Cona answer to the voice of Ossian
In other daysside
by side in the war. The poet obtained his aim, for we find Calmar and Connal
perfectly reconciled in the third book.a crooked hill.
Side by fide the heroes fought, and 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
On Lubar'sLabhar, loud, noisy.a woman with a white breast.
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, Cuchullin; and these two lonely yews
sprung from their tombs, and wish to meet on high. Fair was Brassolis on the plain, and
Grudar on the hill. The bard shall preserve their names, and repeat them to future
times.
Pleasant is thy voice, O Carril, said the blue-eyed chief of
Erin; and lovely are the words of other times. They are like the calm shower—επεα νιφαδεσσιν ἐοικότα
χειμερίῃσιν,
Connal, slow to speak, replied, guard against the race of
ocean. Send thy troop of night abroad, and watch the strength of
Swaran.——Cuchullin! I am for peace till the race of the
The hero struck the shield of his alarms——the
warriors of the night moved on. The rest lay in the heath of the deer, and slept amidst
the dusky wind.——The ghosts
Conall
.In somnis ecce ante oculos
mæstissimus HectorVisus addesse mibi, largosque essundere fletus,Raptatus bigis, aut quondam, aterque cruentoPulvere perque pedes trajectus lora tumentis.Hei mibi qualis erat! quantum mutatus ab illoHectore, qui redit exuviis indutus Achilli,Vel Danaûm Phrygios jaculatus puppibus ignis;Squalentem barbam & concretos sanguine crinisVulneraque illa gerens quæ circum plurima murosAdcepit patrios.
My hero saw in his rest a dark-red stream of fire coming down
from the hill. Crugal sat upon the beam, a chief that lately fell. 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 like two decaying flames.
Dark is the wound of his breast.
Crugal, said the mighty Connal, son of Dedgal famed on the
hill of deer. Why so pale and sad, thou breaker of the shields? Thou hast never been
pale for fear.——What disturbs the son of the hill?
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.
My ghost, O Connal, is on my native hills; but my corse is on
the sands of Ullin. Thou shalt never talk with Crugal, or find his lone
The soft-voiced Connal rose in the midst of his sounding
arms. He struck his shield above Cuchullin. 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 Cuchullin mourn the death of his
friend. Speak, Connal, son of Colgar, speak, thy counsel is like the sun of heaven.
Son of Semo, replied the chief, the ghost of Crugal came from
the cave of his hill.——The stars dim-twinkled through his form; and 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
Dunscaich; 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
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; for I will not fly from Swaran.——If
I must fall, my tomb shall rise amidst the fame of future times. The hunter shall shed a
tear on my stone; and sorrow dwell round the high-bosomed
Bragéla. I fear
not death, but I fear to fly, for Fingal saw me often
victorious. Thou dim phantom of the hill,
shew thyself to me! come on thy beam of heaven, and 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 of
Caithbat, it hangs between the spears. Let my heroes rise to the sound in the midst of
the battles of Erin. Though Fingal delays his coming with the race of the stormy hills;
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
High Cromla's head of clouds is gray; the morning trembles on
the half-enlightened ocean. The blue, gray mist swims slowly by, and hides the sons of
Inis-fail.
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.——And, Morla, go
to Cormac's hall and bid them yield to Swaran; before the people shall fall into the
tomb; and the hills of Ullin be silent.——They rose 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 morning.
As the dark shades of autumn fly over the hills of grass; so
gloomy, dark, successive came the chiefs of Lochlin's
A blast from the trouble of ocean removed the settled mist.
The sons of Inisfail appear like a ridge of rocks on the shore.
Go, Morla, go, said Lochlin's king, and offer peace to these.
Offer the terms we give to kings when nations bow before us. When the valiant are dead
in war, and the virgins weeping on the field.
Great Morla came, the son of Swart, and stately strode the
king of shields. He spoke to Erin's blue-eyed son, among the lesser heroes.
Take Swaran's peace, the warrior spoke, the peace he gives to
kings when the nations bow before him. Leave Ullin's lovely 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, and live beneath our power.
Tell Swaran, tell that heart of pride, that Cuchullin never
yields.——I give him the dark-blue rolling of ocean, or I give his people
graves in Erin. But never shall a stranger have the lovely sun-beam of Dunscaich; or
ever deer fly on Lochlin's hills before the nimble-footed Luäth.
Vain ruler of the car, said Morla, wilt thou fight the king;
that king whose ships of many groves could carry off thine Isle? So little is thy
green-hilled Ullin to the king of stormy waves.
In words I yield to many, Morla; but this sword shall yield
to none. Erin shall own the sway of Cormac, while Connal and Cuchullin live. O Connal,
first of mighty men, thou hast heard 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? Thy narrow house shall receive me in the midst of the
Then dismal, roaring, fierce, and deep the gloom of battle
rolled along; as mist
Where, said the mouth of the song, where is the fallen
Crugal? He lies forgot on earth, and the hall of shellsthe chief of shells, and
the halls of shells.a sun-beam.
Fierce Cairbar heard the mournful sound, and rushed on like
ocean's whale; he saw the death of his daughter; and roared in theMediisque in millibus ardet.
Still Swaran advanced, as a stream that bursts from the
But Cuchullin stood before him like a hill
So Cuchullin shaded the sons of Erin, and stood in the midst
of thousands. Blood rises like the fount of a rock, from panting heroes
O sons of Inisfail, 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, and his spear is a trembling beam of light behind him. Few
fled with Grumal, the chief of the little soul: they fell in the battle of heroes on
Lena's
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? O Carril, son of other
times, carry my living friends to that bushy hill.——Here, Connal, let us
stand like rocks, and save our flying friends.
Connal mounts the car of light. They stretch their shields
like the darkened moon, the daughter of the starry skies, when she moves, a dun circle,
through heaven. Sithfadda panted up the hill, and Stronnal 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.——Cuchullin stood beside an oak. He rolled his red eye in silence,
and heard the wind in his bushy hair; when the scout of ocean came, Moran the son of
Fithil.——The ships, he cried, the ships of the lonely isle! There Fingal
comes
Blow, said Cuchullin, all ye winds that rush over my isle of
lovely mist. Come to the death of thousands, O chief of the hills of hinds. Thy sails,
my friend, are to me like the clouds of the morning; and thy ships like the light of
heaven; and thou thyself like a pillar of fire that giveth light in the night. O Connal,
first of men, how pleasant are our friends! But the night is gathering around; where now
are the ships of Fingal? Here let us pass the hours of darkness, and wish for the moon
of heaven.
The winds came down on the woods. The torrents rushed from
the rocks. Rain gathered round the head of Cromla. And the red stars trembled between
the flying clouds. Sad, by the side of a stream whose sound was
Unhappy is the hand of Cuchullin, said the son of Semo,
unhappy is the hand of Cuchullin since he slew his friend.——Ferda, thou
son of Damman, I loved thee as myself.
How, Cuchullin, son of Semo, fell the breaker of the shields?
Well I remember, said Connal, the noble son of Damman. Tall and fair he was like the
rain-bow of the hill.
Ferda from Albion came, the chief of a hundred hills. In
Muri's
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 noble son of Damman. Cairbar, said the white-armed
woman, give me half of the herd. No more I will remain in your halls. Divide the herd,
dark Cairbar.
Let Cuchullin, 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 bull of snow remained. I gave that bull to Cairbar. The wrath of Deugala
rose.
Son of Damman, begun the fair, Cuchullin pains 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 Cuchullin 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, and shall I lift the sword? She wept
three days before him, on the fourth he consented to fight.
I will fight my friend, Deugala! but may I fall by his sword.
Could I wander on the hill and behold the grave of Cuchullin? We fought on the hills of
Muri. Our swords avoid a wound. They slide on the helmets of steel; and sound on the
slippery shields. Deugala was near with a smile, and said to the son of Damman, thine
arm is feeble, thou sun-beam of youth. Thy years are not strong for
steel.——Yield to the son of Semo. He is like the rock of Malmor.
The tear is in the eye of youth. He faultering said to me,
Cuchullin, 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 chink of a rock. I lifted high
the edge of my steel. The sun-beam of the battle fell; the first of Cuchullin's
friends.——
Unhappy is the hand of Cuchullin since the hero fell.
Mournful is thy tale, son of the car, said Carril of other
times. It sends my soul back to the ages of old, and to the days of other
years.——Often have I heard of Comal who slew the friend he loved; yet
victory attended his steel; and the battle was
consumed in his presence.
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 sun-beam among women. And
her hair was like the wing of the raven. Her dogs were taught to the chace. Her
bow-string sounded on the winds of the forest. Her soul was fixed on Comal. Often met
their eyes of love. Their course in the chace was one, and happy were their words in
secret.——But Gormal 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 chace, when the mist had concealed
their friends, Comal and the daughter of Conloch met in the cave of Ronan
Rest here, he said, my love Galvina; 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 cloathed her white sides with his armour, and 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 drew the bow. The arrow flew. Galvina fell in blood. He
The hunters found the hapless pair; he afterwards walked the
hill. But many and silent were his steps round the dark dwelling of
Pleasant are the words of the song, said Cuchullin, and
lovely are 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, and let me hear the song of Tura: which was sung
in my halls of joy, when Fingal king of shields was there, and glowed at the deeds of
his fathers.
Fingal! thou man 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
He sat in the hall of his shells in Lochlin's woody land. He
called the gray-haired Snivan, that often sung round the circlethe
stone of power here mentioned is the image of one of the deities of
Scandanavia.
Go; gray-haired Snivan, Starno said, to Ardven's
sea-surrounded rocks. Tell to Fingal king of the
Snivan came to Albion's windy hills: and fair-haired Fingal
went. His kindled soul flew before him as he bounded on the waves of the north.
Welcome, said the dark-brown Starno, welcome, king of rocky
Morven; and ye his heroes of might; sons of the lonely isle! Three days within my halls
shall ye feast; and three days pursue my boars, that your fame may reach the maid that
dwells in the secret hall.
The king of snow
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 chace; and the spear of Fingal was red in the blood of Gormal.
It was then the daughter of Starno, with blue eyes rolling in
tears, 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 hill, remember Agandecca: save me from the wrath of my father, king
of the windy Morven!
The youth, with unconcern, went on; his heroes by his side.
The sons of death fell by his hand; and Gormal
Before the halls of Starno the sons of the chace convened.
The king's dark brows were like clouds. His eyes like meteors of night. Bring hither, he
cries, Agandecca to her lovely king of Morven. His hand is stained with the blood of my
people; and her words have not been in vain.——
She came with the red eye of tears. She came with her loose
raven locks. Her white breast heaved with sighs, like the foam of the streamy Lubar.
Starno pierced her side with steel. She fell like a wreath of snow that slides from the
rocks of Ronan; when the woods are still, and the
Then Fingal eyed his valiant chiefs, his valiant chiefs took
arms. The gloom of the battle roared, and Lochlin fled or died.——Pale, in
his bounding ship he closed the maid of the raven hair. Her tomb ascends on Ardven, and
the sea roars round the dark dwelling of Agandecca.
Blessed be her soul, said Cuchullin, and blessed be the mouth
of the song.——Strong was the youth of Fingal, and strong is his arm of
age. Lochlin shall fall again before the king of
Such were the words of Cuchullin 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 that never feared
before?
And never, Connal, will he fear, chief of the pointed steel.
My soul brightens in danger, and exults in the noise of battle. I am of the race of
steel; my fathers never feared.
Cormar was the first of my race. He sported through the
storms of the waves. His black skiff bounded on ocean, and travelled on the wings of the
blast. A 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 the sword unsheathed. When the
low-hung vapour passed, he took it by the curling head, and 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; and Calmar is like his
fathers. Danger flies from the uplifted sword. They best succeed who dare.
But now, ye sons of green-vallyed 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; but 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. After Fingal has wasted the field, place me by
some stone of remembrance, that future times may hear my fame; and the mother of Calmar
rejoice over the stone of my renown.
No: son of Matha, said Cuchullin, I will never leave thee. My
joy is in the unequal field: and my soul increases in danger. Connal, and Carril of
other times, carry off the sad sons of Erin; and when the battle is over, search for our
pale corses in this narrow way. For near this oak we shall stand in the stream of the
battle of thousands.
O Fithil's son, with feet of wind, fly over the heath of
Lena. Tell to Fingal that Erin is inthralled, and bid the king of Morven hasten. O let
him come like the sun in a storm, when he shines on the hills of grass.
Morning is gray 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
warrior; he leaned on his father's spear. That spear which he brought from Lara's hall,
when the soul of his mother was sad.——But slowly now the hero falls like a
tree on the plains of Cona. Dark Cuchullin stands alone like a rock
Swaran saw them from the hill, and 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 of the
How many lie there of my heroes! the chiefs of Inisfail! they
that were chearful in the hall when the sound of the shells arose. No more shall I find
their steps in the heath, or hear their voice in the chace of the hinds. Pale, silent,
low on bloody beds are they who were my friends! O spirits of the lately-dead, meet
Cuchullin on his heath. Converse with 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 gray
stone shall rise to my renown. Mourn me with the dead, O Bragela! departed is my
fame.
Such were the words of Cuchullin 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.
The battle is over, said the king, and I behold the blood of
my friends. Sad is the heath of Lena; and mournful the oaks of Cromla: the hunters have
fallen there in their strength; and the son of Semo is no more.——Ryno and
Fillan, my sons, found the horn of Fingal's war. Ascend that hill on the shore, and call
the children of the foe. Call them from the grave of Lamdarg, the Chief of other
times.
Be your voice like that of your father, when he enters the
battles of his strength. I wait for the dark mighty man; I wait on Lena's shore for
Swaran. And let him come with all his race; for strong in battle are the friends of the
dead.
Fair Ryno flew like lightning; dark Fillan as the shade of
autumn. On Lena's heath their voice is heard; the sons of ocean heard the horn of
Fingal's war. 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 dismal pride of his arms. Wrath burns in his dark-brown face: and his
eyes roll in the fire of his valour.
Fingal beheld the son of Starno; and he remembered
Agandecca.——For Swaran with the tears of youth had mourned his
white-bosomed sister. He sent Ullin of the songs to bid him to the feast of shells.. For
pleasant on Fingal's soul returned the remembrance of the first of his loves.
Ullin came with aged steps, and spoke to Starno's son. O thou
that dwelled 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
To-day, said Starno's wrathful son, we break the
And to-morrow let his feast be spread, said Fingal with a
smile; for to-day, O my sons, we shall break the
As a hundred winds on Morven; as the streams of a hundred
hills; as clouds fly successive over heaven; or, as the dark ocean assaults the shore of
the
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 to Morven to see the children of his
pride——The oaks resound on their hills, and the rocks fall down before
him. Bloody was the hand of my father when he whirled the lightning of his sword. He
remembers the battles of his youth, and 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; and Fillan like the mist
Who can relate the deaths of the people; or 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; and listened to the tales
of bards. His godlike race were in the song, the chiefs of other times. Attentive,
leaning on his shield, the king of Morven sat. The wind whistled through his aged locks,
and his thoughts are of the days of other years. Near him on his bending spear, my
young, my lovely Oscar stood. He admired the king of Morven: and his
actions were swelling in his soul.
Son of my son, begun the king, O Oscar, pride of youth, I saw
the shining of thy sword and gloried in my race. Pursue the glory of our fathers, and be
what they have been; when Trenmor lived, the first of men, and Trathal the father of
heroes. They fought the battle in their youth, and 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
Oscar! I was young like thee, when lovely Fainasóllis
came: that sun-beam! that mild light of love! the daughter of Craca's
Daughter of beauty, calm I said, what sigh is in that 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 replied, O prince of mighty
men! To thee I fly, chief of the generous shells, supporter of the feeble hand! The king
of Craca's
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
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 was the strife of death. He sunk beneath
my sword. We laid them in two tombs of stones; the hapless lovers of youth.
Such have I been in my youth, O Oscar; be thou like the age
of Fingal. Never search for the battle, nor shun it when it comes.
Fillan and Oscar of the dark-brown hair; ye children of the
race; fly over the heath of roaring winds; and view the sons of Lochlin. Far off I hear
the noise of their fear, like the storms of
The heroes flew like two dark clouds: two dark clouds that
are the chariots of ghosts; when air's dark children come to frighten hapless men.
It was then that Gaul
Son of battle, cried the chief, O Fingal, king of shells! let
the bards of many songs sooth Erin's friends to rest. And, Fingal, sheath thy sword of
death; and let thy people fight. We wither away without our fame; for 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.
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, sons of the 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 fittest on a blast of wind among the
high-shrowded masts of Lochlin; come to my dreams
Many a voice and many a harp in tuneful sounds arose. Of
Fingal's noble deeds they sung, and of the noble race of the hero. And sometimes on the
lovely sound was heard the name of the now mournful Ossian.
Often have I fought, and often won in battles of the spear.
But blind, and tearful, and forlorn I now walk with little men. O Fingal, with thy race
of battle I now behold thee not. The wild roes feed upon 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!
Who comes with her songs from the mountain, 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, and given the tear of beauty. Dost thou come to
the battles of thy people, and to hear the actions of
Oscar? When shall I cease to mourn by the streams of the
Daughter of the hand of snow! I was not so mournful and
blind; I was not so dark and forlorn when Everallin loved me.
I went in suit of the maid to Lego's sable surge; twelve of
my people were there, the sons of the 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 that has denied the blue-eyed sons of Erin.
But blest be thou, O son of Fingal, happy is the maid that waits thee. Tho' twelve
daughters of beauty were mine, thine were the choice, thou son of
fame!——Then he opened the hall of the maid, the dark-haired Everallin. Joy
kindled in our breasts of steel and blest the maid of Branno.
Above us on the hill appeared the people of stately Cormac.
Eight were the heroes of the chief; and the heath flamed with their arms. There Colla,
Durra of the wounds, there mighty Toscar, and Tago, there Frestal the victorious stood;
Dairo of the happy deeds, and Dala the battle's bulwark in the narrow
way.——The sword flamed in the hand of Cormac, and 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, and Dumariccan's brows of death. And why should Ogar be the last; so wide
renowned on the hills of Ardven?
Ogar met Dala the strong, face to face, on the field of
heroes. The battle of the chiefs was like the wind on ocean's foamy waves.
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, and unmatched his arm in battle.
Now
O Ossian, rise and save my son; save Oscar prince of men,
near the red oak of Lubar's stream, he fights with
I called him like a distant stream. My son return over Lena.
No further pursue the foe, though Ossian is behind thee.——He came; and
lovely in my ear was Oscar's sounding steel. Why didst thou stop my hand, he said, till
death had covered all? For dark and dreadful by the stream they met thy son and Fillan.
They watched the terrors of the night. Our swords have conquered some. But as the winds
of night pour the ocean over the white sands of Mora, so dark advance the sons of
Lochlin over Lena's rustling heath. The ghosts of night shriek afar; and I have seen the
meteors of death. Let me awake the king of Morven, he that smiles in danger; for he is
like the sun of heaven that rises in a storm.
Fingal had started from a dream, and leaned on Trenmor's
shield; the dark-brown shield of his fathers; which they had lifted of old in the
battles of their race.
My hero had seen in his rest the mournful form of Agandecca;
she came from the way of the ocean, and slowly, lonely, moved over Lena. Her face was
pale like the mist of Cromla; and 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
Why weeps the daughter of Starno, said Fingal, with a sigh?
Why is thy face so pale, thou daughter of the clouds?
She departed on the wind of Lena; and left him in the midst
of the night.——She mourned the sons of her people that were to fall by
Fingal's hand.
The hero started from rest, and still beheld her in his
soul.——The sound of Oscar's steps approached. The king saw the gray 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, and awake our friends to battle.
The king stood by the stone of Lubar and thrice reared his
terrible voice. The deer started from the fountains of Cromla; and all the rocks shook
on 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
Come to battle, said the king, ye children of the storm. Come
to the death of thousands. Comhal's son will see the fight.——My sword
shall wave on that hill, and be the shield of my people. 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 the song.
O ye ghosts of heroes dead! ye riders of the storm of Cromla!
receive my falling people with joy, and bring 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; and behold the son of Morni. Let your
swords be like his in the strife: and behold the deeds of his hands.
Protect the friends of your father: and remember the
chiefs of old. My children, I will see you yet, though here ye should fall in Erin. Soon
shall our cold, pale ghosts meet in a cloud, and fly over the hills of Cona.
Now like a dark and stormy cloud, edged round with the red
lightning of heaven, and flying westward from the morning's beam, the king of hills
removed. Terrible is the light of his armour, and two spears are in his
hand.——His gray hair falls on the wind.——He often looks back
on the war. Three bards attend the son of fame, to carry his words to the
heroes.—High on Cromla's side he sat, waving the lightning of his sword, and as
he waved we moved.
Joy rose 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; and give me Ossian's fame. And if here I fall; my
king, remember that breast of snow, that lonely sun-beam of my love, the white-handed
daughter of Toscar. For with red cheek from the rock, and 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; that hereafter, in a cloud, I may meet the
lovely maid of Toscar.
Raise, Oscar, rather raise my tomb. I will not yield the
fight to thee. For first and bloodiest in the war my arm shall teach
Such were our words, when Gaul's loud voice came growing on
the wind. He waved on high the sword of his father, and rushed to death and wounds.
As waves white-bubbling over the deep come swelling, roaring
on; as rocks of ooze meet roaring waves: so foes attacked and fought. Man met with man,
and steel with steel. Shields sound, men fall. As a hundred hammers on the 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
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, and half-assumed the
spear. Go, Ullin, go, my aged bard, begun the king of Morven. Remind the mighty Gaul of
battle; remind him of his fathers. Support the yielding fight with song; for song
enlivens war. Tall Ullin went, with steps of age, and spoke to the king of swords.
Son
Now Fingal arose in his might, and thrice he reared his
voice. Cromla answered around, and the sons of the
Fingal, like a beam from heaven, shone in the midst of his
people. His heroes gather around him, and he sends forth the voice of his power. Raise
my standards
We reared the sun-beamlifting of the sun-beam.
Behold, said the king of generous shells, how Lochlin divides
on Lena.——They stand like broken clouds on the 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
Mine, said Gaul, be the seven chiefs that came from Lano's
lake.——Let Inistore's dark king, said Oscar, come to the sword of Ossian's
son.——To mine the king of Iniscon, said Connal, heart of steel! Or Mudan's
chief or I, said brown-haired Dermid, shall sleep on clay-cold earth. My choice, though
now so weak and dark, was Terman's battling king; I promised with my hand to win the
hero's dark-brown shield.——Blest and victorious be my chiefs, said Fingal
of the mildest look; Swaran, king of roaring waves, thou art the choice of Fingal.
Now, like an hundred different winds that pour through many
vales; divided, dark the sons of the hill advanced, and Cromla
How can I relate the deaths when we closed in the strife of
our steel? 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; when thy white bosom rose frequent, like the down of the swan when slow she sails
the lake, and sidelong winds are blowing.——Thou hast seen the sun——ruunt de montibus amnes.
It was then by Fingal's hand a hero fell, to his
grief.——Gray-haired he rolled in the dust, and lifted his faint eyes to
the king. And is it by me thou hast fallen, said the son of Comhal, thou friend of
Agandecca! I have seen thy tears for the maid of my love in the halls of the bloody
Starno. Thou hast been the foe of the foes of my love, and hast thou fallen by my hand?
Raise, Ullin, raise the grave of the son of Mathon; and give his name to the song of
Agandecca; for dear to my soul hast thou been, thou darkly-dwelling maid of Ardven.
Cuchullin, from the cave of Cromla, heard the noise of the
troubled war. He called to Connal chief of swords, and Carril of other times. The
gray-haired heroes heard his voice, and took their aspen spears.
They came, and saw the tide of battle, like the crowded waves
of the ocean; when the dark wind blows from the deep, and rolls the billows through the
sandy vale.
Cuchullin kindled at the sight, and 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, and thrice did Connal stop him. 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, and greet the king of
Morven. When Lochlin falls away like a stream after rain, and the noise of the battle is
over. Then be thy voice sweet in his ear to praise the king of swords. Give him the
sword of Caithbat, for Cuchullin is worthy no more to lift the arms of his fathers.
But, O ye ghosts of the lonely Cromla! ye souls of chiefs
that are no more! be ye the companions of Cuchullin, and talk to him in the cave of his
sorrow. For never more shall I be renowned among the mighty in the land. I am like a
beam that has shone, like a mist that 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-bosom'd Bragela, mourn over the fall of my fame;
for, vanquished, I will never return to thee, thou sun-beam of Dunscaich.
Now Connal, on Cromla's windy side, spoke to the chief of the
noble car. Why that gloom, son of Semo? Our friends are the mighty in battle. And
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, and his foes silent in the fields of the
tomb. Pleasant to her ears were thy bards, when thine
actions rose in the 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
Happy are thy people, O Fingal, thine arm shall fight their
battles: thou art the first in their dangers; the wisest in the days of their peace.
Thou speakest and thy thousands obey; and armies tremble at the sound of thy steel.
Happy are thy people, Fingal, chief of the lonely hills.
Who is that so dark and terrible coming in the thunder of his
course? who is it but Starno's son to meet the king of Morven? Behold the battle of the
chiefs: it is like the storm of the ocean, when two spirits meet far distant, and
contend for the rolling of the wave. The hunter hears the noise on his hill; and sees
the high billows advancing to Ardven's shore.
Such were the words of Connal, when the heroes met in the
midst of their falling people. There was the clang of arms! there every blow, like the
hundred hammers of the furnace! Terrible is the battle of the kings, and horrid the look
of their eyes. Their dark-brown shields are cleft in twain; and their steel flies,
broken, from their helmets. They fling their weapons down. Each rushes
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, and their tall oaks meet one another on high. Then
they fall together with all their rocks and trees. The streams are turned by their
sides, and the red ruin is seen afar.
Sons of the king of Morven, said the noble Fingal, guard the
king of Lochlin; for he is strong as his thousand waves. His hand is taught to the
battle, and his race of the times of old. Gaul, thou first of my heroes, and Ossian king
of songs, attend the friend of Agandecca, and raise to joy his
grief.——But, Oscar, Fillan, and Ryno, ye children of the race! pursue the
rest of Lochlin over the heath of Lena; that no vessel may hereafter bound on the
dark-rolling waves of Inistore.
They flew like lightning over the heath. He slowly moved as a
cloud of thunder when the sultry plain of summer is silent. His sword is before him as a
sun-beam, terrible as the streaming meteor of night. He came toward a chief of Lochlin,
and spoke to the son of the wave.
Who is that like a cloud at the rock of the roaring stream?
He cannot bound over its course; yet stately is the chief! his bossy shield is on his
side; and his spear like the tree of the
I am a son of Lochlin, he cries, and strong is my arm in war.
My spouse is weeping at home, but Orla
Or fights or yields the hero, said Fingal of the noble deeds?
foes do not conquer in my presence; but my friends are renowned in the hall. Son of the
wave, follow me, partake the feast of my shells, and pursue the deer of my
No: said the hero, I assist the feeble: my strength shall
remain 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
And does the king refuse the combat, said Orla of the
dark-brown hair? 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, and let it be the greatest on Lena. And send, 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
They fought on the heath of Lena, but 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 stream of night.
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 Loda; 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 Loda let her see thee escaped from the hands of war. Let thy gray-haired
father, who, perhaps, is blind with age, hear the sound of thy voice in 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 Loda.——On Lena's heath I shall die; and foreign bards will talk of
me. My broad belt covers my wound of death. And now I give it to the wind.
The dark blood poured from his side, he fell pale on the
heath of Lena. Fingal bends over him as he dies, and calls his younger heroes.
Oscar and Fillan, my sons, 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 Loda.
Exalt the voice, and blow the horn, ye sons of the king of
Morven: let us go back to Swaran, and 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.
Ryno, said Ullin first of bards, is with the awful forms of
his fathers. With Trathal king of shields, and Trenmor of the mighty deeds. The youth is
low,—the youth is pale,—he lies on Lena's heath.
And 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.
The tear is on the cheek of the king, for terrible was his
son in war. His son! that was like a beam of fire by night on the hill; when the forests
sink down in its course, and the traveller trembles at the sound.
Whose fame is in that dark-green tomb, begun the king of
generous shells? four stones with their heads of moss stand there; and mark the narrow
house of death. Near it let my Ryno rest, and be the neighbour of the valiant. Perhaps
some chief of fame is here to fly with my son on clouds. O Ullin, raise the songs of
other times. Bring to memory the dark dwellers of the tomb. If in the field of the
valiant they never fled from danger, my son shall rest with them, far from his friends,
on the heath of Lena.
Here, said the mouth of the song, here rest the first of
heroes. Silent is Lamdergbloody hand. Gelchossa, white legged. Tuathal, surly. Ulfadda, long-beard. Ferchios, the conqueror of men.
Where is Gelchossa, my love, the daughter of the noble
Tuathal? I left her in the hall of Selma, when I fought with the gloomy Ulfadda. Return
soon, O Lamderg, she said, for here I am in the midst of sorrow. Her white breast rose
with sighs. Her cheek was wet with tears. But I see her not coming to meet me; and to
sooth my soul after battle. Silent is the hall of my joy; I hear not the voice of the
bard.—Bran
Lamderg! says Ferchios the son of Aidon, Gelchossa may be on
Cromla; she and the maids of the bow pursuing 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 of
Cromla. Go, Ferchios, go to Allad
The son of Aidon went; and spoke to the ear of age. Allad!
thou that dwellest in the rock: thou that tremblest alone, what saw thine eyes of
age?
I saw, answered Allad the old, Ullin the son of Cairbar. He
came like a cloud from Cromla; and he hummed a surly song like a blast in a leafless
wood. He entered the hall of Selma.——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 yielded. He will fight the son of Cairbar.
Lovely art thou, said terrible Ullin, 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.
Allad! said the chief of Cromla, peace to thy dreams in the
cave. Ferchios, sound the horn of Lamderg that Ullin may hear on Cromla. Lamderg
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.
Cairbar, hoary chief of shells, said the maid of the tender
hand; I must bend the bow on Cromla; for I see the dark-brown hinds.
She hasted up the hill. In vain! the gloomy heroes
fought.——Why should I tell the king of Morven how wrathful heroes
fight!
What blood, my love, the soft-haired woman said, what blood
runs down my warrior's side?——It is Ullin's blood, the chief replied, thou
fairer than the snow of Cromla! Gelchossa, let me rest here a little while. The mighty
Lamderg died.
And sleepest thou so soon on earth, O chief of shady Cromla?
three days she mourned beside her love.——The hunters found her dead. They
raised this tomb above the three. Thy son, O king of Morven, may rest here with
heroes.
And here my son will rest, said Fingal, the noise of their
fame has reached my ears. Fillan and Fergus! bring hither Orla; the pale youth of the
stream of Loda. Not unequalled shall Ryno lie in earth when Orla is by his side. Weep,
ye daughters of Morven; and ye maids of the streamy Loda. Like a tree they grew on the
hills; and they have fallen like the oak——
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
Such was thy grief, thou king of hills, 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 blast of
the
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 people.
I lifted my eyes to Cromla, and I saw the son of generous
Semo.——Sad and slow he retired from his hill towards the lonely cave of
Tura. He saw Fingal victorious, and mixed his joy with
grief. The sun is bright on his armour, and Connal slowly followed. 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; and the rushing winds
Who comes with the locks of age? It is the son of the songs.
Hail, Carril of other times, thy voice is like the harp in the halls of Tura. Thy words
are pleasant as the shower that falls on the fields of the sun. Carril of the times of
old, why comest thou from the son of the generous Semo?
Ossian king of swords, replied the bard, thou best raisest
the song. Long hast thou been known to Carril, thou ruler of battles. Often have I
touched the harp to lovely Evirallin. Thou too hast often accompanied my voice in
Branno's hall of generous shells. And often, amidst our voices, was heard the mildest
Evirallin. One day she sung of Cormac's fall, the youth that died for her love. I saw
the tears on her cheek, and on thine, thou chief of men. Her soul was touched for the
unhappy, though she loved him not. How fair among a thousand maids was the daughter of
the 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 wakens from
dreams of joy, and has heard the music of the spirits
The clouds of night came rolling down and rest on Cromla's
dark-brown steep. The stars of the north arise over the rolling of the waves of Ullin;
they
Still on the darkening Lena arose in my ears the tuneful
voice of Carril. He sung of the companions of our youth, and the days of former years;
when we met on the banks of Lego, and sent round the joy of the shell. Cromla, with its
cloudy steeps, answered to his voice. The ghosts of those he sung came in their rustling
blasts. They were seen to bend with joy towards the sound of their praise.
Be thy soul blest, O Carril, in the midst of thy eddying
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; and thy wind whistles through the gray hair of Ossian.
Now on the side of Mora the heroes gathered to the feast. A
thousand aged oaks are burning to the wind.——The strength
Fingal leaned on the shield of his fathers. His gray 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, and sooth my soul
after battle, that my ear may forget the noise of arms. And 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
Trenmor
Three chiefs that 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 prepared the feast, and called the blooming Trenmor. Three
days he feasted at Gormal's windy towers; and got 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 gray morn arose, the hero launched his
ship; and walking along the silent shore waited for the milling wind.
For loud and distant he heard the blast
murmuring in the grove.
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. And 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 beauty. 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. The virgins shall gather with smiles around
him who conquered Trenmor. They shall sigh with the sighs of love, and admire the length
of thy spear; when I shall carry it among thousands, and lift the glittering point to
the sun.
Thou shalt never carry my spear, said the angry king of
Morven.——Thy mother shall find thee pale on the shore of the
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; for Trenmor is covered all over.——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 halls of Gormal; and loved his face of
youth.——The spear dropt from the hand of Trenmor: he bent his red cheek to
the ground, for he had seen her like a beam of light
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
Rest thou in peace, said the mighty Trenmor, 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; and sent his horn abroad.
He called Corlo to battle from all his
King of Lochlin, said Fingal, thy blood flows in the veins of
thy foe. Our families met in battle, because 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 battle. Raise, to morrow, 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, and spared thee in the halls of Starno; when my
sword was red with slaughter, and my eye full of tears for the maid.——Or
dost thou chuse 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 the waves of
Lochlin; never will Swaran fight with thee, first of a thousand heroes! I have seen thee
in the halls of Starno, and 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 him who overcame to
future years, for noble was the strife of heathy 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. And when thy sons
shall come to the mossy towers of Gormal; the feast of shells shall be spread, and the
combat offered on the vale.
Nor ship, replied the king, shall Fingal take, nor land of
many hills. The
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, thou noble king of Morven.
Let thy bards mourn those who fell. Let Erin give the sons of
Lochlin to earth; and raise the mossy stones of their fame. That the children of the
north hereafter may behold the place where their fathers fought. And some hunter may
say, when he leans on a
Swaran, said the king of the hills, to-day our fame is
greatest. We shall pass away like a dream. No sound will be in the fields of our
battles. Our tombs will be lost in the heath. The hunter shall not know the place of our
rest. Our names may be heard in the song, but the strength of our arms will cease.
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, and a hundred harps
accompanied 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.
It was then that Fingal spoke to Carril the chief 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?
Cuchullin, 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
which he lost. Mournful is the king of spears, for he has often been victorious. He
sends the sword of his war to rest on the side of Fingal. For, like the storm of the
No: replied the king, Fingal shall never take his sword. His
arm is mighty in war; and tell him his fame shall never fail. Many have been overcome in
battle, that have shone afterwards like the sun of heaven.
O Swaran, king of the 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 sought the battle on every
coast. His soul rejoiced in blood; his ear in the din of arms. He poured his warriors on
the sounding Craca; and Craca's king met him from his grove; for then within the circle
of Brumo
Fierce was the battle of the heroes, for the maid of the
breast of snow. The fame of the daughter of Craca had reached Grumal at the streams of
Cona; he vowed to have the white-bosomed maid, or die on the
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 afterwards he shone like a pillar of the light of heaven. They fell by his
mighty hand, and Grumal had his fame.
Raise, ye bards of other times, raise high the praise of
heroes; that my soul may settle on their fame; and the mind of Swaran cease to be
sad.
They lay in the heath of Mora; the dark winds rustle over the
heroes.——A hundred voices at once arose, a hundred harps were strung; they
sung of other times, and the mighty chiefs of former years.
When now shall I hear the bard; or rejoice at the fame of my
fathers? The harp is not strung on Morven; nor the voice of music raised on Cona. Dead
with the mighty is the bard; and fame is in the
Morning trembles with the beam of the east, and glimmers on
gray-headed Cromla. Over Lena is heard the horn of Swaran, and the sons of the ocean
gather around.——Silent and sad they mount the wave, and the blast of Ullin
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 chace. 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 my horn, that the joy of the chace may arise; that
the deer of Cromla may hear and start at the lake of roes.
The shrill sound spreads along the wood. The sons of heathy
Cromla arise.——A thousand dogs fly off at once, gray-bounding
One deer fell at the tomb of Ryno; and the grief of Fingal
returned. He saw how peaceful lay the stone of him who was the first at the
chace.——No 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 over it, and shall not know that the mighty lie there.
Ossian and Fillan, sons of my strength, and Gaul king of the
blue blades of war, let us ascend the hill to the cave of Tura, and find the chief of
the battles of Erin.——Are these the walls of Tura, gray and lonely they
rise on the heath? The king of shells is sad, and the halls are desolate. Come let us
find the king of swords, and give him all our joy.
But is that Cuchullin, O Fillan, or a pillar of smoke on the
heath? The wind of Cromla is on my eyes, and 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 Cuchullin, hail to all the sons of
Morven. Delightful is thy presence, O Fingal, it is like the sun on Cromla; when the
hunter mourns his absence for a season, and sees him between
It is not thus thou hast seen me, O Fingal, returning from
the wars of the king of the world.
Many are thy words, Cuchullin, said Connan
No hero, replied the chief, ever sought the arms of
Cuchullin; and had a thousand heroes sought them it were in vain, thou gloomy youth. I
fled not to the cave of sorrow, as long as Erin's warriors lived.
Youth of the feeble arm, said Fingal, Connan, say no more.
Cuchullin is renowned in battle, and terrible over the
And long shall she listen in vain; Cuchullin shall never
return. How can I behold Bragela to raise the sigh of her breast? Fingal, I was always
victorious in the battles of other spears!
And hereafter thou shalt be
victorious, said Fingal king of shells. The fame of
Cuchullin shall grow like the branchy tree of Cromla. Many battles await thee, O chief,
and many shall be the wounds of thy hand.
Bring hither, Oscar, the deer, and prepare the feast of
shells; that our souls may rejoice after danger, and our friends delight in our
presence.
We sat, we feasted, and we sung. The soul of Cuchullin rose.
The strength of his arm returned; and gladness brightened on his face.
Ullin gave the song, and Carril raised the voice. I, often,
joined the bards, and sung of battles of the spear.——Battles! where I
often fought; but now I fight no more. The fame of my former
actions is ceased; and I sit forlorn at the tombs of
my friends.
Thus they passed the night in the song; and brought back the
morning with joy. Fingal arose on the heath, and shook his glittering spear in his
hand.——He moved first toward the plains of Lena, and we followed like a
ridge of fire.
Spread the sail, said the king of Morven, and catch the winds
that pour from Lena.——We rose on the wave with songs, and rushed, with
joy, through the foam of the ocean
The Persons.
The
And night comes on, thou blue-eyed maid, gray 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 branchy horns; and the awful
faces
These are the signs of Fingal's death.—The king of
shields is fallen!—and Caracul prevails. Rise, Comalathe maid of the pleasant brow.
There Comala sits forlorn! two gray dogs near shake their
rough ears, and catch the flying breeze. Her red cheek rests on her arm, and the
mountain wind is in her hair. She turns her blue-rolling
O Caruna winding river.—This river retains still the name of
Carron, and falls into the Forth some miles to the North of Falkirk.
Roll, thou mist of gloomy Crona, roll on the path of the
hunter. Hide his steps from mine eyes, and let me remember my friend no more. The bands
of battle are scattered, and no crowding steps are round the noise of his steel. O
Carun, roll thy streams of blood, for the chief of the people fell.
Who fell on Carun's grassy 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
O that I might behold his love, fair-leaning from her rock!
Her red eye dim in tears, and her blushing cheek half hid in her locks! Blow, thou
gentle breeze, and lift the heavy locks of the maid, that I may behold her white arm,
and lovely cheek of her sorrow!
And is the son of Comhal fallen, chief of the mournful tale?
The thunder rolls on the hill!——The lightening flies on wings of fire! But
they frighten not Comala; for her Fingal fell. Say, chief of the mournful tale, fell the
breaker of the shields?
The nations are scattered on their hills; for they shall hear
the voice of the chief no more.
Confusion pursue thee over thy plains; and destruction
overtake 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, and have thought I saw him on the distant rock; a tree
might have deceived me with his appearance; and the wind of the hill been the sound
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.
Stop, ye sons of the grave, till I behold my love. He left me
at the chace alone. I knew not that he went to war. He said he would return with the
night; and the king of Morven is returned. Why didst thou not tell me that he would
fall, O trembling son of the rockthe son of
the rock she means 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.
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?
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
Raise, ye bards of the song, the wars of the streamy Carun.
Caracul has fled from my 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 like the breeze of my hills. Is it the
huntress of Galmal, the white-handed daughter of Sarno? Look from thy rocksO my dove
that art in the clefts of the
rock, in the secret places of the stairs, let me see thy
countenance, let me hear thy voice.
Take me to the cave of thy rest, O lovely son of
death!——
Come to the cave of my rest.——The storm is
overThe winter is past, the rain is over and gone.
He is returned with his fame; I feel the right hand of his
battles.——But I must rest beside the rock till my soul settle from
fear.—Let the harp be near; and raise the song, ye daughters of Morni.
Comala has slain three deer on Ardven, and the fire ascends
on the rock; go to the feast of Comala, king of the woody Morven!
Raise, ye sons of the song, the wars of the streamy Carun;
that my white-handed maid may rejoice: while I behold the feast of my love.
Roll, streamy Carun, roll in joy, the sons of battle fled.
The steed is not seen on our fields; and the wings
Descend, ye light mists from high; ye moon-beams, lift her
soul.——Pale lies the maid at the rock! Comala is no more!
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.
Ceased the voice of the huntress of Galmal? Why did I trouble
the soul of the maid? When shall I see thee, with joy, in the chace of the dark-brown
hinds?
Youth of the gloomy brow! no more shalt thou feast in my
halls. Thou shalt not pursue my chace, and my foes shall not fall
See! meteors roll around the maid; and moon-beams lift her soul! Around her, from their
clouds, bend the awful faces of her fathers; Sarno
Bring, 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 CronaWho
is this that cometh out of the
wilderness like pillars of smoke.
Who comes towards my son, with the murmur of a song? His staff
is in his hand, his gray hair loose on the wind. Surly joy
What does Caros king of ships, said the son of the now mournful
Ossian? spreads he the wings
He spreads them, Oscar, replied the bard, but it is behind his
gathered heap
Go, thou first of my bards, says Oscar, and take the spear of
Fingal. Fix a flame on its point, and 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; and
that my bow is weary of the chace of Cona. Tell him the mighty are not here; and that my
arm is young.
He went with the murmur of his song. Oscar reared his voice on
high. It reached his heroes on Ardven, like the noise of a cave
Ryno came to the mighty Caros, and struck his flaming spear.
Come to the battle of Oscar, O thou that sittest on the rolling of waters. Fingal is
distant far; he hears the songs of his bards in
He came not over the streamy Carun
Why art thou sad? said Ryno; for he alone beheld the chief. Why
art thou sad, Hidallan, hast thou not received thy fame? The songs of Ossian have been
heard, and thy ghost has brightened in the wind, when thou didst bend from thy cloud to
hear the song of Morven's bard.
And do thine eyes behold the hero, said Oscar, like the dim
meteor of night? Say, Ryno, say, how fell the chief that was so renowned in the days of
our fathers?——His name remains on the rocks of Cona; and I have often seen
the streams of his hills.
Fingal, replied the bard, had driven Hidallan from his wars.
The king's soul was sad for Comala, and his eyes could not behold Hidallan.
Lonely, sad along the heath he slowly moved with silent steps.
His arms hang disordered on his side. His hair flies loose from his helmet. The tear is in
his down-cast eyes; and the 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 Balvaa
silent stream; and Glentivar, the sequestered
vale.
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?
No: replied the sighing youth, the people of Lamor live. They
are renowned in battle, 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
King of the streamy Balva! said Hidallan with a sigh, why dost
thou torment my soul? Lamor, I never feared.—Fingal was sad for Comala, and denied
his wars to Hidallan; go to the gray streams of thy land, he said, and 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 gray streams? Spirit of
the noble Garmállon! carry Lamor to his place; his eyes are dark; his soul is sad;
and 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 chace 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 not enquire of his mountains, or of the dark-brown deer of his
I must fall, said Lamor, like a leafless oak: it grew on a
rock, but the winds have overturned it.——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 Garmállon;—he took it from a foe.
He went and brought the sword with all its studded
thongs.——He gave it to his father. The gray-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 heard the breeze whistling
there.—A little fountain murmurs near, and sends its water to Balva. There let me
rest; it is noon: and the sun is on our fields.
He led him to Garmállon's tomb. Lamor pierced the side of
his son.——They sleep together: and their ancient halls moulder on Balva's
banks.—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
Sons of the
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.
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
valiant.
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: and
thrice the winds of the 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 ——caput obscura nitidum ferrugine texit.
Oscar passed the night among his fathers, gray morning met him
on the banks of Carun.
A green vale surrounded a 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
A thousand spears rose 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 like 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; and 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 will 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
He stood, growing in his place, like the flood of the 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, and Oscar 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; and the earth is 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 sorrow; 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, and the roar
of my mountain streams. Let the
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, and 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
Our youth is like the dream of the hunter on the hill of heath.
He sleeps in the mild beams of the sun; but he awakes amidst a storm; the red lightning
flies around: and the 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, or his ear delight in the
sound of arms? When shall I, like Oscar, travelTravelling in
the greatness of his strength.
I behold thy towers, O Selma! and the oaks of thy shaded
wall:—thy streams sound in my ear; thy heroes gather round. Fingal sits in the
midst; and leans on the shield of Trenmor:—his
Oscar had returned from the chace, and heard the hero's
praise.—He took the shield of Branno
Fingal! thou king of heroes! Ossian, next to him in war! ye
have fought the battle in your youth; your names are renowned in the song.—Oscar is
like the mist of Cona; I appear and vanish.—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 may find me there, and give my name to the
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;—for thou art of the race of renown. Let not the children of
strangers say, feeble are the sons of Morven!——Be thou, in battle, like the
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
The gray-haired hero rose, when he saw the sword of Fingal. His
eyes were full of tears, and he remembered the battles of their youth. Twice they lifted
the spear before the lovely Agandecca: heroes stood far distant, as if two ghosts
contended.
But now,
Three days they feasted together; on the fourth Annir heard the
name of Oscar.—They rejoiced in the shellTo
rejoice in the shell is a phrase for feasting sumptuously and drinking freely. I
have observed in a preceding note, that the ancient Scots drunk in shells.
Beside the fount of mossy stones, the weary heroes rest. The
tear steals in secret from Annir: and 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
King of Inis-thona, said Oscar, how fell the children of youth?
The wild boar often rushes over their tombs, but he does not disturb the hunters. They
pursue deer
Cormalo, replied the king, is chief of ten thousand spears; he
dwells at the dark-rolling waters of LanoAnd thou, O valiant Duchomar, like the mist of marshy Lano;
when it sails over the plains of autumn, and brings death to the people.
the honour of the spear is meant the tournament practised among the ancient
northern nations.
Argon and Ruro returned from the chace; the tears of their
pride descend:—They rolled their silent eyes on Runa's heroes, because they yielded
to a stranger: three days they feasted with Cormalo: on the fourth my Argon
fought.—But who could fight with Argon!—Lano's chief is overcome. His heart
swelled with the grief of pride, and he resolved, in secret, to behold the death of my
sons.
They went to the hills of Runa, and pursued the dark-brown
hinds. The arrow of Cormalo flew in secret; and my children fell. He came to the maid of
his love; to Inis-thona's dark-haired maid.——They fled over the
Night came on and day appeared; nor Argon's voice, nor Ruro's
came. At length their much-loved dog is 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: and laid them by this mossy stream. This is the haunt of
Annir, when the chace of the hinds is over. I bend like the trunk of an aged oak above
them: and 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 cloud of death. Cormalo will not long rejoice: death is often at the point of
our swords.
They came over the
Oscar fought, as he was wont in battle. Cormalo fell beneath
his sword: and the sons of the dismal Lano fled to their secret
vales.——Oscar brought the daughter of Inis-thona to Annir's
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 him.
We brought him, with songs, to Selma's halls. Fingal ordered
the feast of shells to be spread. A thousand bards raised the name of Oscar: and Morven
answered to the noise. The daughter of Toscar was there, and 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; and let the sound of the distant torrent be heard. Daughter of Toscar, take the
harp, and raise the lovely
Selma! I behold thy towers, thy trees, and shaded wall. I see
the heroes of Morven; and hear the song of bards. Oscar lifts the sword of Cormalo; and a
thousand youths admire its studded thongs. They look with wonder on my son; and 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 the song; and I remember the companions of
my youth.——But sleep descends with the sound of the harp; and pleasant
dreams begin to rise. Ye sons of the I charge you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, by the roes,
and by the hinds of the field, that ye stir not up, nor awake my love, till he
please.
Son of the distant land, who dwellest in the secret cell! do I
hear the sounds of thy grove? or is it thy voice of songs?—The torrent was loud in
my ear, but I heard a tuneful voice; dost thou praise the chiefs of thy land; or the
spirits
A mountain-stream comes roaring down and sends its waters round
a green hill: four mossy stones, in the midst of withered grass, rear their heads on the
top: two trees, which the storms have bent, spread their whistling branches
around.——This is thy dwelling, Erragonthe rage of the waves; probably a poetical name
given him by Ossian himself; for he goes by the name of Annir in tradition.The beauty of Israel is slain
on thy high places: how are the mighty fallen!
How are the mighty fallen in the midst of the battle! O Jonathan, thou wast slain
in thine high places.
Son of the secret cell! dost thou delight in songs? Hear the
battle of Lora; the sound of its steel is long since past. So thunder on the darkened hill
roars and is no more. The sun returns with his silent beams: the glittering rocks, and
green heads of the mountains smile.
The bay of Cona received our ships
Two heroes were forgot at our feast; and the rage of their
bosoms burned. They rolled their red eyes in secret: the sigh bursts from their breasts.
They were seen to talk together, and to throw their spears on earth. They were two dark
clouds, in the midst of our joy; like pillars of mist on the settled sea: it glitters to
the sun, but the mariners fear a storm.
Raise my white sails, said Ma-ronnan, raise them to the winds
of the west; let us rush, O Aldo, through the foam of the northern wave. We are forgot at
the feast: but our arms have been red in blood. Let us leave the hills of Fingal, and
serve the king of Sora.——His countenance is fierce, and the war darkens
round his spear. Let us be renowned, O Aldo, in the battles of
They took their swords and shields of thongs; and rushed to
Lumar's sounding bay. They came to Sora's haughty king, the chief of bounding
steeds.——Erragon had returned from the chace: his spear was red in blood. He
bent his dark face to the ground: and whistled as he went.——He took the
strangers to his feasts: they fought and conquered in his wars.
Aldo returned with his fame towards Sora's lofty
walls.—From her tower looked the spouse of Erragon, the humid, rolling eyes of
Lorma.——Her dark-brown hair flies on the wind of ocean: her white breast
heaves, like snow on heath; when the gentle winds arise, and slowly move it in the light.
She saw young Aldo, like the beam of Sora's setting sun. Her lost heart sighed: tears
filled her eyes; and her white arm supported her head.
Three days she sat within the hall, and covered grief with
joy.—On the fourth she fled with the hero, along the rolling
sea.——They came to Cona's mossy towers, to Fingal king of spears.
Aldo of the heart of pride! said the rising king of Morven,
shall I defend thee from the wrath of Sora's injured king? who will now receive my people
into their halls, or give the feast of strangers, since Aldo, of the little soul, has
carried away the fair of Sora? Go to thy hills, thou feeble hand, and hide thee in thy
caves; mournful is the battle we must fight, with Sora's gloomy
king.——Spirit of the noble Trenmor! When will Fingal cease to fight? I was
born in the midst of battlesborn in the midst of
battles.
His people gathered around Erragon, as the storms round the
ghost of night; when he calls them from the top of Morven, and prepares to pour them on
the land of the stranger.——He came to the shore of Cona, and sent his bard
to the king; to demand the combat of thousands; or the land of many hills.
Fingal sat in his hall with the companions of his youth around
him. The young heroes were at the great strength. Lora, noisy.
This is no time, begun the chief, to hear the songs of other
years: Erragon frowns on the coast, and lifts ten thousand swords. Gloomy
Come, said Fingal, from thy hall, thou daughter of my love;
come from thy hall, Bosminasoft and
tender hand. She was the youngest of Fingal's children.steeds of strangers.
She came to the host of Erragon, like a beam of light to a
cloud.——In her right hand shone an arrow of gold: and in her left a
sparkling shell, the sign of Morven's peace.
Erragon brightened in her presence as a rock, before the sudden
beams of the sun; when they issue from a broken cloud, divided by the roaring wind.
Son of the distant Sora, begun the mildly blushing maid, come
to the feast of Morven's king, to Selma's shaded walls. Take the peace of heroes, O
warrior, and let the dark sword rest by thy side.—And if thou chusest the wealth of
kings, hear the words of the generous Aldo.——He gives to Erragon an hundred
steeds, the children of the rein; an hundred maids from distant lands; an hundred hawks
with fluttering wing, that fly across the sky. An hundred girdles
Soft voice of Cona! replied the king, tell him, that he spreads
his feast in vain.——Let Fingal pour his spoils around me; and bend beneath
my power. Let him give me the swords of his fathers, and the shields of other times; that
my children may behold them in my halls, and say, "These are the arms of Fingal."
Never shall they behold them in thy halls, said the rising
pride of the maid; they are in the mighty hands of heroes who never yielded in
war.—King of the
She came to Selma's silent halls; the king beheld her down-cast
eyes. He rose from his place, in his strength, and shook his aged locks.—He took
the sounding mail of Trenmor, and the dark-brown shield of his fathers. Darkness filled
Selma's hall, when he stretched his hand to his spear:—the ghosts of thousands were
near, and
Now the dogs of the chace appeared at Trathal's tomb: Fingal
knew that his young heroes followed them, and he stopt in the midst of his
course.——Oscar appeared the first;—then Morni's son, and Nemi's
race:—Fercuththe man of the word, or a commander of an army.
The king of Morven sat on his hill: the sun-beam
Who comes, said Fingal, like the bounding roe, like the hart of
The king took the spear of his strength; for he was sad for the
fall of Aldo: he bent his deathful eyes on the foe; but Gaul met the king of
Sora.——Who can relate the fight of the chiefs?—The mighty stranger
fell.
Sons of Cona! Fingal cried aloud, stop the hand of
death.—Mighty was he that is now so low! and much is he mourned in Sora! The
stranger will come towards his hall, and wonder why it is silent. The king is fallen, O
stranger, and the joy of his house is ceased.——Listen to the sound of his
woods: perhaps his ghost is there; but he is far distant, on Morven, beneath the sword of
a foreign foe.
Such were the words of Fingal, when the bard raised the song of
peace; we stopped our uplifted swords, and spared the feeble foe. We laid Erragon in that
tomb; and I raised the voice of grief: the clouds of night came rolling down, and the
ghost of Erragon appeared to some.—His face was cloudy and dark; and an half-formed
sigh is in his breast.——Blest be thy soul, O king of Sora! thine arm was
terrible in war!
Lorma sat, in Aldo's hall, at the light of a flaming oak: the night came, but he did not
return; and the soul of Lorma is sad.—What detains thee, hunter of Cona? for thou
didst promise to
Her eyes are turned toward the gate, and she listens to the
rustling blast. She thinks it is Aldo's tread, and joy rises in her face:—but
sorrow returns again, like a thin cloud on the moon.——And thou wilt not
return, my love? Let me behold the face of the hill. The moon is in the east. Calm and
bright is the breast of the lake! When shall I behold his dogs returning from the
His thin ghost appeared, on a rock, like the watry beam of the
moon, when it rushes from between two clouds, and the midnight shower is on the
field.——She followed the empty form over the heath, for she knew that her
hero fell.—I heard her approaching cries on the wind, like the mournful voice of
the breeze, when it sighs on the grass of the cave.
She came, she found her hero: her voice was heard no more:
silent she rolled her sad eyes; she was pale as a watry cloud, that rises from the lake,
to the beam of the moon.
Few were her days on Cona: she sunk into the tomb: Fingal
commanded his bards; and they sung over the death of Lorma. The daughtersThe daughters of Israel went yearly to lament the daughter of
Jephthah the Gileadite four days in a year.
Son of the distant landBe thou on a
moon-beam, O Morna, near the window of my rest; when my thoughts are of peace; and the
din of arms is over.
Did not Ossian hear a voice? or is it the sound of days that
are no more? Often does the memory of former times come, like the evening sun, on my soul.
The noise of the
Sleeps the sweet voice of Cona, in the midst of his rustling
hall? Sleeps Ossian in his hall, and his friends without their fame? The sea rolls round
the dark I-thonaisland of waves,
one of the uninhabited western isles.
O that mine eyes could behold thee, as thou sittest, dim, on
thy cloud! Art thou like the mist of Lano; or an half extinguished meteor? Of what are
the skirts of thy robe? Of what is thine airy bow?——But he is gone on his
blast like the shadow of mist.—Come from thy wall, my harp, and let me hear thy
sound. Let the light of memory rise on I-thona; that I may behold my friends. And Ossian
does behold his friends, on the dark-blue isle.—The cave of Thona appears, with
its mossy rocks and bending trees. A stream roars at its mouth, and Toscar bends over
its course. Fercuth is sad by his side: and the maid
The night was stormy. From their hills the groaning oaks came
down. The sea darkly-tumbled beneath the blast, and the roaring; waves were climbing
against our rocks.—The lightning came often
It was thy father, O Toscar; and he foresees some death among
his race. Such was his appearance on Cromla, before the great Ma-ronnanbeautiful to behold, the name of
Toscar's palace, on the coast of Ulster, near the mountain Cromla the scene of the
epic poem.
Whither is the soul of battle fled, Fercuth with the locks of
age? I have seen thee undaunted in danger, and thine eyes burning with joy in the fight.
Whither is the soul of battle fled? Our fathers never feared.—Go: view the
settling sea: the stormy wind is laid. The billows still tremble
I lifted up my sails, with joy, before the halls of generous
Conlath. My course was by the isle of waves, where his love pursued the deer. I saw her,
like that beam of the sun that issues from the cloud. Her hair was on her heaving
breast; she, bending forward, drew the bow: her white arm seemed, behind her, like the
snow of Cromla:——Come to my soul, I said, thou huntress of the isle of
waves! But she spends her time in tears, and thinks of the generous Conlath. Where can I
find thy peace, Cuthona, lovely maid!
A distant steep bends over the sea, with aged trees and mossy
rocks: the billows roll at its feet: on its side is the dwelling of roes. The people
call it Ardven. There the towers of Mora rise. There Conlath looks over the sea for his
only love. The daughters of the
And Cuthona shall return to her peace; to the halls of
generous Conlath. He is the friend of Toscar: I have feasted in his halls.—Rise,
ye gentle breezes of Ullin, and stretch my sails towards Ardven's shores. Cuthona shall
rest on Ardven: but the days of Toscar will be sad.—I shall sit in my cave in the
field of the sun. The blast will rustle in my trees, and I shall think it is Cuthona's
voice. But she is distant far, in the halls of the mighty Conlath.
Oh! what cloud is that? It carries the ghosts of my fathers.
I see the skirts of their robes, like gray and watry mist. When shall I fall, O
Rumar?—Sad Cuthona sees her death. Will not Conlath behold me, before I enter the
narrow house
And he will behold thee, O maid: he comes along the rolling
sea. The death of Toscar is dark on his spear; and a wound is in his side. He is pale at
the cave of Thona, and shews his ghastly wound
Art thou pale on thy rock, Cuthona, beside the fallen chiefs?
The night comes, and the day returns, but none appears to raise their tomb. Thou
frightnest the screaming fowls And Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah, took sackcloth, and spread it for
her upon the rock, from the beginning of the harvest until water dropped on them out
of heaven, and suffered neither the birds of the air to rest on them by day, nor the
beasts of prey by night.
The sons of the
This poem is compleat, 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 marriage. Reuda, the son of Cormo, a Briton who was in love with Moina, came to Reuthamir's house, and behaved haughtily towards Clessámmor. A quarrel insued, 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; 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. Reuthámir was killed in the attack: and Carthon was carried safe
away by his nurse, who fled farther 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, sailing 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.
A tale of the times of old! The deeds of days of 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 firs bend from its face; green is the narrow plain
at its feet; there the flower of the mountain grows,
Who comes from the land of strangers, with his thousands around
him? the sun-beam pours its bright stream before him; and 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 sonthe strife of Crona.
Such were the words of the bards, when they came to Selma's
halls.—A thousand lightsmighty deeds.
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 unstained with blood: nor did
the kings of the world rejoice.——Why do I remember the battles of my youth?
My hair is mixed with gray. My hand forgets to bend the bow: and I liftsoft in temper and person. We find the
British names in this poem derived from the Galic, which is a proof that the ancient
language of the whole island was one and the same.
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 Balclutha'si. e. the town of Clyde, probably the Alcluth of Bedebending, in allusion to
the winding course of that river. From Clutha is derived its Latin name, Glotta.
The son of a stranger came; a chief who loved the white-bosomed
Moina. His words were mighty in the hall, and he often half-unsheathed his
sword.—Where, he said, is the mighty Comhal, the restless wandererrestless
wanderer, is Scuta, which is the true origin of the Scoti of the Romans; an opprobrious name imposed by the Britons, on
the Caledonians, on account of the continual incursions into their country.
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 Clessammor 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, and 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 dark hair flew on the wind; and I heard her
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
RaiseDuan 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. Fingal is celebrated by the Irish historians for his wisdom in
making laws, his poetical genius, and his foreknowledge of events.—O'Flaherty
goes so far as to say, that Fingal's laws were extant in his own time.
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 the harp 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; and who can equal the king of Morven?
The night passed away in the song, and morning returned in
joy;—the mountains shewed their gray heads; and the blue face of ocean
smiled.—The white wave is seen tumbling round the distant rock; the gray mist
rises, 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 terrible sight, and 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 the battle in his
face: the death of armies on his spear.—A thousand shields, at once, are placed on
their arms; and they drew a thousand swords. The hall of Selma brightened around. The
clang of arms ascends.—The gray 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; and 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
The hero moved on before his host, like a cloud before a ridge
of green fire; when it pours on the sky of night, and mariners forsee a storm. On Cona's
rising heath they stood: the white-bosomed maids beheld them above like a grove; they
foresaw the death of their youths, and looked towards the sea with fear.—The white
wave deceived them for distant sails, and 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, and stately strode the king of spears.—He moved
towards Selma; his thousands moved behind.
Go, with thy song of peace, said Fingal; go, Ullin, to the king
of swords. Tell him that we are mighty in battle; and that the ghosts of our foes are
many.—But renowned are they who have feasted in my halls! they shew the arms
Ullin went with his song. Fingal rested on his spear: he saw
the mighty foe in his armour: and 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 might by thy side: thy spear is a fir 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 of thy hair!—But this tree may fall; and his
memory be forgot!—The daughter of the stranger will be sad, and look 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 that sleeps in
Morven.
Such were the words of the king, when Ullin came to the mighty
Carthon: he threw down the spear before him; and raised the song of peace.
Come to the feast of Fingal, Carthon, from the rolling sea!
partake 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 feeble 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 the
battle; my renown is known afar. Go to the feeble in arms, and 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
His people gathered around 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, and 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: and, bending foreward, he seemed to threaten the king.
Shall I, said Fingal to his soul, meet, at once, the king?
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, along
with him, 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 battle. If he overcomes, I rush, in my strength, like the roaring stream
of Cona.
Who, of my heroes, will meet the son of the rolling sea? Many
are his warriors on the coast: and strong is his ashen spear!
Cathulthe
eye of battle.
Connal
Clessámmor! said the king
He rose in the strength of his steel, shaking his grizly locks,
He fitted the shield to his side; and rushed, in the pride of valour.
Carthon stood, on that heathy rock, and saw the heroes
approach. He loved the terrible joy of his face: and 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 love of Moina; the father
of car-borne Carthon. Often have I heard, that he dwelt at the
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, and 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 if thou shalt fall?
It will be great, thou son of pride! begun the tall
Clessámmor. I have been renowned in battle; but I never told my nameA man who tells his
name to his enemy, was of old an ignominious term for a coward.
I never yielded, king of spears! replied the noble pride of
Carthon: I have also fought in battles; and I behold my future fame. Despise me not, thou
chief of men; my arm, my spear is strong. Retire among thy friends, and let young 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
fight; in the fight of him I loved? Son of the sea! I never fled: exalt thy pointed
spear.
They fought, like two contending winds, that strive to roll the
wave. Carthon bade his spear to err; for he still thought that the foe was the spouse of
Moina.——He broke Clessámmor's beamy spear in twain: and seized his
shining sword. But as Carthon was binding the chief; the chief drew the dagger of his
fathers. He saw the foe's uncovered 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 towards the
hero.—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; and his hopes of fame arose
Fingal beheld the heroe's blood; he stopt the uplifted spear.
Yield, 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 renowned, 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
But thou shalt not die unknown, replied the king of woody
Morven: my bards are many, O Carthon, and their songs descend to future times. The
children of the years to come shall hear the fame of Carthon; when they sit round the
burning oakthe trunk of
the feast. Time had, so much, consecrated the custom, that the vulgar thought it
a kind of sacrilege to disuse it.
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 on Morven.—The battle ceased along the field, for
the bard had sung the song of peace. The chiefs gathered round the falling Carthon, and
heard his words, with sighs. Silent they leaned on their spears, while Balclutha's hero
spoke. His hair sighed in the wind, and his words were feeble.
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: and 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 plains of Lora.
Night came, and 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; and a dim ghost defends their tomb. There
lovely Moina is often seen; when the sun-beam 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 desired 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 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
overturned! When shalt thou rise, Balclutha's joy! lovely car-borne
Carthon?——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;
I have accompanied their voice; and added to their song. My soul has been mournful for
Carthon; he fell in the days of his valour: and thou, O Clessámmor! where is thy
dwelling in the air?—Has the youth forgot his wound? And flies he, on the 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.
O thou that rollest above
Tradition throws considerable light on the history of Ireland, during the long reign of Fingal, the son of Comhal, in Morven.——Arth, the son of Cairbre, supreme king of Ireland, dying, was succeeded by his son Cormac, a minor.——The petty kings and chiefs of the tribes met at Temora, the royal palace, in order to chuse, out of their own number, a guardian to the young king. Disputes, concerning the choice of a proper person, run high, and it was resolved to end all differences by giving the tuition of the young king to Cuchullin, the son of Semo, who had rendered himself famous by his great actions, and who resided, at the time, with Connal, the son of Caithbat, in Ulster. Cuchullin was but three and twenty years old, when he assumed the management of affairs in Ireland: and the invasion of Swaran happened two years after. In the twenty-seventh year of Cuchullin's age, and the third of his administration. Torlath, the son of Cantéla, set up for himself in Connaught, and advanced towards Temora, in order to dethrone Cormac. Cuchullin marched against him, came up with him at the Lake of Lego, and totally defeated his forces. Torlath fell in the battle by Cuchullin's hand; but as he himself pressed too eagerly on the flying enemy, he was mortally wounded by an arrow, and died the second day after. The good fortune of Cormac fell with Cuchullin: many set up for themselves and anarchy and confusion reigned. At last Cormac was taken off, nobody knew how; and Cairbar, one of the competitors for the throne, having defeated all his rivals, became sole monarch of Ireland.——The family of Fingal, who were in the interest of Cormac's family, were resolved to deprive Cairbar of the throne he had usurped; in particular, Oscar the son of Ossian had determined to revenge the death of Cathol, his friend, who had been assassinated by Cairbar.—The threats of Oscar reached Cairbar's ears: he invited him in a friendly manner to a feast which he had prepared at the royal palace of Temora, resolving to pick a quarrel, and have some pretext for killing him.
The quarrel happened; the followers of both fought, and Cairbar and Oscar fell by
mutual wounds: in the mean time Fingal arrived from Scotland with an army, defeated
the friends of Cairbar, and re-established the family of Cormac in the possession of
the kingdom.——The present poem concerns the death of Cuchullin. It is,
in the original, called Duan loch Leigo, i. e. The Poem of Lego's
Lake, and is an episode introduced in a great poem, which celebrated the last
expedition of Fingal into Ireland. The greatest part of the poem is lost, and nothing
remains but some episodes, which a few old people in the north of Scotland retain on
memory.——Cuchullin is the most famous Champion in the Irish traditions
and poems; in them he is always called the redoubtable
Cuchullin; and the fables concerning his strength and valour are innumerable.
Ossian thought his expedition against the Fir-bolg, or Belgæ of Britain, a
subject fit for an epic poem; which was extant till of late, and was called Tora-na-tana, or a Dispute about
Possessions, as the war which was the foundation of it, was commenced by the
British Belgæ, who inhabited Ireland, in order to extend their
territories.—The fragments that remain of this poem are animated with the
genuine spirit of Ossian; so that there can be do doubt that it was of his
composition.
Is the wind on Fingal's shield? Or is the voice of past times
in my hall? Sing on, sweet voice, for thou art pleasant, and carriest away my night with
joy. Sing on, O Bragela, daughter of Car-borne Songlan!
It is the white wave of the rock, and not Cuchullin's sails.
Often do the mists deceive me for the ship of my love! when they rise round some ghost,
and spread their gray 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 Togormai. e. The island of blue
waves, one of the Hebrides, was subject to Connal, the son of Caithbat,
Cuchullin's friend.—He is sometimes called the son of Colgar, from one of that
name who was the founder of the family.——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 Cuchullin was
killed.
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 Dunscaich's walls: let
sleep descend on thy blue eyes, and the hero come to thy dreams.
Cuchullin sits at Lego's lake, at the dark rolling of waters.
Night is around the hero; and 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 gray 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, Cuchullin'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, and thy blue waters roll around thee. But Cormac is not alone: the son of Semo
fights his battles. Semo's son his battles fights! the terror of the stranger! he that
is
Such was the song of Carril, when a son of the foe appeared; he
threw down his pointless spear, and spoke the words of Torlath: Torlath the 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
Cuchullin rose before the bardhead
of a family.
He comes to thy battle, replied the bard, to the sounding
strife of spears.——When morning is gray on Lego, Torlath will fight
Do I fear, replied Cuchullin, 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 Cuchullin, 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.
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, Slimoragreat
hill.
He retired, in the sound of his song; Carril accompanied 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 it from Slimora's side. Soft sounds spread along
the wood, and the silent valleys of night rejoice.——So, when he sits in the
silence of noon, in the valley of his breeze, the humming of the mountain bee comes to
Ossian's ear: the gale drowns it often in its course; but the pleasant sound returns
again.
Raise, said Cuchullin, to his hundred bards, the song of the
noble Fingal: that song which he hears at night, when the dreams
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; and the sound of his harp was mournful.
Alclethadecaying beauty, probably a poetical name given the mother of Calmar, by the
bard himself.
Who
It is but an aged oak, Alcletha! replied the lovely weeping
Alonaexquisitely
beautiful.
But it is covered with the blood of foesFrom the blood of the slain, from the fat of the
mighty, the bow of Jonathon returned not back, and the sword of Saul returned not
empty.
Why dost thou look towards the
Such was the song of Carril, when Cuchullin lay on his shield:
the bards rested on their harps, and sleep fell softly around.——The son of
Semo was awake alone; his soul was fixed on the 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 in the beam. Dark is the wound in his side. His hair is disordered
and loose. Joy sits darkly on his face; and he seems to invite Cuchullin 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 car-borne 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
He retired in his blast with joy, for he had heard the voice of
his praise. The faint beam of the morning rose, and the sound of Caithbat's buckler
spread. Green Ullin's warriors convened, 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, Cuchullin, said the chief of Lego. I know the strength of thy arm, and 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
He rushed, in the sound of his arms, like the terrible spirit
of Lodaspirit of Loda, the poet probably
means Odin, the great deity of the northern nations. He is described here with all his
terrors about him, not unlike Mars, as he is introduced in a simile, in the seventh
Iliad.
But pale he returned! The joy of his face was dark. He rolled his eyes in silence.—The sword hung, unsheathed, in his hand, and his spear bent at every step.
Carril, said the king in secret, the strength of Cuchullin
fails. My days are with the years that are past: and 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 Tura'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 Cuchullin
died; renown cloathed him like a robe; and the light of his fame is great. Draw the arrow
from my side; and lay Cuchullin 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 fallenHe is unerring as the arm of Conloch.
By the dark rolling waves of Lego they raised the hero's
tomb.——LuäthThey were swifter than eagles, they were stronger than lions.
Thou hast not fallen by the sword of the mighty, neither was
thy blood on the spear of the valiant.—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!
The mighty are dispersed at Temora: there is none in Cormac's
hall. The king mourns in his youth, for he does not behold thy coming. The sound of thy
shield is ceased: his
Bragéla will not hope 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, and 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 Cromla!
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 Argyleshire 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 Cuchullin. The three brothers, when very young, were sent over to Ireland, by their father, to learn the use of arms, under their uncle Cuchullin, who made a great figure in that kingdom. They were just landed in Ulster when the news of Cuchullin's death arrived. Nathos, though very young, took the command of Cuchullin'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 into 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 Seláma 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 themselves, for some time, with great bravery, were overpowered and slain, and the unfortunate Dar-thula killed herself upon the body of her beloved Nathos. Ossian opens the poem, on the night preceding the death of the sons of Usnoth, and brings in, by way of episode, what passed before. He relates the death of Dar-thula differently from the common tradition; his 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.
Daughter of heaven
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 blue waves, in light.
Nathosyouthful, Ailthos, exquisite beauty, Ardan, pride.
Who is that dim, by their side? the night has covered her
beauty. Her hair sighs on ocean's wind; her robe streams in dusky wreaths. She is like the
fair ghost of heaven, in the midst of his shadowya 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.
But the land of strangers saw thee, lovely: thou wast lovely in
the eyes of Dar-thula. Thy face was like the light of the morning, thy hair like the
raven's wing. Thy soul was generous and mild, like the hour of the setting sun. Thy words
were the gale of the reeds, or the gliding stream of Lora.
But when the rage of battle rose, thou wast like 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 Selámabeautiful to behold, or
a place with a pleasant or wide prospect. In those times, they
built their houses upon eminences, to command a view of the country, and to prevent
their being surprized: many of them, on that account, were called Seláma. The
famous Selma of Fingal is derived from the same root.
Lovely art thou, O stranger! she said, for her trembling soul
arose. Fair art thou in thy battles, friend of the fallen Cormac
Such were thy words, Dar-thula, in Seláma's mossy towers.
But, now, the night is round thee: and 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, and let me hear the voice of the lovely. Thy voice is lovely, Dar-thula,
between the rustling blasts.
Are these the rocks of Nathos, and the roar of his
mountain-streams? Comes that beam of light from Usnoth's nightly hall? The mist rolls
around, and the beam is feeble: but the light of Dar-thula's soul is the car-borne chief
of Etha! Son of the generous Usnoth, why that broken sigh? Are we not in the land of
strangers, chief of echoing Etha?
These are not the rocks of Nathos, he replied, nor the roar of
his streams. No light comes from Etha's halls, for they are
I will go towards that mossy tower, and see who dwells about
the beam.—Rest, Dar-thula, on the shore! rest in peace, thou beam of light! the
sword of Nathos is around thee, like the lightning of heaven.
He went. She sat alone, and heard the rolling of the wave. The
big tear is in her eye; and she looked for the car-borne Nathos.—Her soul trembles
at the blast. And 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. What
detains thee, chief of Etha?—Have the foes met the hero in the strife of the
night?—
He returned, but his face was dark: he had seen his departed
friend.—It was the wall of Tura, and the ghost of Cuchullin stalked there. The
sighing of his breast was frequent; and the decayed flame of his eyes terrible. His spear
was a column of mist: the stars looked dim through his form. His voice was like hollow
wind in a cave: and he told the tale of grief. The soul of Nathos was sad, like the
sunConditus in nubem, medioque resugerit
orbe;
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
Evening darkened on the plain. The blue streams failed before
mine eyes. The unfrequent blast came rustling in the tops of Seláma's groves. My seat
was beneath a tree on the walls of my fathers. Truthil past before my soul; the brother of
my love; he that was absent
Bending on his spear, the gray-haired Colla came: his downcast
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.
Dar-thula, he sighing said, thou art the last of Colla's race.
Truthil is fallen in battle. The king
And 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
The face of age brightened with joy: and the crouded tears of
his eyes poured down. The lips of Colla trembled. His gray beard whistled in the blast.
Thou art the sister of Truthil, he said, and thou burnest in the fire of his soul. Take,
Dar-thula, take that spear, that brazen shield, that burnished helmet: they are the spoils
of a warrior: a son
We passed the night in sorrow. The light of morning rose. I shone in the arms of battle. The gray-haired hero moved before. The sons of Seláma convened around the sounding shield of Colla. But few were they in the plain, and their locks were gray. The youths had fallen with Truthil, in the battle of car-borne Cormac.
Companions 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 Confadan fell. But ye
are laden with grief. The darknesstime of fixing of the
arms.
The hero drew his sword. The gleaming blades of his people
rose. They moved along the plain. Their gray hair streamed in the wind.—Cairbar
sat, at the feast, in the silent plain of Lonaa marshy plain. It was the custom, in the days of Ossian, to feast after a
victory. Cairbar had just provided an entertainment for his army, upon the defeat of
Truthil the son of Colla, and the rest of the party of Cormac, when Colla and his aged
warriors arrived to give him battle.
Why
Then thou didst come, O Nathos: and gloomy Cairbar fled. He
fled like the ghost of the
Why
I have met, replied the hero, the battle in my youth. My arm
could not lift the spear, when first the danger rose; but my soul brightened before the
war, as the green narrow vale, when the sun pours his streamy beams, before he hides his
head in a storm. 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 slowly comes, and
threatens the lovely light.
We are in the land of the foe, and 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! The brothers of Nathos are brave: and his own
sword has shone in war. But what are the sons of Usnoth to the host of car-borne Cairbar!
O that the winds had brought thy sails, Oscar
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 that passing meteor; I see them 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? It is the car-borne Truthil. Shall I behold the halls
of him that flew 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 on my soul. Come, with thy thousands, Cairbar!
the strength of Nathos is returned. And thou, O aged Usnoth, shalt not hear that thy son
has fled. I remember thy words on Etha; when my sails begun to rise: when I spread them
towards Ullin, towards the mossy walls of Tura. Thou goest, he said, O Nathos, to the king
of shields; to Cuchullin 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 say that Etha's race are
weak. His words may come to Usnoth, and sadden his soul in the hall.——The
tear is on his cheek. He gave this 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 chief of Dunscaich. Imighty hand.
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
We come from the sea, I said, from Usnoth's rising towers. We
are the sons of Slis-sámasoft
bosom. She was the wife of Usnoth and daughter of Semo the chief of the isle of mist.
He fell not, Lamhor replied, like the silent star of night,
when it shoots through darkness and is no more. But he was like a meteor that falls in a
distant land; death attends its green course, and 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.
And the hero fell in the midst of slaughter, I said with a
bursting sigh. His hand was strong in battle; and death was behind his sword.—We
came to Lego's mournful banks. We found his rising tomb. His
Corlath was near with his host, the friend of car-borne
Cairbar. We came like a stream by night, and his heroes fell. When the people of the
valley roseAnd it came to pass that night, that the angel of
the Lord went out, and smote in the camp of the Assyrians, an hundred fourscore and
five thousand: and when they rose early in the morning, behold, they were all dead
men.
Sadness seized the sons of Ullin, they slowly, gloomily
retired; like clouds that, long having threatened rain, retire behind the hills. The sons
of Usnoth moved, in their grief, towards Tura's sounding bay. We passed by Seláma,
and Cairbar retired like Lano's mist, when it is driven by the winds of the
It was then I beheld thee, O maid, like the light of Etha's
sun. Lovely is that beam, I said, and 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 rustling strength of
Althos
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 Ullin? Why do ye rustle, on your dark wings, ye
whistling tempests 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
He brought the arms. Nathos clothed his limbs in all their
shining steel. The stride of the chief is lovely: the joy of his eyes 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, and two
tears swell in her eyes.
Althos! said the chief of Etha, I see a cave in that rock.
Place Dar-thula there: and let thy arm be strong. Ardan! we meet the foe, and call to
battle gloomy Cairbar. O that he came in his sounding steel, to meet the son of
Usnoth!——Darthula! if thou shalt escape, look not on the fallen Nathos. Lift
thy sails, O Althos, towards the
Tell to the chief
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.
We sat, that night, in Selma round the strength of the shell.
The wind was abroad, in the oaks; the spirit of the mountain
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, and 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
Such was my song, in Selma, to the lightly-trembling harp. But
Nathos was on Ullin'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
gray rocks, with all their trees, they spread along the coast. Cairbar stood, in the
midst, and 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 spear. And who are these, in
their armour, in the pride of youth? Who but the sons of Usnoth, Althos and dark-haired
Ardan?
Come, said Nathos, come! chief of the high Temora! Let our
battle be on the coast for the white-bosomed maid. His people are not with Nathos; they
are behind that rolling sea. Why dost thou bring thy thousands against the chief of Etha?
Thou didst fly
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 little men.
The tear starts from car-borne Nathos; he turned his eyes to
his brothers. Their spears flew, at once, and 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. 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
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 the wind.——But 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 had roared on Morven, did
not the winds meet Dar-thula. Fingal himself would have been low and sorrow dwelling in
Selma.
Her shield fell from Dar-thula's arm, her breast of snow
appeared. It appeared, but it was stained with blood for an arrow was fixed in her side.
She fell on the fallen Nathos, like a wreath of snow. Her dark hair spreads on his face,
and their blood is mixing round.
Daughter of Colla! thou art low! said Cairbar's hundred bards;
silence is at the blue streams of Seláma, for Truthil'sRise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.
For lo, the winter is past, the rain is over, and gone. The flowers appear on the
earth; the time of singing is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.
The fig-tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines,
with
the tender grape, give a good smell. Arise, my love, my fair
one, and come away.
Such was the song of the bards, when they raised the tomb. I
sung, afterwards, over the grave, when the king of Morven came; when he came to green
Ullin to fight with car-borne Cairbar.
Though the history which is the foundation
of the present poem, was given in the notes on the two pieces preceding, it may not be
here improper to recapitulate some part of what has been said.—Immediately
after the death of Cuchullin, Cairbar, lord of Atha, openly set up for himself in
Connaught, and having privately murdered young king Cormac, became, without
opposition, sole monarch of Ireland. The murder of Cormac was so much resented by
Fingal, that he resolved on an expedition into Ireland against Cairbar. Early
intelligence of his designs came to Cairbar, and he had gathered the tribes together
into Ulster, to oppose Fingal's landing; at the same time his brother Cathmor kept
himself with an army near Temora.—This Cathmor is one of the finest characters
in the old poetry. His humanity, generosity, and hospitality, were
The Irish traditions relate the affair in another light, and exclaim against Fingal for appointing thirty judges, or rather tyrants, at Temora, for regulating the affairs of Ireland. They pretend to enumerate many acts of oppression committed by those judges; and affirm, that both they and a part of Fingal's army, which was left in Ireland to enforce their laws, were at last expelled the kingdom.—Thus the Irish traditions, say the historians of that nation. It is said, however, that those gentlemen sometimes create facts, in order afterwards to make remarks upon them; at least, that they adopt for real facts, the traditions of their bards, when they throw lustre on the ancient state of their country.
The present poem opens in the morning, Cairbar is represented as retired from the rest of the Irish chiefs, and tormented with remorse for the murder of Cormac, when news was brought him of Fingal's landing. What passed, preceding that day, and is necessary to be known for carrying on the poem, is afterwards introduced by way of episode.
Τhe blue waves of Ullin roll in light. The green hills are
covered with day. Trees shake their dusky heads in the breeze; and gray torrents pour
their noisy streams.—Two green hills, with their aged oaks, surround a narrow
plain. The blue
The king, at length, resumed his soul, and took his pointed
spear. He turned his eyes towards Lenagreat in the day of battle. Hidalla', wildly
looking hero. Cor-mar, expert at sea. Málth-os, slow to speak. Fol-dath, generous.strong breath; a
very proper name for a scout.
Do the chiefs of Erin stand, he said, silent as the grove of
evening? Stand they, like a silent wood, and Fingal on the coast? Fingal, who is terrible
in battle, the king of streamy Morven.
And hast thou seen the warrior, said Cairbar with a sigh? Are
his heroes many on the coast? Lifts he the spear of battle? Or comes the king in
peace?
He comes not in peace, O Cairbar: for I have seen his forward
spearson of Luno: it is said of this sword, that
it killed a man at every stroke; and that Fingal never used it, but in times of the
greatest danger.
Then fly, thou feeble man, said the gloomy wrath of Foldath;
fly to the gray streams of thy land, son of the little soul! Have not I seen that Oscar? I
beheld the chief in battle. He is of the mighty in danger: but there are others who lift
the spear.—Erin has many sons as brave: yes—more brave, O car-borne
Cairbar!—Let Foldath meet him in the strength of his course, and stop this mighty
stream.—My spear is covered with the blood of the valiant, my shield is like Tura's
wall.
Shall Foldath alone meet the foe, replied the dark-browed
Malthos? Are not they numerous on our coast, like the waters of a thousand streams? Are
not these the chiefs who vanquished Swaran, when the sons of Erin fled? And shall Foldath
meet their bravest hero? Foldath of the heart of pride! take the strength of the people by
thy side; and let Malthos come. My sword is red with slaughter, but who has heard my
words
Sons of green Erin, begun the mild Hidalla, let not Fingal hear
your words: lest the foe rejoice, and his arm be strong in the land.—Ye are brave,
O warriors, and like the tempests of the
Cairbar heard their words, in silence, like the cloud of a
shower: it stands dark on Cromla, till the lightning bursts its side: the valley gleams
with red light; the spirits of the storm rejoice.——So stood the silent king
of Temora; at length his words are heard.
Spread the feast on Lena: and let my hundred bards attend. And
thou, red-hair'd Olla, take the harp of the king. Go to Oscar king of swords, and bid him
to our feast. To-day we feast andwar
of Inis-thona, where they contracted a great friendship for one another. Oscar,
immediately after the death of Cathol, had sent a formal challenge to Cairbar, which he
prudently declined, but conceived a secret hatred against Oscar, and had beforehand
contrived to kill him at the feast, to which he here invites him.king of ships; who is supposed to be the same with
Carausius the usurper.
Cathmorgreat in battle. Cairbar takes advantage of his brother's absence, to perpetrate
his ungenerous designs against Oscar; for the noble spirit of Cathmor, had he been
present, would not have permitted the laws of that hospitality, for which he was so
renowned himself, to be violated. The brothers form a contrast: we do not detest the
mean soul of Cairbar more, than we admire the disinterested and generous mind of
Cathmor.
The faces of the heroes brightened. They spread over Lena's
heath. The feast of shells is prepared. The songs of the bards arose.
We heard
Olla came with his songs. Oscar went to Cairbar's feast. Three
hundred heroes attended the chief, and the clang of their arms is terrible. The gray dogs
bounded on the heath, and their howling is frequent. Fingal saw the departure of the hero:
the soul of the king was sad. He dreads the gloomy Cairbar: but who of the race of Trenmor
feared the foe?
My son lifted high the spear of Cormac: an hundred bards met
him with songs. Cairbar concealed with smiles the death that was dark in his soul. The
feast is spread, the shells resound: joy brightens the face of the host. But it was like
the parting beam of the sun, when he is to hide his red head, in a storm.
Cairbar rose in his arms; darkness gathers on his brow. The
hundred harps ceased at once. The clangdeath-song. A ceremony of
another kind was long used in Scotland upon such occasions. Every body has heard that a
bull's head was served up to Lord Douglas in the castle of Edinburgh, as a certain
signal of his approaching death.
Oscar! said the dark-red Cairbar, I behold the spearthe house of the great king, the
name of the royal palace of the supreme kings of Ireland.
Shall I yield, Oscar replied, the gift of Erin's injured king:
the gift of fair-haired Cormac, when Oscar scattered his foes? I came to his halls of joy,
when Swaran fled from Fingal. Gladness rose in the face of youth: he gave the spear of
Temora. Nor did he give it to the feeble, O Cairbar, neither to the weak in soul. The
darkness of thy face is not a storm to me; nor are thine eyes the flames of death. Do I
fear thy clanging shield? Does my soul tremble at Olla's song? No: Cairbar, frighten thou
the feeble; Oscar is like a rock.
And wilt thou not yield the spear, replied the rising pride of
Cairbar? Are thy words mighty because Fingal is near, the gray-shallow river: the name of
Cairbar's seat in Connaught.
Were he who fought with little men near the chief of Atha:
Atha's chief would yield green Erin to avoid his rage. Speak not of the mighty, O Cairbar!
but turn thy sword on me. Our strength is equal: but Fingal is renowned! the first of
mortal men!
Their people saw the darkening chiefs. Their crowding steps are
heard around. Their eyes roll in fire. A thousand swords are half unsheathed. Red-haired
Olla raised the song of battle: the trembling joy of Oscar's soul arose: the wonted joy of
his soul when Fingal's horn was heard.
Dark as the swelling wave of ocean before the rising winds,
when it bends its head near the coast, came on the host of
Cairbar.——Daughter of Toscar
Fingal heard the sound; and took his father's spear. His steps
are before us on the heath. He spoke the words of woe. I hear the noise of battle: and
Oscar is alone. Rise, ye sons of Morven, and join the hero's sword.
Ossian rushed along the heath. Fillan bounded over Lena. Fergus
flew with feet of wind. Fingal strode in his strength, and the light of his shield is
terrible. The sons of Erin saw it far distant; they trembled in their souls. They knew
that the wrath of the king arose: and they foresaw their death. We first arrived; we
fought; and Erin's chiefs withstood our rage. But when the king came, in the sound of his
course, what heart of steel could stand! Erin fled over Lena. Death pursued their
flight.
We saw Oscar leaning on his shield. We saw his blood around.
Silence darkened on every hero's face. Each turned his back and wept. The king strove to
hide his tears. His gray beard whistled in the wind. He bends his head over his son: and
his words are mixed with sighs.
And art thou fallen, Oscar, in the midst of thy course? the
heart of the aged beats over thee! He sees thy coming battles. He beholds
And they did weep, O Fingal; dear was the hero to their souls.
He went out to battle, and the foes vanished; he returned, in peace, amidst their joy. No
father mourned his son slain in youth; no brother his brother of love. They fell, without
tears, for the chief of the people was low! Bran
When Oscar beheld his friends around, his white breast rose
with a sigh.—The groans, he said, of my aged heroes, the howling of my dogs, the
sudden bursts of the song of grief, have melted Oscar's soul. My soul, that never melted
before; it was like the steel of my sword.—Ossian, carry me to my hills! Raise the
stones of my fame. Place the horn of the deer, and my sword within my narrow
dwelling.—The torrent hereafter may raise the earth of my tomb: the hunter may find
the steel and say, "This has been "Oscar's sword."
And fallest thou, son of my fame! And shall I never see thee,
Oscar! When others hear of their sons, I shall not hear of thee. The moss is on the stones
of his tomb, and the mournful wind is there. The battle shall be fought without him: he
shall not pursue the dark-brown hinds. When the warrior returns from battles, and tells of
other lands, he will say, I have seen a tomb, by the roaring stream, where a warrior
darkly dwells: he was slain by car-borne Oscar, the first of mortal men.—I,
perhaps, shall hear him, and a beam of joy will rise in my soul.
The night would have descended in sorrow, and morning returned
in the shadow of grief: our chiefs would have stood like cold dropping rocks on Lena, and
have forgot the war, did not the king disperse his grief, and raise his mighty voice. The
chiefs, as new-wakened from dreams, lift their heads around.
rend="smallcaps"How long shall we weep on Lena; or pour our tears in Ullin? The
mighty will not return. Oscar shall not rise in his strength. The valiant must fall one
day, and be no more known on his hills.—Where are our fathers, Ο warriors! the
chiefs of the times of old? They have set like stars that have shone, we only hear the
sound of their praise. But they were renowned in their day, and the terror of other times.
Thus shall we pass, Ο warriors, in the day of our fall. Then let us be renowned when we
may; and leave our fame behind us, like the last beams of the sun, when he hides his red
head in the west.
Ullin, my aged bard! take the ship of the king. Carry Oscar to
Selma, and let the daughters of Morven weep. We shall fight in Erin for the race of fallen
Cormac. The days of my years begin to fail: I feel the weakness of my arm. My fathers bend
from
Ullin rais'd his white sails: the wind of the south came forth.
He bounded on the waves towards Selma's walls.—I remained in my grief, but my words
were not heard.——The feast is spread on Lena: an hundred heroes reared the
tomb of Cairbar: but no song is raised over the chief; for his soul had been dark and
bloody. We remembered the fall of Cormac! and what could we say in Cairbar's praise?
The night came rolling down. The light of an hundred oaks
arose. Fingal sat beneath a tree. The chief of Etha sat near the king, the gray-hair'd
strength of Usnoth.
Old Althan
The setting sun was
yellow on Dorathe woody side of a
mountain; it is here a hill in the neighbourhood of Temora.
Althan! he said, with a smile, hast thou beheld my father?
Heavy is the sword of the king, surely his arm was strong. O that I were like him in
battle, when the rage of his wrath arose! then would I have met, like Cuchullin, the
car-borne son of Cantéla! But years may come on, O Althan! and my arm be
strong.—Hast thou heard of Semo's son, the chief of high Temora? He might have
returned with his fame; for he promised to return to-night. My bards wait him with their
songs, and my feast is spread.—
I heard the king in silence. My tears began to flow. I hid I
them with my gray locks; but he perceived my grief.
Son of Conachar! he said, is the king of Tura low? Why bursts thy sigh in secret? And why descends the tear?—Comes the car-borne Torlath? Or the sound of the red-haired Cairbar?——They come!—for I see thy grief; and Tura's king is low!—Shall I not rush to battle?—But I cannot lift the arms of my fathers!—O had mine arm the strength of Cuchullin, soon would Cairbar fly; the fame of my fathers would be renewed; and the actions of other times!
He took his bow of yew. Tears flow from his sparkling
eyes.—Grief saddens around: the bards bend forward from their harps. The blast
touches their strings, and the sound of woe ascends.
A voice is heard at a distance, as of one in grief; it was
Carril of other times, who came from the dark Slimora
But who, said the soft-voiced Carril, come like the bounding
roes? their stature is like the young trees of the plain, growing in a shower:—Soft
and ruddy are their cheeks: but fearless souls look forth from their
eyes?——Who but the sons of Usnoth, the car-borne chiefs of Etha? The people
rise on every side, like the strength of an half-extinguished fire, when the winds come
suddenly from the
And soon may I behold him, O Carril! replied the returning joy
of Cormac. But my soul is sad for Cuchullin; his voice was pleasant in mine
ear.—Often have we moved on Dora, at the chace of the dark-brown hinds: his bow was
unerring on the mountains.—He spoke of mighty men. He told of the deeds of my
fathers; and I felt the joy of my breast.——But sit thou, at the feast, O
Carril; I have often heard thy voice. Sing in the praise of Cuchullin; and of that mighty
stranger.
Day rose on Temora, with all the beams of the east. Trathin
came to the hall, the son of old Gellamawhite-handed.
Call him to the feast of Temora, replied the king of Erin. My
hall is the house of strangers, son of the generous Gelláma!—Perhaps it is the
chief of Etha, coming in the sound of his renown.—Hail, mighty stranger, art thou
of the friends of Cormac?—But Carril, he is dark, and unlovely; and he draws his
sword. Is that the son of Usnoth, bard of the times of old?
It is not the son of Usnoth, said Carril, but the chief of
Atha.——Why comest thou in thy arms to Temora, Cairbar of the
He passed on in his darkness, and seized the hand of the king.
Cormac foresaw his death, and the rage of his eyes arose.—Retire, thou gloomy chief
of Atha: Nathos comes with battle.——Thou art bold in Cormac's hall, for his
arm is weak.—The sword entered Cormac's side: he fell in the halls of his fathers.
His fair hair is in the dust. His blood is smoaking round.
And art thou fallen in thy halls, I said
My words came to the ears of Cairbar, and he closed us
Chief of Atha! he said, how long wilt thou pain my soul? Thy heart is like the rock of
the
We came forth at the words of the chief. We saw him in his
strength. He was like thy youth, O Fingal, when thou first didst lift the
spear.—His face was like the plain of the sun when it is bright: no darkness
travelled over his brow. But he came with his thousands to Ullin; to aid the red-haired
Cairbar: and now he comes to revenge his death, O king of woody
Morven.——
And let him come, replied the king; I love a foe like Cathmor.
His soul is great; his arm is strong, and his battles are full of fame.——But
the little soul is like a vapour that hovers round the marshy lake: it never rises on the
green hill, lest the winds meet it there: its dwelling is in the cave, and it sends forth
the dart of death.
Usnoth! thou hast heard the fame of Etha's car-borne
chiefs.—Our young heroes, O warrior, are like the renown of our
fathers.—They fight in youth, and they fall: their names are in the
song.—But we are old, O Usnoth, let us not fall like aged oaks; which the blast
overturns in secret. The hunter came past, and saw them lying gray across a stream. How
have these fallen, he said, and whistling passed along.
Raise the song of joy, ye bards of Morven, that our souls may
forget the past.—The red stars look on us from the clouds, and silently descend.
Soon shall the gray beam of the morning rise, and shew us the foes of
Cormac.——Fillan! take the spear of the
The voice of the bards arose. The king leaned on the shield of
Trenmor.—Sleep descended on his eyes, and his future battles rose in his dreams.
The host are sleeping around. Dark-haired Fillan observed the foe. His steps are on a
distant hill: we hear, at times, his clanging shield.
One of the Fragments of Ancient Poetry lately published, gives a different account of the death of Oscar, the son of Ossian. The translator, though he well knew the more probable tradition concerning that hero, was unwilling to reject a poem, which, if not really of Ossian's composition, has much of his manner, and concise turn of expression. A more correct copy of that fragment, which has since come to the translator's hands, has enabled him to correct the mistake, into which a similarity of names had led those who handed down the poem by tradition.—The heroes of the piece are Oscar the son of Caruth, and Dermid the son of Diaran. Ossian, or perhaps his imitator, opens the poem with a lamentation for Oscar, and afterwards, by an easy transition, relates the story of Oscar the son of Caruth, who seems to have bore the same character, as well as name, with Oscar the son of Ossian. Though the translator thinks he has good reason to reject the fragment as the composition of Ossian; yet as it is, after all, still somewhat doubtful whether it is or not, he has here subjoined it.
Why opened thou afresh the spring of my grief, O son of Alpin, inquiring how Oscar fell? My eyes are blind with tears; but memory beams on my heart. How can I relate the mournful death of the head of the people! Chief of the warriors, Oscar, my son, shall I see thee no more!
He fell as the moon in a storm; as the sun from the midst of his course, when clouds
rise from the waste of the waves, when the blackness of the storm inwraps the rocks of
Ardannider. I, like an ancient
But, son of Alpin, the hero fell not harmless as the grass of the field; the blood of the mighty was on his sword, and he travelled with death through the ranks of their pride. But Oscar, thou son of Caruth, thou hast fallen low! No enemy fell by thy hand. Thy spear was stained with the blood of thy friend.
Dermid and Oscar were one: They reaped the battle together. Their friendship was strong as their steel; and death walked between them to the field. They came on the foe like two rocks falling from the brows of Ardven. Their swords were stained with the blood of the valiant: warriors fainted at their names. Who was equal to Oscar, but Dermid? and who to Dermid, but Oscar!
They killed mighty Dargo in the field; Dargo who never fled in war. His daughter was fair as the morn; mild as the beam of night. Her eyes, like two stars in a shower: her breath, the gale of spring: her breasts, as the new-fallen snow floating on the moving heath. The warriors saw her, and loved; their souls were fixed on the maid. Each loved her as his fame; each must possess her or die. But her soul was fixed on Oscar; the son of Caruth was the youth of her love. She forgot the blood of her father; and loved the hand that slew him.
Son of Caruth, said Dermid, I love; O Oscar, I love this maid. But her soul cleaveth unto thee; and nothing can heal Dermid. Here, pierce this bosom, Oscar; relieve me, my friend, with thy sword.
My sword, son of Diaran, shall never be stained with the blood of Dermid.
Who then is worthy to slay me, O Oscar son of Caruth? Let not my life pass away unknown. Let none but Oscar slay me. Send me with honour to the grave, and let my death be renowned.
Dermid, make use of thy sword; son of Diaran, wield thy steel. Would that I fell with thee! that my death came from the hand of Dermid!
They fought by the brook of the mountain, by the streams of Branno. Blood tinged the running water, and curdled round the mossy stones. The stately Dermid fell; he fell, and smiled in death.
And fallest thou, son of Diaran, fallest thou by Oscar's hand! Dermid who never yielded in war, thus do I see thee fall!——He went, and returned to the maid of his love; he returned, but she perceived his grief.
Why that gloom, son of Caruth? what shades thy mighty soul?
Though once renowned for the bow, O maid, I have lost my fame. Fixed on a tree by the brook of the hill, is the shield of the valiant Gormur, whom I slew in battle. I have wasted the day in vain, nor could my arrow pierce it.
Let me try, son of Caruth, the skill of Dargo's daughter. My hands were taught the bow: my father delighted in my skill.
She went. He stood behind the shield. Her arrow flew, and pierced his breast.
Blessed be that hand of snow; and blessed that bow of yew! Who but the daughter of Dargo was worthy to slay the son of Caruth? Lay me in the earth, my fair one; lay me by the side of Dermid.
Oscar! the maid replied, I have the soul of the mighty Dargo. Well pleased I can meet death. My sorrow I can end.——She pierced her white bosom with the steel. She fell; she trembled; and died.
By the brook of the hill their graves are laid; a birch's unequal shade covers their tomb. Often on their green earthen tombs the branchy sons of the mountain feed, when mid-day is all in flames, and silence over all the hills.
Hastsong of victory.strife of Crona in a
particular poem. This poem is connected with it, but it was impossible for the
translator to procure that part which relates to Crona, with any degree of
purity.
Such was the song of Ullin, when Fingal returned from battle:
when he returned in the fair blushing of youth; with all his heavy locks. His blue arms
were on the hero; like a gray 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.
Voices of
Cronnana
mournful sound, Minona, or Mín-'ónn, soft air.
All the dramatic poems of Ossian appear to have been presented before Fingal, upon
solemn occasions.
My love is a son of the hill. He pursues the flying deer. His
gray 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
with the wind, the mist is flying over the hill. I will approach my love unperceived,
and see him from the rock. Lovely I saw thee first by the aged oak of Brannomountain-stream: it
is here some river known by that name, in the days of Ossian. There are several small
rivers in the north of Scotland still retaining the name of Bran; in particular one
which falls into the Tay at Dunkeld.
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, Vinvelaa woman with a
melodious voice. Bh in the Galic Language has the same
sound with the v in English.
Then thou art gone, O Shilric! and 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
If fall I must in the field, raise high my grave, Vinvela.
Gray 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!
Yes!—I will remember thee—Indeed my Shilric
will fall. What shall I do, my love! when thou art gone for ever? 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 chace. Indeed, my Shilric will fall; but I will remember
him.
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 high rocky hill.
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 gray mossy stone;
he thought Vinvela lived. He saw her fair-moving
I sit by the mossy fountain; 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 seen; no whistling cow-herd is
nigh. It is midday: 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 fight; thine eyes full of tears for thy friends, whom the mist of the 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, lovely
maid, over rocks, over mountains to me?——She speaks: but how weak her voice!
like the breeze in the reeds of the pool.
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
Alone I am, O Shilric! alone in the winter-house. With grief
for thee I expired. Shilric, I am pale in the tomb.
She fleets, she sails away; as gray mist before the
wind!—and, wilt thou not stay, my love? Stay and behold my tears? fair thou
appearest, Vinvela! fair thou wast, when alive!
By the mossy fountain I will sit; on the top of the hill of
winds. When mid-day is silent around, converse, O my love, with me! come on the wings of
the gale! on the blast of the mountain, 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,
and the winds come rustling, from their hills. Inis-tore rose to sight, and Carric-thura's
mossy towers. But the sign of distress was on their top: the green 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 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.
The flame of three oaks arose: the feast is spread around: but
the soul of the king is sad, for Carric-thura's battling chief. The
The flame was dim and distant; the moon hid her red face in the
east. A blast came from the mountain, and bore, on its wings, the spirit of Loda. He came
to his place in his terrors
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, dismal spirit of
Loda? Weak is thy shield of clouds: feeble is that meteor, thy sword. The blast rolls them
together; and thou thyself dost vanish. 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 valiant. I look on the
nations and they vanish: my nostrils pour the blast of death. I come
Dwell then in thy calm fields, said Fingal, and 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
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.
He lifted high his shadowy spear; and bent forward his terrible
height. But the king, advancing, drew his sword; the blade of dark-brown Luno
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 companions of Fingal started, at once; and took their heavy
spears. They missed the king: they rose with rage; all their arms resound.
The moon came forth in the east. The king returned in the gleam
of his arms. The joy of his youths 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 battling 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 the king in war.——When Annir
reignedthe battle of Lora, a poem in this collection.
Who comes like the stag of the mountain, 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 actions are well known on Gormal; the blood of his
foes is in Starno's halls. Shall I ask the peace
Son of the feeble hand, said Frothal, shall my days begin in
darkness? Shall I yield before I have conquered in battle, chief of streamy Tora? The
people would say in Sora, Frothal flew forth like a meteor; but the dark cloud met it, and
it is no more. No: Thubar, I will never yield; my fame shall surround me like light. No: I
will never yield, king of streamy Tora.
He went forth with the stream of his people, but they met a
rock: Fingal stood unmoved, broken they rolled back from his side. Nor did they roll in
safety; the spear of the king pursued their flight. The field is covered with heroes. A
rising hill preserved the flying host.
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
fled. My fame has ceased to rise. I will fight the king; I feel my burning soul. Send a
bard to demand the combat. Speak not against Frothal's words.—But, Thubar! I love a
maid; she dwells by Thano's stream, the white-bosomed daughter of Herman, Utha with the
softly-rolling eyes. She feared the daughter
Such were his words, resolved to fight. But the soft sigh of
Utha was near. She had followed her hero over the sea, in the armour of a man. She rolled
her eye on the youth, in secret, from beneath a glittering helmet. But now she saw the
bard as he went, and the spear fell thrice from her hand. Her loose hair flew on the
Fingal heard the words of the bard; he came in the strength of
steel. They mixed their deathful spears, and raised the gleam of their swords. But the
steel 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 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 along the blue waters of Tora: 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
Daughter of Herman, said Frothal, didst thou come from Tora's
streams; didst thou come, in thy beauty, to behold thy warrior
Son of Annir, replied the king; the fame of Sora's race shall
be heard.—When chiefs are strong in battle, 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; and bending above it, he will say, "These are the arms of chiefs of old, but their
names are not in "the song."——Come thou, O Frothal, to the feast of
Inistore; let the maid of thy love be there; and our faces will brighten with joy.
Fingal took his spear, moving in the steps of his might. The
gates of Carric-thura are opened. The feast of shells is spread.—The voice 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 lost
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
Carrila sprightly and harmonious sound.
They live. I saw them return from the chace, like a stream of
light. The sun was on their shields. Like a ridge of fire they descended the hill. Loud
is the voice of the youth; the war, my love, is near. To-morrow the terrible Dargo comes
to try the force of our race. The race of Fingal he defies; the race of battle and
wounds.
Connal, I saw his sails like gray mist on the sable wave.
They slowly came to land. Connal, many are the warriors of Dargo!
Bring me thy father's shield; the bossy, iron shield of
Rinval; that shield like the full moon when it moves darkened through heaven.
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!
Fall indeed I may: But raise my tomb, Crimora. Gray stones, a
mound of earth, shall keep my memory. Bend thy red eye over my tomb, and beat thy
mournful heaving breast. Though fair thou art, my love, as the light; more pleasant than
the gale of the hill; yet I will not stay. Raise my tomb, Crimora.
Then give me those arms of light; that sword, and that spear
of steel. I shall meet Dargo with thee, and aid my lovely Connal. Farewel, 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, and 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, and took the softly-trembling harp: the song was lovely, but sad, and
silence was in Carric-thura.
Autumn is dark on the mountains; gray mist rests on the hills.
The whirlwind is heard on the heath. Dark rolls the river through
Who can reach the source of thy race, O Connal? and 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; and 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, like a cloud of thunder. His brows
were contracted and dark. His eyes like two caves in a rock. Bright rose their swords on
each side; dire 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 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 your rest, said Utha, children of streamy Lotha. I
will remember you with tears, and my secret song shall rise; when the wind is in the
groves of Tora, and the stream is roaring near. Then shall ye come on my soul, with all
your lovely grief.
Three days feasted the kings: on the fourth their white sails
arose. The winds of the north carry the ship of 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
Star of the falling 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, and
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, and bathe thy lovely hair. Farewel,
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 that are past.——Fingal
comes like a watry column of mist; his heroes are around. And see the bards of the song,
gray-haired Ullin; stately Ryno; Alpinhigh
Inland, or country. The present name of our island has its
origin in the Celtic tongue; so that those who derived it from any other, betrayed their
ignorance of the ancient language of our country.——Breac't in, variegated island, so called from the face of
the country, from the natives painting themselves, or from their party-coloured
cloaths.
Minonaa hunter.a woman with fine
hair.
It is night;—I am alone, forlorn on the hill of
storms. The wind is heard in the mountain. The torrent shrieks 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
appear! Lead me, some light, to the place where my love rests from the toil of the
chace! 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; nor can I hear the
voice of my love.
Why delays my Salgar, why the son of the hill, his promise?
Here is the rock, and the tree; and here the roaring stream. Thou didst promise with
night to be here. Ah! whither is my Salgar gone? With thee I would fly, my father; with
thee, my brother of pride. Our race have long been foes
Cease a little while, O wind! stream, be thou silent a while!
let my voice be heard over the heath; let my wanderer hear me. Salgar! it is I who call.
Here is the tree, and the rock. Salgar, my love! I am here. Why delayest thou thy
coming?
Lo! the moon appeareth. The flood is bright in the vale. The
rocks are grey on the face of the hill. But I see him not on the brow; his dogs before
him tell not that he is coming. Here I must sit alone.
But who are these that lie beyond me on the heath? Are they
my love and my brother?—Speak to me, O my friends! they answer not. 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! haft 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
Oh! from the rock of the hill; from the top of the windy
mountain, 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 you? No feeble voice is on the
wind: no answer half-drowned in the storms of the hill.
I sit in my grief. I wait for morning in my tears. Rear the
tomb, ye friends of the dead; but 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 wind is on the heath; my ghost
shall stand in the wind, and mourn the death of my friends. The hunter shall hear from
his booth. He shall fear but love my voice. For sweet shall my voice be for my friends;
for pleasant were they both to me.
Such was thy song, Minona softly-blushing maid of Torman. Our
tears descended for Colma, and our souls were sad.—Ullin came with the harp, and
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: and their voice was not heard in
Selma.——Ullin had returned one day from the chace, 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
The wind and the rain are over: 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 the song, mourning
for the dead. Bent is his head of age, and red his tearful eye. Alpin, thou son of the
song, why alone on the silent hill? why complainest thou, as a blast in the wood; as a
wave on the lonely shore?
My tears, O Ryno! are for the dead; my voice, for the
inhabitants of the grave. Tall thou art on the hill; fair among the sons of the plain.
But thou shalt fall like Morargreat man.
Thou wert swift, O Morar! as a roe on the hill; terrible as a
meteor of fire. Thy wrath was as the storm. Thy sword in battle, as lightning in the
field. Thy voice was like 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
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 she that brought thee forth. Fallen is the daughter of
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
Farewel, 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 splendor
of thy steel. Thou hast left no son. But 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
Armina hero. He was chief or petty
king of Gorma, i. e. the blue island, supposed to be one of the
Hebrides.a tall dark-complexioned man.
Sad! I am indeed: nor small my cause of woe!—Carmor,
thou hast lost no son; thou hast lost no daughter of beauty. Colgar the valiant lives; and
Annira fairest maid. The boughs of thy family flourish, O Carmor! but Armin is the last of
his race. Dark is thy bed, O Daura! and deep thy sleep in the tomb.—When shalt thou
awake with thy songs? with all thy voice of music?
Rise, winds of autumn, rise; blow upon the dark heath! streams
of the mountains, roar! howl, ye tempests, in the top of the oak! walk through broken
clouds, O moon! show by intervals thy pale face! bring to my mind that sad night, when all
my children fell; when Arindal the mighty fell; when Dura the lovely failed.
Daura, my daughter! thou wert fair; fair as the moon on the
hills of Furacold island.
Erath, son of Odgal, repined; for his brother was 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
She went; and she called on Armar. Nought answered, but the
sonthe son of the rock the poet means the
mac-talla; the son who
dwells in the rock.
Her voice came over the sea. Arindal my son descended from the
hill; rough in the spoils of the chace. His arrows rattled by his side; his bow was in his
hand: five dark gray dogs attended his steps. He saw fierce Erath on the shore: he seized
and bound him to an oak. Thick fly the thongs
Arindal ascends the deep in his boat, to bring Daura to land.
Armar came in his wrath, and let fly the gray-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
The boat is broken in twain by the waves. Armar plunges into
the sea, to rescue his Daura or die. Sudden a blast from the hill comes over the waves. He
sunk, and he rose no more.
Alone, on the sea-beat rock, my daughter was heard to complain.
Frequent and loud were her cries; nor could her father relieve her. 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; and the rain beat hard on the side of the mountain. 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 left thee Armin alone: gone is my strength in the war, and
fallen my pride among women.
When the storms of the mountain come; when the north lifts the
waves 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 my cause of woe!
Such were the words of the bards in the days of the song; when
the king heard the music of harps, and the tales of other times. The chiefs gathered from
all their hills, and heard the lovely sound. They praised the voicethe voice of Cona.
Roll on, ye dark-brown years, for ye bring no joy on your
course. Let the tomb open to Ossian, for his strength has failed. The sons of the 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, and the distant mariner sees
the waving trees.
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, thro' envy, or on account of some private feuds, which subsisted between the families, murdered Cathmor at a feast; but being afterwards 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.
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
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.
Listen, son of the rock, to the tale of other years.—
Rathmor was a chief of Clutha. The feeble dwelt in his hall.
The gates of Rathmor were never closed; his feast was always spread. The sons of the
stranger came, and blessed the generous chief of Clutha. Bards raised the song, and
touched the harp: and joy brightened on the face of the mournful.—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; and the mighty Rathmor
fell. He fell in his halls, where his feast was often spread for
strangers.——
Colmar and Calthon were young, the sons of car-borne Rathmor.
They came, in the joy of youth, into their father's hall. They behold him in his blood,
and their bursting tears descend.—The soul of Dunthalmo melted, when he saw the
children of youth; he brought them to Alteutha's the town of Tweed, the name of Dunthalmo's seat. It is
observable that all the names in this poem, are derived from the Galic language; which,
as I have remarked in a preceding note, is a proof that it was once the universal
language of the whole island.
They saw the fallen walls of their fathers; they saw the green
thorn in the hall. Their tears descended in secret; and, at times, their faces were
mournful. Dunthalmo beheld their grief: his darkening soul designed their death. He closed
them in two caves, on the
The daughter of Dunthalmo wept in silence, the fair-haired,
blue-eyed Colmala woman with small
eye-brows; small eye-brows were a distinguishing part of beauty in Ossian's time:
and he seldom fails to give them to the fine women of his poems.
Arise, son of Rathmor, she said, arise, the night is dark. Let
us fly to the king of Selma
Blest voice! replied the chief, comest thou from the
darkly-rolling clouds? for often the ghosts of his fathers descend to Calthon's 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 will I fly to Fingal, and Colmar
my 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 heroes, 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 battle. His arm is stretched forth to the unhappy; the lightning
of his sword is round the weak.!—Arise, thou son of Rathmor; the shadows will fly
away. Dunthalmo will behold thy steps on the field, and thou must fall in thy youth.
The fighting 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
cover'd her lovely face; and her breast rose beneath the steel. Fingal returned from the
chace, and found the lovely strangers. They were like two beams of light, in the midst of
the hall.
The king heard the tale of grief; and turned his eyes around. A
thousand heroes half-rose before him; claiming the war of Teutha.—I came with my
spear from the hill, and the joy of battle rofe in my breast: for the king spoke to Ossian
in the midst of the people.
Sonof my strength, he said, take the spear of Fingal; go to
Teutha's mighty 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 battle; but mild when the foes are
low!—It was thus my fame arose, O my son; and 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.
Who was the fairest and most lovely? Who but Collath's stately son? Who sat in the
midst of the wife, but Dargo of the mighty deeds? Thy hand touched the trembling harp: Thy voice was soft as summer-winds.—Ah
me! what shall the heroes say? for Dargo fell before a boar. Pale is the lovely cheek;
the look of which was firm in danger!—Why hast thou failed on our hills, thou
fairer than the beams of the sun? The daughter of Adonsion was lovely in the
eyes of the valiant; she was lovely in their eyes, but she chose to be the spouse of
Dargo. But thou art alone, Mingala! the night is coming with its clouds; where is the bed of
thy repose ? Where but in the tomb of Dargo? Why dost thou lift the stone, O bard! why dost thou shut the narrow house? Mingala's
eyes are heavy, bard! She must sleep with Dargo. Last night I heard the song of joy in Lartho's lofty hall. But silence dwells around
my bed. Mingala rests writh Dargo.I rejoiced in the words of the king: and took my rattling
arms.—DiaranThe spouse of Dargo
comes in tears: for Dargo was no more! The heroes sigh over Lartho's chief: and what
shall sad Mingala do? The dark soul vanished like morning mist, before the king of
spears: but the generous glowed in his presence like the morning star.
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 blasl 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 lovely, and his eye is on his friends; for we flood, in our
arms, on the opposite bank of Teutha. Dunthalmo
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 slood 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 sooth 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
battling 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 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 bended 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 chace together, and pursue 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; and 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; and unhappy Colmal rose. She
followed her hero through night, and dragged
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 did not fall before
them.——Their strength was like the eagles of heaven; their renown is in the
song. But our people fall by degrees, and our fame begins to depart.——What
shall the king of Morven say, if Ossian conquers not at Teutha? Rise in your steel, ye
warriors, and 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: and 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, or the lowing herds of Teutha.—But
leave these arms, thou son of fear; a warrior may lift them in battle.——
I tore the mail from her shoulders. Her snowy breast appeared.
She bent her red face to the ground.—I looked in silence to the chiefs. The spear
fell from my hand; and the sigh of my bosom rose.——But when I heard the name
of the maid, my crowding tears descended. 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; and their tombs are not found on the
heath.—Years came on with their tempests; and the green mounds mouldered
away.—Scarce is the grave of Dunthalmo seen, or the place where he fell by the
spear of Ossian.—Some gray warrior, half blind with age, sitting by night at the
flaming oak of the hall, tells now my actions to his sons, and the fall of the dark
Dunthalmo. The faces of youth bend sidelong towards his voice; surprize and joy burn in
their eyes.—
I found the son
Lathmon a British prince, taking advantage of
Fingal's absence in Ireland, made a descent on Morven, and advanced within fight of
Selma the royal palace. Fingal arrived in the mean time, and Lathmon retreated to a
hill, where his army was surprized by night, and himself taken prisoner by Ossian and
Gaul the son of Morni. This exploit of Gaul and Ossian bears a near resemblance to the
beautiful epifode of Nisus and Euryalus in Virgil's ninth
Selma, 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
Ullin for the white sails of the king. He had promised to return, but the winds of the
north arose.
Who pours from the eastern hill, like a stream of darkness? It
is the host of Lathmon. He has heard of the absence of Fingal. He trusts in the wind of
the north. His soul brightens with joy. Why dost thou come, 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,
The king of Morven started from sleep, as we rolled on the
dark-blue wave. He stretched his hand to his spear, and his heroes rose around. We knew
that he had 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, and pursue 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. But let each bind on his mail, and each assume his shield. Stretch
every spear over the wave; let every sword be unsheathed. Lathmon
Such were the words of Fingal. We rushed into Carmona's bay.
Ossian ascended the hill; and thrice struck his bossy shield. The rock of Morven replied;
and the bounding roes came forth. The foes were troubled in my presence: and collected
their darkened host; for I stood, like a cloud on the hill, rejoicing in the arms of my
youth.
Morni Morni was chief of a numerous tribe, in
the days of Fingal and his father Comhal. The last mentioned hero was killed in battle
against Morni's tribe; but the valour and conduct of Fingal reduced them, at last, to
obedience. We find the two heroes perfectly reconciled in this poem. sat
beneath a tree, at the roaring waters of Strumonstream of the hill. Here the proper name of rivulet in the
neighbourhood of Selma.
The aged heard the sound of Ossian's shield: he knew the sign
of battle. He started at once from his place. His gray hair parted on his back. He
remembers the actions of other years. My son, he said to fair haired Gaul, I hear the
sound of battle. The king of Morven is returned, the sign of war is heard. Go to the halls
of Strumon, and bring his arms to Morni. Bring the arms which my father wore in his age,
for my arm begins to fail. Take thou thy armour, Ο 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, and renown dwells on their gray hairs.
Dost thou not see, Ο Gaul, how the steps of my age are honoured? Morni moves forth, and
the young meet him, with reverence, 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 battle.
The stranger melted before me; the mighty were blasted in my presence.
Gaul brought the arms to Morni: the aged warrior covered
himself with steel. He took the spear in his hand, which was often
King of the roaring Strumon! said the rising joy of Fingal; do
I behold thee in arms, after thy strength has failed? Often has Morni shone in battles,
like the beam of the rising 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? For 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; and I feel the weight of my shield. We decay,
like the grass of the mountain, and our strength returns no more. I have a son, O Fingal,
his soul has delighted in the actions of Morni's youth; but his sword has not been lifted
against the foe, neither has his fame begun. I come with him to battle; to direct his arm.
His renown will be a sun to my soul, in the dark hour of my departure. 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
battle. 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 be strung; and the voice of
the bard arise, that those who fall may rejoice in their fame; and the soul of Morni
brighten with gladness.——Ossian! thou hast fought in
I saw Ossian speaks. The contrast between the
old and young heroes is strongly marked. The circumstance of the latter's drawing
their swords is well imagined, and agrees with the impatience of young soldiers, just
entered upon action. Gaul in his arms, and my soul was mixed with his: for
the fire of the battle was in his eyes! he looked to the foe with joy. We spoke the words
of friendship in secret; and 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 gray waving locks. Their discourse is of other times,
and the actions of their fathers. Three bards, at times, touched the harp; and Ullin was
near with his song. He sung of the mighty Comhal; but darkness gatheredThe
darkness which gathered on Morni's brow, did not proceed from any dislike he had
to Comhal's name, though they were foes, but from his fear that the song would awaken
Fingal to remembrance of the feuds which had subsisted of old between the families.
Fingal's speech on this occasion abbunds with generosity and good sense.
Chief of Strumon, why that darkness? Let the days of other
years be forgot. Our fathers contended in battle; but we meet together, at the feast. Our
swords are turned on the foes, and they melt before us on the field. Let the days of our
fathers be forgot, king of mossy Strumon.
King of Morven, replied the chief, I remember thy father with
joy. He was terrible in battle; the rage
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 his host, like thunder heard on a distant heath. Ossian! and fair-haired Gaul! ye are
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, and 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 disordered; and my hand trembles on my sword. When I look towards
the foe, my soul lightens before me, and 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
Son of Morni, I replied, my soul delights in battle. I delight
to shine in battle alone, and to give my name to the bards. But what if the foe should
prevail; shall I behold the eyes of the king? They are terrible in his displeasure, 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 away like a
shadow. But the fame of Ossian shall rise. His deeds shall be like his fathers. Let us
rush in our arms; son of Morni, let us rush to battle. Gaul! if thou shalt return, go to
Selma's lofty wall. Tell to Evirallin
Son of Fingal, Gaul replied with a sigh; will I return after
Ossian is low!—What would my father say, and Fingal king of men? The feeble would
turn their eyes and say, "Behold the mighty 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 like the grass of the field, for they spread death around them."——But
why
We rushed forward through night; and came to the roar of a
stream which bent its blue course round the foe, through trees that
Shall This proposal of Gaul is much more noble,
and more agreeable to true heroism, than the behaviour of Ulysses and Diomed in the
the son of Fingal rush on a 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 gray hairs of Morni, for actions like these. Strike,
Ossian, strike the shield of battle, 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, and my bursting tears
descended. And the foe shall meet 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 gray side
dimly gleams to the stars. If the foe shall prevail, let our back be towards the
I struck thrice my
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, and ascended a blasted tree; but the spear pierced him from behind. Shrieking,
panting, he 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, and the people fell before him; as the grass by the staff of the boy, when he
whistles along the field, and the gray beard of the thistle falls. But careless the youth
moves on; his steps are towards the
Gray 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 aaw the distant darkness of the hero, and I spoke to
Morni's son.
Car-borne Car-borne is a title of honour
bestowed, by Ossian, indiscriminately on every hero; as every chief, in his time, kept
a chariot or litter by way of state. chief of Strumon, dost thou behold
the foe? They gather on the hill in their wrath. Let our steps be towards the king
Then let our steps
Such were our words on the plain, when Sulmatha man of good eye-fight.dark mountain-stream. What river
went by this name, in the days of Ossian, is not easily ascertained, at this distance of
time. A river in Scotland, which falls into the sea at Banff, still retains the name of
Duvran. If that is meant, by Ossian, 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.
Son of the feeble hand, said Lathmon, shall my host descend!
They
Go thou to the heroes, chief of Dutha, for I behold the stately
steps of Ossian. His fame is worthy of my steel; let him fight with Lathmon.
The noble Sulmath came. I rejoiced in the words of the king. I
raised the shield on my arm, and Gaul placed in my hand the sword of Morni. We returned to
the murmuring stream; Lathmon came in his strength. His dark host rolled, like the 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
Lathmon; and lay the son of Nuäth low. Lay him low among his people, or thou thyself
must fall.
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, and pierced the shield of
Ossian. I felt the cold steel at my side; and drew the sword of Morni; I cut the spear in
twain; the bright point fell glittering on the ground. The son of Nuäth burnt in his
wrath, and 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, and 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, and the tear started from his
eye. He threw the sword of his fathers on the ground, and spoke the words of the valiant.
Why should Lathmon fight against the first of mortal men? Your souls are beams from
heaven; your swords the flames of death. Who can equal the renown of the heroes, whose
actions 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
feeble.—But who comes, a
Fingal came, in his mildness, rejoicing in secret over the
actions of his son. Morni's face brightened with gladness, and his aged eyes look faintly
through the tears of joy. We came to the halls of Selma, and sat round the feast of
shells. The maids of the song came into our presence, and the mildly blushing Evirallin.
Her dark hair spreads on her neck of snow, her eye rolled in secret on Ossian; she touched
the harp of music, and we blessed the daughter of Branno.
Fingal rose in his place, and spoke to Dunlathmon's battling
king. The sword of Trenmor trembled by his side, as he lifted up 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; nor do our swords gleam over the weak. When did we come to Dunlathmon, 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 lightning of my steel pours on the proud in arms.
The battle comes; and the tombs of the valiant rise; the tombs of my people rise, O my
fathers! and I at last must remain alone. But I will remain renowned, and the departure of
my soul shall be one stream of light. Lathmon! retire to thy place. Turn thy battles to
other lands. The race of Morven are renowned, and their foes are the sons of the
unhappy.
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
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.
Darkness dwells around Dunlathmon, though the moon shews half
her face on the hill. The daughter of night turns her eyes away; for she beholds the grief
that is coming.—The son of Morni is on the plain; but there is no sound in the
hall.Milton.the virgin of the wave.
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; 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 to meet him, with
songs, with the lightly-trembling sound of the harp.——
Such were the words of Gaul, when he came to Dunlathmon's
towers. The gates were open and dark. The winds were blustering in the hall. The trees
strowed the threshold with leaves; and the murmur of night is abroad.—Sad and
silent, at a rock, the son of Morni sat: his soul trembled for the maid; but he knew
not
Sleep descended on the heroes. The visions of night arose.
Oithona stood in a dream, before the eyes of Morni's son. Her dark hair was loose and
disordered: her lovely eye rolled in tears. Blood stained her snowy arm. The robe half hid
the wound of her breast. She slood over the chief, and her voice was heard.
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.—And 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 wrath. Often did his eyes
turn to the east, and accuse the lagging light.—At length the morning came forth.
The hero lifted up the sail. The winds came rustling from the hill; and he bounded on the
waves of the deep.—On the third day arofe Tromáthon
Hom. Od. v.
280heavy or deep-founding
wave..
Daughter of Nuäth, said the hero, why dost thou fly from
Gaul? Do my eyes send forth the flame of death? Or 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 high Dunlathmon! Is the foe of Oithona near? My soul burns to meet him in
battle. The sword trembles on the side of Gaul, and longs to glitter in his
hand.——Speak, daughter of Nuäth, dost thou not behold my tears?
Car-borne chief of Strumon, replied the sighing maid, why
comest thou over the dark-blue wave to Nuäth's mournful 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 pass away in my youth; and my name shall not be heard. Or it will be heard with sorrow,
and the tears of Nuäth will fall. Thou wilt be sad, son of Morni, for the fallen fame
of Oithona. But ihe shall sleep in the narrow tomb, far from the voice of the
mourner.——Why didst thou come, chief of Strumon, to the fea-beat rocks of
Tromathon.
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; and
And 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 gray stone of the dead: for never more will I
leave thy rocks, sea-surrounded Tromáthon!—Night
My steps never turned from battle, replied the hero, as he
unsheathed his sword; and will I begin to fear, Oithona, when thy foes are near? Go to thy
cave, daughter of Nuäth, till our battle cease. Son of Leth, bring the bows of our
fathers; and 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; but our souls are strong.
The daughter of Nuäth went to the cave: a troubled joy
rose on her mind, like the red path of the lightning on a stormy cloud.—Her soul
was resolved, and the tear was dried from her wildly-looking eye.—Dunrommath slowly
approached; for he saw the son of Morni. Contempt contracted his face, a smile is on his
dark-brown cheek; his red eye rolled, half-conceal'd, beneath his shaggy brows.
Whence are the sons of the sea, begun the gloomy chief? Have
the winds driven you to the rocks of Tromáthon? Or come you in search of the
white-handed daughter of Nuäth? The sons of the unhappy, ye feeble men, come to the
hand of Dunrommath. His eye spares not the weak; and 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 thv 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 his host, in Morven's woody land. Dunrommath! thy words are mighty,
for thy warriors
Gaul advanced in his arms; Dunrommath shrunk behind his people.
But the spear of Gaul pierced the gloomy chief, and 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 founding sail, and bound on the
Gaul advanced towards the cave of Oithona. He beheld a youth
leaning against a rock. An arrow had pierced his side; and his eye rolled faintly beneath
his helmet.—The soul of Morni's son is 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 valiant, and 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; for thou art fallen in thy
youth.——
My fathers, replied the stranger, were of the sons 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 sirs. Thou mayst behold it far distant. There my brother
dwells. He is renowned in battle: give him this glittering helmet.
The helmet fell from the hand of Gaul; for 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 side.——
Son of Morni, she said, prepare the narrow tomb. Sleep comes,
like a cloud, 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; and the virgins would bless my
steps. But I fall in youth, son of Morni, and my father shall blush in his
hall.——
She fell pale on the rock of Tromáthon. The mournful hero
raised her tomb.——He came to Morven; but 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.
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 accordingly 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 Rothmar, was slain himself, and his forces totally defeated. Ossian renewed the war; came to battle, killed Rothmar, and routed his army. Croma being thus delivered of its enemies, Ossian returned to Scotland.
It was the voice of my love! few are his visits to the dreams
of Malvina! Open your airy halls, ye fathers of mighty Toscar. Unfold the gates of your
clouds; the steps of Malvina's departure are near. I have heard a voice in my dream. I
feel the sluttering of my soul. Why didst thou come, O blast, from the dark-rolling of the
lake? Thy rustling wing was in the trees, the dream of Malvina departed. But she beheld
her love, when his robe of mist flew on the wind; the beam of the sun was on his skirts,
they glittered like the gold of the stranger. It was the voice of my love! few are his
visits 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 round me; but thy death came
like a blast from the
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 Moruthgreat stream.
The king commanded; I raised my sails, and rushed into the bay
of Croma; into Croma's founding bay in lovely InisfailInisfail, one of the ancient names of Ireland.
I sent the bard before me with songs; I came into the hali of
Crothar. There sat the hero amidst the arms of his fathers, but his eyes had failed. His
gray 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 mortal men; but Crothar had also his fame. The king of Morven praised me, and he
placed on my arm the bossy shield of Calthar, whom the hero had slain in war. 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 feels it with his aged hands. The
sigh rose in his breast, and his tears descended. 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 halls be spread; and let my bards raise the song. Great is he that is within
my walls, sons of
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 the sigh swelled in the midst of his
voice.
Son of Fingal! dost thou not behold the darkness of Crothar's
hall of shells? My soul was not dark at the feast, when my people lived. I rejoiced in the
presence of strangers, when my son shone in the hall. But, Ossian, he is a beam that is
departed, and left no streak of light behind. He is fallen, son of Fingal, in the battles
of his father.——Rothmar the chief of grassy Tromlo heard that mv 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 the hall, but what could
fightless 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 chace; the fair-haired Fovar-gormothe blue point of steel
And thou shalt meet him, I said, son of the fightless 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. The foe advances towards Croma. He who slew my son is near, with all his
pointed spears.
It is not time to fill the shell, I replied, and took my spear.
My people saw the fire of my eyes, and they rose around. All night we
Those extempore compositions were in great repute among succeeding bards. The
pieces extant of that kind show more of the good ear, than of the poetical genius of
their authors. The translator has only met with one poem of this sort, which he thinks
worthy of being preserved. It is a thousand years later than Ossian, but the authors
seem to have observed his manner, and adopted some of his expressions. The story of it
is this. Five bards, passing the night in the house of a chief, who was a poet
himself, went severally to make their observations on, and returned with an extempore
description of, night. The night happened to be one in October, as appears from the
poem, and in the north of Scotland, it has all that variety which the bards ascribe to
it, in their descriptions. The distant dog is howling from the hut of the hill. The stag lies on the mountain
moss: the hind is at his side. She hears the wind in his branchy horns. She starts,
but lies again. The roe is in the cleft of the rock; the heath-cock's head is beneath his wing. No
beast, no bird is abroad, but the owl and the howling fox. She on a leafless tree:
he in a cloud on the hill. Dark, panting, trembling, sad the traveller has lost his way. Through shrubs,
through thorns, he goes, along the gurgling rill. He fears the rock and the fen. He
fears the ghost of night. The old tree groans to the blast; the falling branch
refounds. The wind drives the withered burs, clung together, along the grass. It is
the light tread of a ghost!—He trembles amidst the night. Dark, dusky, howling is night, cloudy, windy, and lull of ghosts! The dead are
abroad! my friends, receive me from the night. The wind is up. The shower descends. The spirit of the mountain shrieks. Woods fall
from high. Windows flap. The growing river roars. The traveller attempts the ford.
Hark that shriek! he dies:—The storm drives the horse from the hill, the
goat, the lowing cow. They tremble as drives the shower, beside the mouldering
bank. The hunter starts from sleep, in his lonely hut; he wakes the fire decayed. His wet
dogs smoke around him. He fills the chinks with heath. Loud roar two mountain
streams which meet beside his booth. Sad on the side of a hill the wandering shepherd sits. The tree resounds above him.
The stream roars down the rock. He waits for the rising moon to guide him to his
home. Ghosts ride on the storm to-night. Sweet is their voice between the squalls of
wind. Their songs are of other worlds. The rain is past. The dry wind blows. Streams roar, and windows flap. Cold drops
fall from the roof. I see the starry sky. But the shower gathers again. The west is
gloomy and dark. Night is stormy and dismal; receive me, my friends, from night. The wind still sounds between the hills: and whistles through the grass of the
rock. The sirs fall from their place. The turfy hut is torn. The clouds, divided,
fly over the sky, and shew the burning stars. The meteor, token of death! flies
sparkling through the gloom. It rests on the hill. I see the withered fern, the
dark-browed rock, the fallen oak. Who is that in his shrowd beneath the tree, by the
stream? The waves dark-tumble on the lake, and lash its rocky sides. The boat is brimfull
in the cove; the oars on the rocking tide. A maid sits sad beside the rock, and eyes
the rolling stream. Her lover promised to come. She saw his boat, when yet it was
light, on the lake. Is this his broken boat on the shore? Are these his groans on
the wind? Hark! the hail rattles around. The flaky snow descends. The tops of the hills are
white. The stormy winds abate. Various is the night and cold; receive me, my
friends, from night. Night is calm and fair; blue, starry, settled is night. The winds, with the clouds,
are gone. They sink behind the hill. The moon is up on the mountain. Trees glister:
streams shine on the rock. Bright rolls the settled lake; bright the stream of the
vale. I see the trees overturned; the shocks of corn on the plain. The wakeful hind
rebuilds the shocks, and whistles on the distant field. Calm, settled, fair is night!—Who comes from the place of the dead? That
form with the robe of snow; white arms and dark-brown hair! It is the daughter of
the chief of the people; she that lately fell! Come, let us view thee, O maid! thou
that hast been the delight of heroes! The blast drives the phantom away; white,
without form, it ascends the hill. The breezes drive the blue mist, slowly over the narrow vale. It rises on the hill,
and joins its head to heaven.—Night is settled, calm, blue, starry, bright
with the moon. Receive me not, my friends, for lovely is the night. Night is calm, but dreary. The moon is in a cloud in the west. Slow moves that pale
beam along the shaded hill. The distant wave is heard. The torrent murmurs on the
rock. The cock is heard from the booth. More than half the night is past. The
house-wife, groping in the gloom, rekindles the settled fire. The hunter thinks that
day approaches, and calls his bounding dogs. He ascends the hili and whistles on his
way. A blast removes the cloud. He sees the starry plough of the north. Much of the
night is to pass. He nods by the mossy rock. Hark! the whirlwind is in the wood! A low murmur in the vale! It is the mighty army
of the dead returning from the air. The moon rests behind the hill. The beam is still on that lofty rock. Long are the
shadows of the trees. Now it is dark over all. Night is dreary, silent, and dark;
receive me, my friends, from night. Let clouds rest on the hills: spirits fly and travellers fear. Let the winds of the
woods arise, the sounding storms descend. Roar streams and windows flap, and green
winged meteors fly; rise the pale moon from behind her hills, or inclose her head in
clouds; night is alike to me, blue, stormy, or gloomy the sky. Night flies before
the beam, when it is poured on the hill. The young day returns from his clouds but
we return no more. Where are our chiefs of old? Where our kings of mighty name? The fields of their
battles are silent. Scarce their mossy tombs remain. We shall also be forgot. This
lofty house shall fall. Our sons shall not behold the ruins in grass. They shall aik
of the aged, "Where stood the walls of our fathers?" Raise the song, and strike the harp; send round the shells of joy. Suspend a
hundred tapers on high. Youths and maids begin the dance. Let some gray bard be near
me to tell the deeds of other times; of kings renowned in our land, of chiefs we
behold no more. Thus let the night pass until morning shall appear in our halls.
Then let the bow be at hand, the dogs, the youths of the chace. We shall ascend the
hill with day; and awake the deer.The people gather to the hall; the shells of the feast are
heard. Ten harps are strung; five bards advance, and sing, by turnsFirst Bard.Night is dull and dark. The clouds rest on the hills. No
star with green trembling beam; no moon looks from the sky. I hear the blast in the
wood; but I hear it distant far. The stream of the valley murmurs; but its murmur is
sullen and sad. From the tree at the grave of the dead the long-howling owl is
heard. I see a dim form on the plain!—It is a ghost!—it
fades—it flies. Some funeral shall pass this way: the meteor marks the
path.Second Bard.Third Bard.Fourth Bard.Fifth Bard.The Chief.
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 will not behold
them in the hall; or smile at their trembling hands. Their memory shall be honoured in the
song; the young tear of the virgin falls. But the aged
This poem is reputed to have been composed
by Ossian, a little time before his death; and consequently it is known in tradition
by no other name than Ossian's last hymn. The translator has
taken the liberty to call it Berrathon, from the episode
concerning the re-establishment of Larth-mor king of that island, after he had been
dethroned by his own son Uthal. Fingal in his voyage to Lochlin [Fing. B. III.]
whither he had been invited by Starno the father of Agandecca, so often mentioned in
Ossian's poems, touched at Berrathon, an island of Scandinavia, where he was kindly
entertained by Larthmor the petty king of the place, who was a vassal of the supreme
kings of Lochlin. The hospitality of Larthmor gained him Fingal's friendship, which
that hero manifested, after the imprisonment of Larthmor by his own son, by sending
Ossian and Toscar, the father of Malvina so often mentioned, to rescue Larthmor, and
to punish the unnatural behaviour of Uthal. Uthal was handsome to a proverb, and
consequently much admired by the ladies. Nina-thoma the beautiful daughter of
Tor-thoma, a neighbouring prince, fell in love and fled with him. He proved
unconstant; for another lady, whose name is not mentioned, gaining his affections, he
confined Nina-thoma to a
The present poem opens with an elegy on the death of Malvina the daughter of Toscar, and closes with presages of the poet's death. It is almost altogether in a lyric measure, and has that melancholy air which distinguishes the remains of the works of Ossian. If ever he composed any thing of a merry turn it is long since lost. The serious and melancholy make the most lasting impressions on the human mind, and bid fairest for being transmitted from generation to generation by tradition. Nor is it probable that Ossian dealt much in chearful composition. Melancholy is so much the companion of a great genius, that it is difficult to separate the idea of levity from chearfulness, which is sometimes the mark of an amiable disposition, but never the characteristic of elevated parts.
Bend thy blue course, O stream, round the narrow plain of
Luthaswift stream. It is impossible,
at this distance of time, to ascertain where the scene here described lies. Tradition is
silent on that head, and there is nothing in the poem from which a conjecture can be
drawn.
Then come thou, O Malvinasoft or lovely brow, Mh in the Galic
language has the same sound with v in English.
I passed, O son of Fingal, by Tar-lutha's mossy walls. The
smoke of the hall was ceased: silence was among the trees of the
Pleasant
But thou risest like the beam of the east, among the spirits of
thy friends, where they sit in their stormy halls, the chambers of the
thunder.——A cloud hovers over Cona: its blue curling sides are high. The
winds are beneath it, with their wings; within it is the dwelling
His friends sit around the king, on mist; and hear the songs of
Ullin: he strikes the half-viewless harp; and raises the feeble voice. The lesser heroes,
with a thousand meteors, light the airy hall.
Art thou come so soon, said Fingal, daughter of generous
Toscar? Sadness dwells in the halls of Lutha. My aged son
But who comes from the dusky west, supported on a cloud? A
smile is on his gray, watry face; his locks of mist fly on the wind: he bends forward on
his airy spear: it is thy father, Malvina! Why shinest thou, so soon, on our clouds, he
says, O lovely light of Lutha!—But thou wert sad, my daughter, for thy friends were
passed away. The sons of little menthe
sons of little men. Tradition is entirely silent concerning what passed in the
north, immediately after the death of Fingal and all his heroes; but it appears from
that term of ignominy just mentioned, that the actions of their successors were not to
be compared to those of the renowned Fingalians.
And dost thou remember Ossian, car-borne Toscar
Draw near, son of Alpin, to the song of the aged. The actions
of other times are in my soul: my memory beams on the days that are past. On the days of
the mighty Toscar, when our path was in the deep. Draw near, son of Alpin, to the last
soundthe last hymn of Ossian.
The king of Morven commanded, and I raised my sails to the
wind. Toscar chief of Lutha stood at my side, as I rose on the dark-blue wave. Our course
was to sea-surrounded Berrathona
promontory in the midst of waves. The poet gives it the epithet of
sea-surrounded, to prevent its being taken for a peninsula in the literal sense.
Long pined the king in his cave, beside his rolling sea. Day
did not come to his dwelling; nor the burning oak by night. But the wind of ocean was
there, and the parting beam of the moon. The red star looked on the king, when it trembled
on the western wave. Snitho came to Selma's hall: Snitho companion of Larthmor's youth. He
told of the king of Berrathon: the wrath of Fingal rose. Thrice he assumed the fpear,
resolved to stretch his hand to
What voice is that, said Toscar, which comes between the sounds
of the waves? It is soft but mournful, like the voice of departed bards. But I behold the
maid
How long will ye roll around me, blue-tumbling waters of ocean?
My dwelling was not always in caves, nor beneath the whistling tree. The feast was spread
in Torthóoma's hall; my father delighted in my voice. The youths beheld me in the
steps of my loveliness, and they blessed the dark-haired Nina-thoma. It was then thou
didst come, O Uthal! like the sun of heaven. The souls of
The tear started from my eye, when I heard the voice of the
maid. I stood before her in my arms, and spoke the words of peace.——Lovely
dweller of the cave, what sigh is in that breast? Shall Ossian lift his sword in thy
presence, the destruction of thy foes?—Daughter of Torthóma, rise, I have
heard the words of thy grief. The race of Morven are around thee, who never injured the
weak. Come to our dark-bosomed ship, thou brighter than that setting moon. Our course is
to the rocky Berrathon, to the
The morning rose with its beams. We came to Rothma's bay. A
boar rushed from the wood, my spear pierced his side. I rejoiced over the blood
We rose on the heath before the king; he stopt in the midst of
his course. His heroes gathered around, and a gray-haired bard advanced. Whence are the
sons of the strangers! begun the bard of the song; the children of the unhappy come to
Berrathon; to the sword of car-borne Uthal. He spreads no feast in his hall: the blood of
strangers is on his streams. If from Selma's walls ye come, from the mossy walls of
Fingal, chuse three youths to go to your king to tell of the fall of his people. Perhaps
the hero may come and pour his blood on Uthal's sword; so shall the fame of Finthormo
arise, like the growing tree of the vale.
Never will it rise, O bard, I said in the pride of my wrath. He
would shrink in the presence of Fingal, whose eyes are the flames of death. The son of
Comhal comes, and the kings vanish in his presence; they are rolled together, like mist,
by the breath of his rage. Shall three tell to Fingal, that his people fell? Yes!—they may
tell it, bard! but his people shall fall with fame.
I stood in the darkness of my strength; Toscar drew his sword
at my side. The foe came on like a stream: the mingled sound of death arose. Man took man,
shield met shield; steel mixed its beams with steel.—Darts hiss through air; spears
ring on mails; and swords on broken bucklers bound. As the noise of an aged grove beneath
the roaring wind, when a thousand ghosts break the trees by night, such was the din of
arms.——But Uthal fell beneath my sword; and the sons of Berrathon
fled.—It was then I saw him in
Nina-thoma sat on the shore, and heard the sound of battle. She
turned her red eyes on Lethmal the gray-haired bard of Selma, for he had remained on the
coast, with the daughter of Torthóma. Son of the times of old! she said, I hear the
noise of death. Thy friends have met with Uthal and the chief is low! O that I had
remained on the rock, inclosed with the tumbling waves! Then would my soul be sad, but his
death would not reach my ear. Art thou fallen on thy heath, O son of high Finthormo! thou
didst leave me on a rock, but my soul was full of thee. Son of high Finthormo! art thou
fallen on thy heath?
She rose pale in her tears, and saw the bloody shield of Uthal;
she saw it in Ossian's hand; her steps were distracted on the heath. She flew; she found
him; she fell. Her soul came forth in a sigh. Her hair is spread on his face. My bursting
tears descend. A tomb arose on the unhappy; and my song was heard.
Rest, hapless
children of youth! and the noise of that mossy stream. The virgins will see your tomb, at
the chace, and turn away their weeping eyes. Your fame will be in the song; the voice of
the harp will be heard in your praise. The daughters of Selma shall hear it; and your
renown shall be in other lands.—Rest, children of youth, at the noise of the mossy
stream.
Two days we remained on the coast. The heroes of Berrathon
convened. We brought Larthmor to his halls; the feast of shells is spread.—The joy
of the aged was great; he looked to the arms of his fathers; the arms which he left in his
hall, when the pride of Uthal arofe——We were renowned before Larthmor, and
he blessed the chiefs of Morven; but he knew not that his son was low, the stately
strength of Uthal. They had told, that he had retired to the woods, with the tears of
grief; they had told it, but he was silent in the tomb of Rothma's heath.
On the fourth day we raised our sails to the roar of the
northern wind. Larthmor came to the coast, and his bards raised the song. The joy of the
king was great, he looked to Rothma's gloomy heath; he saw the tomb of his son; and the
memory of Uthal rose.——Who of my heroes, he said, lies there: he seems to
have been of the kings of spears? Was he renowned in my halls, before the pride of Uthal
rofe?
Ye are silent, ye sons of Berrathon, is the king of heroes low?
—My heart melts for thee, O Uthal; though thy hand was against thy
father.——O that I had remained in the cave! that my son had dwelt in
Finthormo!——I might have heard the tread of his feet, when he went to the
chace of the boar.—I might have heard
Such were my deeds, son of Alpin, when the arm of my youth was
strong; such were
Lead, son of Alpin, lead the aged to his woods. The winds begin
to rise. The dark wave of the lake resounds. Bends there not a tree from Mora with its
branches bare? It bends, son of Alpin, in the rustling blast. My harp hangs on a blasted
branch. The sound of its firings is mournful.——Does the wind touch thee, O
harp, or is it some passing ghost!——It is the hand of Malvina! but bring me
the harp, son of Alpin; another song shall rise. My soul shall depart in the sound; my
fathers shall hear it in their airy hall.—Their dim faces shall hang, with joy,
from their clouds; and their hands receive their son.
This magnificent
description of the power of Fingal over the winds and storms, and the image of his
taking the sun, and hiding him in the clouds, do not correspond with the preceding
paragraph, where he is represented as a feeble ghost, and no more the It was the
immoderate praise bestowed by the poets on their departed friends, that gave the first
hint to superstition to deify fhe deceased heroes; and those new divinities owed all
their attributes to the fancy of the bard who sung their elegies. We do not
find, that the praises of Fingal had this effect upon his countrymen; but that is to
be imputed to the idea they had of power, which they always connected with bodily
strength and personal valour, both which were dissolved by death.But thy stepsterror of the valiant; but it agrees with the notion of the
times concerning the souls of the deceased, who, it was supposed, had the command of
the winds and storms, but took no concern in the affairs of men.
But when thou comest forth in thy mildness; the gale of the
morning is near thy course. The sun laughs in his blue fields; and the gray stream winds
in its valley.——The bushes shake their green heads in the wind. The roes
bound towards the
But there is a murmur in the heath! the stormy winds abate! I
hear the voice of Fingal. Long has it been absent from mine ear!——Come,
Ossian, come away, he says: Fingal has received his fame. We passed away, like flames that
had shone for a season, our departure was in renown. Though the plains of our battles are
dark and silent; our fame is in the four gray stones. The voice of Ossian has been heard;
and the harp was strung in Selma.—Come Ossian, come away, he says, and fly with thy
fathers on clouds.
And come I will, thou king of men! the life of Ossian fails. I
begin to vanish on Cona; and my steps are not seen in Selma. Beside the stone of Mora I
shall fall asleep. The winds whistling in my grey hair, shall not waken
me.——Depart on thy wings, O wind: thou canst not disturb the rest of the
bard. The night is long, but his eyes are heavy; depart, thou rustling blast.
The same thought may be found almost in the
same words, in Mr. Pope falls short of his original; in particular he has omitted
altogether the beautiful image of the wind strewing the withered leaves on the
ground.But why art thou sad, son of Fingal? Why grows the cloud of thy
soul? The chiefs of other times are departed; they have gone without their fame. The sons
of future years shall pass away; and another race arise. The people are like the waves of
ocean: like the leavesPope.
Ryno, the
son of Fingal, who was killin Ireland, in the war against Swaran, [Fing. b. 5] was
remarkable for the beauty of his person, his swiftness and great exploits. Minvane,
the daughter of Morni, and sister to Gaul so often mentioned in Ossian's compositions,
was in love with Ryno.—Her lamentation over her lover is introduced as an
episode in one of Ossian's great poems. The lamentation is the only part of the poem
now extant, and as it has some poetical merit, I have subjoined it to this note. The
poet represents Minvane as seeing, from one of the rocks of Morven, the fleet of
Fingal returning from Ireland. Our dark looks told that he was low!
—That pale the hero flew on clouds! That in the grass of Morven's hills, his
feeble voice was heard in wind! And is the son of Fingal fallen, on Ullin's
mossy plains? Strong was the arm that conquered him!—Ah me! I am
alone. Alone I will not be, ye winds! that lift my dark-brown hair. My sighs
will not long mix with your stream; for I must sleep with Ryno. I see thee not
with beauty's steps returning from the chace—The night is round Minvane's love;
and silence dwells with Ryno. Where are thy dogs, and where thy bow? Thy shield
that was so strong? Thy sword like heaven's descending fire? The bloody spear of
Ryno? I see them mixed in thy ship; I see them stained with blood.—No arms are in
thy narrow hall, O darkly-dwelling Ryno! When will the morning come, and say,
arise, thou king of spears! arise, the hunters are abroad. The hinds are near thee,
Ryno! Away, thou fair-haired morning, away! the slumbering king hears thee not!
The hinds bound over his narrow tomb; for death dwells round young Ryno. But I
will tread softly, my king! and steal to the bed of thy repose. Minvane will lie in
silence, near her slumbering Ryno. The maids shall seek me; but they shall not
find me: they shall follow my departure with songs. But I will not hear you, O maids:
I sleep with fair-haired Ryno.Did thy beauty last, O RynoShe blushing sad, from
Morven's rocks, bends over the darkly-rolling sea. She saw the youths in all their
arms.—Where, Ryno, where art thou?