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Vultis et his mecum pariter considere regnis?Urbem quam statuo, vestra est.Virgil.
The following poems
are inscribed to
The Earl of Bute,
in obedience to whose
commands,
they were translated,
from the original Galic of
Ossian, the son of
Fingal,
by his Lordship's
most obedient,
and most obliged,
humble
servant,
Nations, small in their beginnings and slow in their progress
to maturity, cannot, with any degree of certainty, be traced to their source. The first
historians, in every country, are therefore, obscure and unsatisfactory. Swayed by a
national partiality, natural to mankind, they adopted uncertain legends and ill-fancied
fictions, when they served to strengthen a favourite system, or to throw lustre on the
antient state of their country. Without judgment or discernment to separate the probable
and more antient traditions, from ill-digested tales of late invention, they jumbled the
whole together, in one mass of anachronisms and inconsistencies. Their accounts, however,
though deduced from æras too remote to be known, were received with that partial
credulity which always distinguishes an unpolished age. Mankind had neither abilities nor
inclination to dispute the truth of relations, which, by throwing lustre on their
ancestors, flattered their own vanity.—Such were the historians of Europe, during
the dark ages, which succeeded the subversion of the Roman empire. When learning began to
revive, men looked into antiquity with less prejudiced eyes. They chose rather to trust
their national fame to late and well-attested transactions, than draw it from ages, dark
and involved in fable.
The Romans give the first and, indeed, the only authentic
accounts of the northern nations. Destitute of the use of letters, they themselves had no
means of transmitting their history to posterity. Their traditions and songs were lost, or
altogether corrupted, in their revolutions and migrations, which were so frequent and
universal, that no kingdom in Europe is now possessed by its original inhabitants.
Societies were formed, and kingdoms erected, from a mixture of nations, who, in process of
time, lost all
If tradition could be depended upon, it is only among a people,
from all time, free of intermixture with foreigners. We are to look for these among the
mountains and inaccessible parts of a country: places, on account of their barrenness,
uninviting to an enemy, or whose natural strength enabled the natives to repel invasions.
Such are the inhabitants of the mountains of Scotland. We, accordingly, find, that they
differ materially from those who possess the low
No writers began their accounts from a more early period, than
the historians of the Scotch nation. Without records, or even tradition itself, they give
a long list of antient kings, and a detail of their transactions, with a scrupulous
exactness. One might naturally suppose, that, when they had no authentic annals, they
should, at least, have recourse to the traditions of their country, and have reduced them
into a regular system of history. Of both they seem to have been equally destitute. Born
in the low country, and strangers to the antient language of their nation, they contented
themselves with copying from one another, and retailing the same fictions, in a new colour
and dress.
John Fordun was the first who collected those fragments of the
Scotch history, which had escaped the brutal policy of Edward I. and reduced them into
order. His accounts, in so far as they concerned recent transactions, deserved credit:
beyond a certain period, they were fabulous and unsatisfactory. Some time before Fordun
wrote, the king of England, in a letter to the pope, had run up the antiquity of his
nation to a very remote æra. Fordun, possessed of all the national prejudice of the
age, was unwilling that his country should yield, in point of antiquity, to a people, then
its rivals and enemies. Destitute of annals in Scotland, he had recourse to Ireland,
which, according to the vulgar errors of the times, was reckoned the first habitation of
the Scots. He found, there, that the Irish bards had carried their pretensions to
antiquity as high, if not beyond any nation in Europe. It was from them he took those
improbable fictions, which form the first part of his history.
The writers that succeeded Fordun implicitly followed his
system, tho' they sometimes varied from him in their relations of particular transactions,
and the order of succession of their kings.
That this island was peopled from Gaul admits of no doubt.
Whether colonies came afterwards from the north of Europe is a matter of mere speculation.
When South-Britain yielded to the power of the Romans, the unconquered nations to the
north of the province were distinguished by the name of Caledonians. From their very name, it appears, that they were of those Celts, or Gauls, who possessed themselves
originally of Britain. It is compounded of two Celtic words, Caël signifying Celts, or Gauls, and Dun or Don, a
hill; so that Caël-don, or Caledonians, is as much as
to say, the Celts of the hill country. The Highlanders, to this
day, call themselves Caël, and their language Caëlic, or Galic. This, of itself, is
sufficient to demonstrate, that they are the genuine descendents of the antient
Caledonians, and not a pretended colony of Scots, who settled first
in the north, in the third or fourth century.
From the double meaning of the word Caël, which signifies strangers, as well as Gauls, or Celts, some have imagined, that the
ancestors of the Caledonians were of a different race from the rest
Towards the latter end of the third, and beginning of the
fourth century, we meet with the Scots in the north. Scots were not heard of
before that period, most writers supposed them to have been a colony, newly come to
Britain, and that the Picts were the only genuine descendents of
the antient Caledonians. This mistake is easily removed. The Caledonians, in process of
time, became naturally divided into two distinct nations, as possessing parts of the
country, intirely different in their nature and soil. The western coast of Scotland is
hilly and barren; towards the east the country is plain, and fit for tillage. The
inhabitants of the mountains, a roving and uncontrouled race of men, lived by feeding of
cattle, and what they killed in hunting. Their employment did not fix them to one place.
They removed from one heath to another, as suited best with their convenience or
inclination. They were not, therefore, improperly called, by their neighbours, Scuite, or, the wandering nation; which is
evidently the origin of the Roman name of Scoti.
On the other hand, the Caledonians, who possessed the east
coast of Scotland, as their division of the country was plain and fertile, applied
themselves to agriculture, and raising of corn. It was from this, that the Galic name of
the Picts proceeded; for they are called, in that language, Cruithnich, i.e. the wheat or
corn-eaters.
The end of the Pictish government is placed so near that
period, to which authentic annals reach, that it is matter of wonder, that we have no
monuments of their language or history remaining. This favours the system I have laid
down. Had they originally been of a different race from the Scots, their language of
course would be different. The contrary is the case. The names of places in the Pictish
dominions, and the very names of their kings, which are handed down to us, are of Galic
original, which is a convincing proof, that the two nations were, of old, one and the
same, and only divided into two governments, by the effect which their situation had upon
the genius of the people.
The name of Picts was, perhaps, given by
the Romans to the Caledonians, who possessed the east coast of Scotland, from their
painting their bodies. This circumstance made some imagine, that the Picts were of British
extract, and a different race of men from the Scots. That more of the Britons, who fled
northward from the tyranny of the Romans, settled in the low country of Scotland, than
among the Scots of the mountains, may be easily imagined, from the very nature of the
country. It was they who introduced painting among the Picts. From this circumstance
proceeded the name of the latter, to distinguish them from the Scots, who never had that
art among them, and from the Britons, who discontinued it after the Roman conquest.
The Caledonians, most certainly, acquired a considerable
knowledge in navigation, by their living on a coast intersected with many arms of the sea,
and, in islands, divided, one from another, by wide and dangerous firths. It is,
therefore, highly probable, that they, very early, found their way to the north of
Ireland, which is within sight of their own country. That Ireland was first peopled from
Britain is certain. The vicinity of the two islands; the exact correspondence of the
antient inhabitants of both, in point of manners and language, are sufficient proofs, even
if we had not the testimony of authors of undoubted veracityFirbolg, confessedly the Belgæ of
Britain, settled in the south of Ireland, before the Caël, or
Caledonians, discovered the north: but it is not at all likely, that the migration of the
Firbolg to Ireland happened many centuries before the incarnation.
Ossian, in the poem of Temora, throws considerable light on this subject. His
accounts agree so well with what the antients have delivered, concerning the first
population and inhabitants of Ireland, that every unbiased person will confess them more
probable, than the legends handed down, by tradition, in that country. From him, it
appears, that, in the days of Trathal, grandfather to Fingal, Ireland was possessed by two
nations; the Firbolg or Belgæ of
Britain, who inhabited the south, and the Caël, who passed
over from Caledonia and the Hebrides to Ulster. The two nations, as is usual among an
unpolished and lately settled people, were divided into small dynasties, subject to petty
kings, or chiefs, independent of one another. In this situation, it is probable, they
continued long, without any material revolution in the state of the island, until Crothar,
Lord of Atha, a country in Connaught, the most potent chief of the Firbolg, carried away Conlama, the daughter of Cathmin, a chief of the Caël, who possessed Ulster.
Conlama had been betrothed, some time before, to Turloch, a
chief of her own nation. Turloch resented the affront offered him by Crothar, made an
irruption into Connaught, and killed Cormul, the brother of Crothar, who came to oppose
his progress. Crothar himself then took arms, and either killed or expelled Turloch. The
war, upon this, became general, between the two nations: and the Caël were reduced to
the last extremity.—In this situation, they applied, for aid, to Trathal king of
Morven, who sent his brother Conar, already famous for his great exploits, to their
relief. Conar, upon his arrival in Ulster, was chosen king, by the unanimous consent of
the Caledonian tribes, who possessed that country. The war was renewed with vigour and
success; but the Firbolg appear to have been rather repelled than
subdued. In suceeding
To Conar
succeeded his son Cormac, who appears to have reigned long. In his latter days he seems to
have been driven to the last extremity, by an insurrection of the Firbolg, who supported the pretensions of the chiefs of Atha to the Irish throne.
Fingal, who then was very young, came to the aid of Cormac, totally defeated Colc-ulla,
chief of Atha,
Cormac was succeeded in the Irish throne by his son, Cairbre;
Cairbre by Artho, his Son, who was the father of that Cormac, in whose minority the
invasion of Swaran happened, which is the subject of the poem of Fingal. The family of Atha, who had not relinquished their pretensions to the
Irish throne, rebelled in the minority of Cormac,
Ossian has not only preserved the history of the first
migration of the Caledonians into Ireland, he has also delivered some importantFirbolg, or Belgæ of Britain, in that
kingdom, under their leader Larthon, who was ancestor to Cairbar and Cathmor, who,
successively, mounted the Irish throne, after the death of Cormac, the son of Artho. I
forbear to transcribe the passage, on account of its length. It is the song of Caël, or
Caledonians, settled in Ulster.—One important fact may be gathered from this
history of Ossian, that the Irish had no king before the latter end of the first century.
Fingal lived, it is certain, in the third century; so Conar, the first monarch of the
Irish, who was his grand-uncle, cannot be placed farther back than the close of the first.
The establishing of this fact, lays, at once, aside the pretended antiquities of the
Scotch and Irish, and cuts off the long list of kings which the latter give us for a
millennium before.
Of the affairs of Scotland, it is certain, nothing can be
depended upon, prior to the reign of Fergus, the son of Erc, who lived in the fifth
century. The true history of Ireland begins somewhat
By comparing the history preserved by Ossian with the legends
of the Scotch and Irish writers, and, by afterwards examining both by the test of the
Roman authors, it is easy to discover which is the most probable. Probability is all that
can be established on the authority of tradition, ever dubious and uncertain. But when it
favours the hypothesis laid down by cotemporary writers of undoubted veracity, and, as it
were, finishes the figure of which they only drew the out-lines, it ought, in the judgment
of sober reason, to be preferred to accounts framed in dark and distant periods, with
little judgment, and upon no authority.
Concerning the period of more than a century, which intervenes
between Fingal and the reign of Fergus, the son of Erc or Arcath, tradition is dark and
contradictory. Some trace up the family of Fergus to a son of Fingal of that name, who
makes a considerable figure in Ossian’s poems. The three elder sons of Fingal, Ossian,
Fillan, and Ryno, dying, without issue, the succession, of course, devolved upon Fergus,
the fourth son and his posterity. This Fergus, say some traditions, was the father of
Congal, whoseCaël, who possessed the western coast of Scotland, began to be
distinguished, by foreigners, by the name of Scots. From thence
forward, the Scots and Picts, as distinct nations, became objects of attention to the
historians of other countries. The internal state of the two Caledonian kingdoms has
always continued, and ever must remain, in obscurity and fable.
It is in this epoch we must fix the beginning of the decay of
that species of heroism, which subsisted in the days of Ossian. There are three stages in
human society. The first is the result of consanguinity, and the natural affection of the
members of a family to one another. The second begins when property is established, and
men enter into associations for mutual defence, against the invasions and injustice of
neighbours. Mankind submit, in the third, to certain laws and subordinations of
government, to which they trust the safety of their persons and property. As the first is
formed on nature, so, of course, it is the most disinterested and noble. Men, in the last,
have leisure to cultivate the mind, and to restore it, with reflection, to a primæval
dignity of sentiment. The middle state is the region of compleat barbarism and ignorance.
About the beginning of the fifth century, the Scots and Picts were advanced into the
second stage, and, consequently, into those circumscribed sentiments, which always
distinguish barbarity.—The events which soon after happened did not at all
contribute to enlarge their ideas, or mend their national character.
About the year 426, the Romans, on account of domestic
commotions, entirely forsook Britain, finding it impossible to defend so distant a
frontier. The Picts and Scots, seizing this favourable
In the countries which the Scots had conquered from the
Britons, it is probable the most of the old inhabitants remained. These, incorporating
with the conquerors, taught them agriculture, and other arts, which they themselves had
received from the Romans. The Scots, however, in number as well as power, being the most
predominant, retained still their language, and as many of the customs of their ancestors,
as suited with the nature of the country they possessed. Even the union of the two
Caledonian kingdoms did not much affect the national character. Being originally descended
from the same stock, the manners of the Picts and
What brought about a total change in the genius of the Scots
nation, was their wars, and other transactions with the Saxons. Several counties in the
south of Scotland were alternately possessed by the two nations. They were ceded, in the
ninth age, to the Scots, and, it is probable, that most of the Saxon inhabitants remained
in possession of their lands. During the several conquests and revolutions in England,
many fled, for refuge, into Scotland, to avoid the oppression of foreigners, or the
tyranny of domestic usurpers; in so much, that the Saxon race formed perhaps near one half
of the Scottish kingdom. The Saxon manners and language daily gained ground, on the tongue
and customs of the antient Caledonians, till, at last, the latter were entirely relegated
to inhabitants of the mountains, who were still unmixed with strangers.
It was after the accession of territory which the Scots
received, upon the retreat of the Romans from Britain, that the inhabitants of the
Highlands were divided into clans. The king, when he kept his court in the mountains, was
considered, by the whole nation, as the chief of their blood. Their small number, as well
as the presence of their prince, prevented those divisions, which, afterwards, sprung
forth into so many separate tribes. When the seat of government was removed to the south,
those who remained in the Highlands were, of course, neglected. They naturally formed
themselves into small societies, independent of one another. Each society had its own regülüs, who either was, or, in the succession of a few
generations, was regarded as chief of their blood.—The nature of the country
favoured an institution of this sort.
The seats of the Highland chiefs were neither disagreeable nor
inconvenient. Surrounded with mountains and hanging woods, they were covered from the
inclemency of the weather. Near them generally ran a pretty large river, which,
discharging itself, not far off, into an arm of the sea, or extensive lake, swarmed with
variety of fish. The woods were stocked with wild-fowl; and the heaths and mountains
behind them were the natural seat of the red-deer and roe. If we make allowance for the
backward state of agriculture, the valleys were not unfertile; affording, if not all the
conveniences, at least the necessaries of life. Here the chief lived, the supreme judge
and law-giver of his own people; but his sway was neither severe nor unjust. As the
populace regarded him as the chief of their blood, so he, in return, considered them as
members of his family. His commands, therefore, tho’ absolute and decisive, partook more
of the authority of a father, than of the rigor of a judge.—Tho’ the whole
territory of the tribe was considered as the property of the chief, yet his vassals made
him no other consideration for their lands than services, neither burdensome nor frequent.
As he seldom went from home, he was at no expence. His table was supplied by his own
herds, and what his numerous attendants killed in hunting.
In this rural kind of magnificence, the Highland chiefs lived,
for many ages. At a distance from the seat of government, and secured,
The bards themselves, in the mean time, were not idle. They
erected their immediate patrons into heroes, and celebrated them in their songs. As the
circle of their knowledge was narrow, their ideas were confined in proportion. A few happy
expressions, and the manners they represent, may please those who understand the language;
their obscurity and innacuracy would disgust in a translation.—It was chiefly, for
this reason, that I kept wholly to the compositions of Ossian, in my former and present
publication. As he acted in a more extensive sphere, his ideas are more noble and
universal; neither has he so many of those peculiarities, which are only understood in a
certain period or country. The other bards have their beauties, but not in that species of
composition in which Ossian excels. Their rhimes, only calculated to kindle a martial
It was the locality of his description and sentiment, that,
probably, kept Ossian so long in the obscurity of an almost lost language. His ideas, tho’
remarkably proper for the times in which he lived, are so contrary to the present advanced
state of society, that more than a common mediocrity of taste is required, to relish his
poems as they deserve.—Those who alone were capable to make a translation were, no
doubt, conscious of this, and chose rather to admire their poet in secret, than see him
received, with coldness, in an English dress.
These were long my own sentiments, and, accordingly, my first
translations, from the Galic, wrere merely accidental. The publication, which soon after
followed, was so well received, that I wasFingal.—That the comparative merit of pieces was not regarded, in the
selection, will readily appear to those who shall read, attentively, the present
collection.—It is animated with the same spirit of poetry, and the same strength of
sentiment is sustained throughout.
The opening of the poem of Temora made its appearance in the
last collection. The second book, and several other episodes, have only fallen into my
hands lately. The story of the poem, with which I had been long acquainted, enabled me to
reduce the broken members of the piece into the order in which they now appear. For the
ease of the reader, I have divided it myself into books, as I had done before with the
poem of Fingal. As to the merit of the poem I shall not anticipate
the judgment of the public. My impartiality might be suspected, in my accounts of a work,
which, in some measure, is become my own. If the poem of Fingal met with the applause of
persons of genuine taste, I should also hope, that Temora will not displease them.
But what renders Temora infinitely more valuable than Fingal,
is the light it throws on the history of the times. The first population of Ireland, its
first kings, and several circumstances, which
Since the publication of the last collection of Ossian’s poems,
many insinuations have been made, and doubts arisen, concerning their authenticity. I
shall, probably, hear more of the same kind after the present poems shall make their
appearance. Whether these suspicions are suggested by prejudice, or are only the effects
of ignorance of facts, I shall not pretend to determine.—To me they give no
concern, as I have it always in my power to remove them. An incredulity of this kind is
natural to persons, who confine all
As prejudice is always the effect of ignorance, the knowing,
the men of true taste, despise and dismiss it. If the poetry is good, and the characters
natural and striking, to them it is a matter of indifference, whether the heroes were born
in the little village of Angles in Juteland, or natives of the barren heaths of Caledonia.
That honour which nations derive from ancestors, worthy, or renowned, is merely ideal. It
may buoy up the minds of individuals, but it contributes very little to their importance
in the eyes of others.—But of all those prejudices which are incident to narrow
minds, that which measures the merit of performances by the vulgar opinion, concerning the
country which produced them, is certainly the most ridiculous. Ridiculous, however, as it
is, few have the courage to reject it; and, I am thoroughly convinced, that a few quaint
lines of a Roman or Greek epigrammatist, if dug out of the ruins of Herculaneum, would
meet with more cordial and universal applause, than all the most beautiful and natural
rhapsodies of all the Celtic bards and Scandinavian Scalders that ever existed.
While some doubt the authenticity of the compositions of
Ossian, others strenuously endeavour to appropriate them to the Irish nation. Tho’ the
whole tenor of the poems sufficiently contradict so absurd an opinion, it may not be
improper, for the satisfaction of some, to examine the narrow foundation, on which this
extraordinary claim is built.
Of all the nations descended from the antient Celtæ, the Scots and Irish are the most similar in language, customs, and
manners. This argues a more intimate connection between them, than a remote descent from
the great Celtic stock. It is evident, in short, that, at some one period or other, they
formed one society, were subject to the same government, and were, in all respects, one
and the same people. How they became divided, which the colony, or which the mother
nation, does not fall now to be discussed. The first circumstance that induced me to
disregard the vulgarly-received opinion of the Hibernian extraction of the Scotch nation,
was my observations on their antient language. That dialect of the Celtic tongue, spoken
in the north of Scotland, is much more pure, more agreeable to its mother language, and
more abounding with primitives, than that now spoken, or even that which has been writ for
some centuries back, amongst the most unmixed part of the Irish nation. A Scotchman,
tolerably conversant in his own language, understands an Irish composition, from that
derivative analogy which it has to the Galic of North-Britain. An
Irishman, on the other hand, without the aid of study, can never understand a composition
in the Galic tongue.—This affords a proof, that the Scotch Galic is the most original, and, consequently, the language of
a more antient and unmixed people. The Irish, however backward they may be to allow any
thing to the prejudice of their antiquity, seem inadvertently to acknowledge it, by the
very appellation they give to the dialect they speak.—They call their own language
Caëlic Eirinach, i. e. Caledonian
Irish, when, on the contrary, they call the dialect of North-Britain a Chaëlic, or the Caledonian tongue,
emphatically. A circumstance of this nature tends more to decide which is the most antient
nation, than the unitedIberia, and the latter
Hibernia. On such a slight foundation were probably built those
romantic fictions, concerning the Milesians of Ireland.
From internal proofs it sufficiently appears, that the poems
published under the name of Ossian, are not of Irish composition. The favourite
chimæra, that Ireland is the mother-country of the Scots, is totally subverted and
ruined. The fictions, concerning the antiquities of that country, which were forming for
ages, and growing, as they came down, on the hands of successive senachies and fileas, are found, at last, to be the
spurious brood of modern and ignorant ages. To those who know how tenacious the Irish are,
of their pretended Iberian descent, this alone is proof sufficient,
that poems, so subversive of their system, could never be produced by an Hibernian
bard.—But when we look to the language, it is so different from the Irish dialect,
that it would be as ridiculous to think, that Milton’s Paradise Lost could be wrote by a
Scotch peasant, as to suppose, that the poems ascribed to Ossian were writ in Ireland.
The pretensions of Ireland to Ossian proceed from another
quarter. There are handed down, in that country, traditional poems, concerning the Fiona, or the heroes of Fion Mac Comnal. This
Fion, say the Irish annalists, was general of the militia of
Ireland, in the reign of Cormac, in the third century. Where Keating and O’Flaherty
learned, that Ireland had an embodied militia so early, is not easy
for me to determine. Their information certainly did notFion. I have just now, in my hands, all that remain, of those
compositions; but, unluckily for the antiquities of Ireland, they appear to be the work of
a very modern period. Every stanza, nay almost every line, affords striking proofs, that
they cannot be three centuries old. Their allusions to the manners and customs of the
fifteenth century, are so many, that it is matter of wonder to me, how any one could dream
of their antiquity. They are entirely writ in that romantic taste, which prevailed two
ages ago.—Giants, enchanted castles, dwarfs, palfreys, witches and magicians form
the whole circle of the poet’s invention. The celebrated Fion could
scarcely move from one hillock to another, without encountering a giant, or being
entangled in the circles of a magician. Witches, on broomsticks, were continually hovering
round him, like crows; and he had freed enchanted virgins in every valley in Ireland. In
short, Fion, great as he was, had but a bad sort of life of
it.—Not only had he to engage all the mischiefs in his own country, foreign armies
invaded him, assisted by magicians and witches, and headed by kings, as tall as the
main-mast of a first rate.—It must be owned, however, that Fion was not inferior to them in height.
"Cromleach, druim-ard,Fion le lamh mhoirLubhair na fruth.Fion, says
the Irish bard, sometimes placed one foot on the mountain Cromleach, his other foot on the hill of Crommal, and, in
that position, washed his hands, in the river Lubar, which ran
thro’ the intermediate valley.” The property of such a monster as this Fion,Fion o Albin, siol nan
laoich.
Were it allowable to contradict the authority of a bard, at this distance of time, I
should have given, as my opinion, that this enormous Fion
from
Albion, race of heroes!Fion was of
the race of the Hibernian giants, of Ruanus, or some other celebrated name, rather than a
native of Caledonia, whose inhabitants, now at least, are not remarkable for their
stature.
If
Fion was so remarkable for his stature, his heroes had also other
extraordinary properties. In weight all the sons of strangers
yielded to the celebrated Ton-iosal; and for hardness of skull, and, perhaps, for
thickness too, the valiant Oscar stood unrivalled and alone. Ossian
himself had many singular and less delicate qualifications, than playing on the harp; and
the brave Cuchullin was of so diminutive a size, as to be taken for a child of two years
of age, by the gigantic Swaran. To illustrate this subject, I shall here lay before the
reader, the history of some of the Irish poems, concerning Fion Mac
Comnal. A translation of these pieces, if well executed, might afford satisfaction
to the public. But this ought to be the work of a native of Ireland. To draw forth, from
obscurity, the poems of my own country, has afforded ample employment to me; besides, I am
too diffident of my own abilities, to undertake such a work. A gentleman in Dublin accused
me to the public, of committing blunders and absurdities, in translating the language of
myA Poem, Originally
wrote in the Irish or Erse language. In the preface to which, the translator, who is a
perfect master of the Irish tongue, will give an account of the manners and customs of
the antient Irish or Scotch; and, therefore, most humbly intreats the public, to wait
for his edition, which will appear in a short time, as he will set forth all the
blunders and absurdities in the edition now printing in London, and shew the ignorance
of the English translator, in his knowlege of Irish grammar, not understanding any part
of that accidence.
From the whole tenor of the Irish poems, concerning the Fiona, it appears, that Fion Mac Comnal
flourished in the reign of Cormac, which is placed, by the universal consent of the
senachies, in the third century. They even fix the death of Fingal in the year 286, yet
his son Ossian is made cotemporary with St. Patrick, who preached the gospel in Ireland
about the middle of the fifth age. Ossian, tho’, at that time, he must have been two
hundred and fifty years of age, had a daughter young enough to become wife to the saint.
On account of this family connection, Patrick of the Psalms, for so
the apostle of Ireland is emphatically called in the poems, took great delight in the
company of Ossian, and in hearing
The title
of this poem is, Padric na mhúr,Sailm air uidh, ach a
gól,Ossian mhic Fhion,Teantach mor na Fiona. It appears to have been
founded on the same story with the battle of Lora, one of the poems
of the genuine Ossian. The circumstances and catastrophe in both are much the same; but
the Irish Οssian discovers the age in which he lived, by an unlucky
anachronism. After describing the total route of Erragon, he very gravely concludes with
this remarkable anecdote, that none of the foe escaped, but a few, who were allowed to go
on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. This circumstance fixes the date
of the composition of the piece some centuries after the famous croisade; for, it is
evident, that the poet thought the time of the croisade so antient, that he confounds it
with the age of Fingal.—Erragon, in the course of this poem, is often called,Lochlin an do shloigh,
which alludes to the
union of the kingdoms of Norway and Denmark, a circumstance which brings down the date of
the piece toKing of Denmark of two nations,Fion, or Fingal, to themselves. He concludes the poem, with this reflection:
“Had Erragon, son of
Annir of gleaming swords, avoided the equal contest of arms (single combat) no chief
should have afterwards been numbered in Albin ni n' abairtair TriathFhiona as.Albion, and the heroes
of Fion should no more be named.”
The next poem that falls under our observation is Cath-cabhra, or, The death of Oscar. This
piece is founded on the same story which we have in the first book of Temora. So little
thought the author of Cath-cabhra of making Oscar his countryman,
that, in the course of two hundred lines, of which the poem consists, he puts the
following expression thrice in the mouth of the hero: Albin an sa d’ roina m’
arach.——
The poem contains almost
all the incidents in the first book of Temora. In one circumstance the bard differs
materially from Ossian. Oscar, after he was mortally wounded by Cairbar, was carried by
his people to a neighbouring hill, which commanded a prospect ofAlbion
where I was born and bred.
"It is the fleet of my grandfather, coming with aid to our field,
from Albin na n’ ioma
stuagh.Albion of many waves!”——The testimony of this
bard is sufficient to confute the idle fictions of Keating and O’Flaherty; for, tho’ he is
far from being antient, it is probable, he flourished a full century before these
historians.—He appears, however, to have been a much better christian than
chronologer; for Fion, tho’ he is placed two centuries before St.
Patrick, very devoutly recommends the soul of his grandson to his Redeemer.
Duan a Gharibh Mac-Starn is another Irish poem in high repute. The
grandeur of its images, and its propriety of sentiment, might have induced me to give a
translation of it, had not I some expectations of seeing it in the collection of the Irish
Ossian’s poems, promised, more than a year since, to the public. The author descends
sometimes from the region of the sublime to low and indecent description; the last of
which, the Irish translator, no doubt, will choose to leave in the obscurity of the
original.—In this piece Cuchullin is used with very little ceremony, for he is oft
called, the dog of Tara, in the county of Meath. This severe title
of the redoubtable Cuchullin, the most renowned of Irish champions,
proceeded from the poet’s ignorance of etymology. Cu, voice, or commander, signifies also a dog. The poet chose the last, as the most noble appellation for his
hero.
The subject of the poem is the same with that of the epic poem
of Fingal. Garibh Mac-Starn is the same with Ossian’s Swaran, the
son of Starno. His single combats with, and his victory over all the heroes of Ireland,
excepting the celebrated dog of Tara' i. e. Cuchullin, afford
matter for two hundred lines of tolerable poetry. Garibh's progress
in search of Cuchullin, and his intrigue with the gigantic Emir-bragal, that hero’s wife,
enables the poet to extend his piece to four hundred lines. This author, it is true, makes
Cuchullin a native of Ireland; the gigantic Emir-bragal he calls, the
guiding star of the women of Ireland. The property of this enormous lady I shall
not dispute with him, or any other. But, as he speaks with great tenderness of the daughters of the convent, and throws out some hints against the
English nation, it is probable he lived in too modern a period to be intimately acquainted
with the genealogy of Cuchullin.
Another Irish Ossian (for there were many, as appears from
their difference in language and sentiment) speaks very dogmatically of Fion Mac Comnal, as an Irishman. Little can be said for the judgment of this poet,
and less for his delicacy of sentiment. The history of one of his episodes may, at once,
stand as a specimen of his want of both. Ireland, in the days of Fion, happened to be threatned with an invasion, by three great potentates, the
kings of Lochlin, Sweden, and France. It is needless to insist upon the impropriety of a
French invasion of Ireland; it is sufficient for me to be faithful to the language of my
author. Fion, upon receiving intelligence of the intended invasion,
sent Ca-olt, Ossian, and Oscar, to watch the bay, in which, it was apprehended, the enemy
was to land. Oscar was the worst choice of a scout that could be made, for, brave as he
was, he had the bad property of falling very often asleep on his post, nor was it possible
to awake
“Ca-olt took
up a heavy stone, and struck it against the hero’s head. The hill shook for three miles,
as the stone rebounded and rolled away.” Oscar rose in wrath, and his father gravely
desired him to spend his rage on his enemies, which he did to so good purpose, that he
singly routed a whole wing of their army. The confederate kings advanced, notwithstanding,
till they came to a narrow pass, possessed by the celebrated Ton-iosal. This name is very
significant of the singular property of the hero who bore it. Ton-iosal, tho’ brave, was
so heavy and unwieldy, that, when he sat down, it took the whole force of an hundred men
to set him upright on his feet again. Luckily for the preservation of Ireland, the hero
happened to be standing when the enemy appeared, and he gave so good an account of them,
that Fion, upon his arrival, found little to do, but to divide the
spoil among his soldiers.
All these extraordinary heroes, Fion, Ossian, Oscar and Ca-olt,
says the poet, wereSiol
Erin na gorm
lánn.The sons of
Erin
of blue steel.Fion, who lived some ages before St. Patrick, swears like a very good
christian:Air an Dia do chum gach
case.By God, who shaped every case.
It is
worthy of being remarked, that, in the line quoted, Ossian, who lived in St. Patrick’s
days, seems to have understood something of the English, a language not then subsisting. A
person, more sanguine for the honour of his country than I am, might argue, from this
circumstance, that this pretendedly Irish Ossian was a native of Scotland; for my
countrymen are universally allowed to have an exclusive right to the second-sight.
From the instances given, the reader may form a compleat idea
of the Irish compositions concerning the Fiona. The greatest part
of them make the heroes of Fion,Albin a n’nioma caoile.
The rest make them natives of
Ireland. But, the truth is, that their authority is of little consequence on either side.
From the instances I have given, they appear to have been the work of a veryThe race of
Albion
of many firths.
It remains now to shew, how the Irish bards begun to
appropriate Ossian and his heroes to their own country. After the English conquest, many
of the natives of Ireland, averse to foreign yoke, either actually were in a state of
hostility with the conquerors, or at least, paid little regard to their government. The
Scots, in those ages, were often in open war, and never in cordial friendship with the
English. The similarity of manners and language, the tradions concerning their common
origin, and above all, their having to do with the same enemy, created a free and friendly
intercourse between the Scotch and Irish nations. As the custom of retaining bards and
senachies was common to both; so each, no doubt, had formed a system of history, it
matters not how much soever fabalous, concerning their respective origin. It was the
natural policy of the times, to reconcile the traditions of both nations together, and, if
possible, to deduce them from the same original stock.
The Saxon manners and language had, at that time, made great progress in the south of
Scotland. The ancient language, and the traditional history of the nation, became confined
entirely to the inhabitants of the Highlands, then fallen, from several concurring
circumstances, into the last degree of ignorance and barbarism. The Irish, who,
These circumstances, are far from being ideal. We have
remaining many particular traditions, which bear testimony to a fact, of itself abundantly
probable. What makes the matter incontestible is, that the antient traditional accounts of
the genuine origin of the Scots, have been handed down without interruption. Tho’ a few
ignorant senachies might be persuaded out of their own opinion, by the smoothness of an
Irish tale, it was impossible to eradicate, from among the bulk of the people, their own
national traditions. These traditions afterwards so much prevailed, that the Highlanders
continue totally unacquainted with the pretended Hibernian extract of the Scots nation.
Ignorant chronicle writers, strangers to the antient language of their country, preserved
only from falling to the ground, so improbable a story.
It was, during the period I have mentioned, that the Irish
became acquainted with, and carried into their country, the compositions of Ossian. The
scene of many of the pieces being in Ireland, suggested first to them a hint, of making
both heroes and poet nativesFiona Irishmen, they every now and then call Siol
Albin. It was, probably, after a succession of some generations, that the bards had
effrontery enough to establish an Irish genealogy for Fion, and
deduce him from the Milesian race of kings. In some of the oldest Irish poems, on the
subject, the great-grand-father of Fion is made a Scandinavian; and
his heroes are often called Siol Lochlin na beum; i. e. the race of Lochlin of wounds. The only poem that runs up the
family of Fion to Nuades Niveus, king of Ireland, is evidently not
above a hundred and fifty years old; for, if I mistake not, it mentions the Earl of
Tyrone, so famous in Elizabeth’s time.
This subject, perhaps, is pursued further than it deserves;
but, a discussion of the pretensions of Ireland to Ossian, was become in some measure
necessary. If the Irish poems, concerning the Fiona, should appear
ridiculous, it is but justice to observe, that they are scarcely more so than the poems of
other nations, at that period. On other subjects, the bards of Ireland have displayed a
genius worthy of any age or nation. It was, alone, in matters of antiquity, that they were
monstrous in their fables. Their love-sonnets, and their elegies on the death of persons
worthy or renowned, abound with such beautiful simplicity of sentiment, and wild harmony
of numbers, that they become more than an attonement for their errors, in every other
species of poetry. But the beauty of these pieces, depend so much on a certain curiosa felicitas of expression in the original, that they must
appear much to disadvantage in another language.
The poem that stands first in this collection had its name from
Temora, the royal palace of the first Irish kings of the
Caledonian race, in the province of Ulster.
Cairbar, the son of Borbar-duthul, lord of Atha in
Connaught, the most potent chief of the race of the Firbolg, having murdered, at
Temora the royal palace, Cormac the son of Artho, the young king of Ireland, usurped
the throne. Cormac was lineally descended from Conar the son of Trenmor, the great
grandfather of Fingal, king of those Caledonians who inhabited the western coast of
Scotland. Fingal resented the behaviour of Cairbar, and resolved to pass over into
Ireland, with an army, to re-establish the royal family on the Irish throne. Early
intelligence of his designs coming to Cairbar, he assembled some of his tribes in
Ulster, and at the same time ordered his brother Cathmor to follow him speedily with
an army, from Temora. Such was the situation of affairs when the Caledonian fleet
appeared on the coast of Ulster.
The poem opens in the morning. Cairbar is represented as
retired from the rest of the army, when one of his scouts brought him news of the
landing of Fingal. He assembles a council of his chiefs. Foldath the chief of
Moma haughtily despises the enemy; and is reprimanded
warmly by Malthos. Cairbar, after hearing their debate, orders a feast to be prepared,
to which, by his bard Olla, he invites Oscar the son of Ossian; resolving to pick a
quarrel with that hero, and so have some pretext for killing him. Oscar came to the
feast; the quarrel happened; the followers of both fought, and Cairbar and Oscar fell
by mutual wounds. The noise of the battle reached Fingal's army. The king came on, to
the relief of Oscar, and the Irish fell back to the army of Cathmor, who was advanced
to the banks of the river Lubar, on the heath of Moilena. Fingal, after mourning over
his grandson, ordered Ullin the chief of his bards to carry his body to Morven, to be
there interred. Night coming on, Althan, the son of Conachar, relates to the king the
particulars of the murder of Cormac. Fillan, the son of Fingal, is sent to observe the
motions of Cathmor by night, which concludes the action of the first day. The scene of
this book is a plain, near the hill of Mora, which rose on the borders of the heath of
Moilena, in Ulster.
The first book of Temora made its appearance in the collection of lesser pieces, which were subjoined to the epic poem of Fingal. When that collection was printed, little more than the opening of the present poem came, in a regular connection, to my hands. The second book, in particular, was very imperfect and confused. By means of my friends, I have since collected all the broken fragments of Temora, that I formerly wanted; and the story of the poem, which was accurately preserved by many, enabled me to reduce it into that order in which it now appears. The title of Epic was imposed on the poem by myself. The technical terms of criticism were totally unknown to Ossian. Born in a distant age, and in a country remote from the seats of learning, his knowledge did not extend to Greek and Roman literature. If therefore, in the form of his poems, and in several passages of his diction, he resembles Homer, the similarity must proceed from nature, the original from which both drew their ideas. It is from this consideration that I have avoided, in this publication, to give parallel passages from other authors, as I had done, in some of my notes, on the former collection of Ossian's poems. It was far from my intention to raise my author into a competition with the celebrated names of antiquity. The extensive field of renown affords ample room to all the poetical merit which has yet appeared in the world, without overturning the character of one poet, to raise that of another on its ruins. Had Ossian even superior merit to Homer and Virgil, a certain partiality, arising from the fame deservedly bestowed upon them by the sanction of so many ages, would make us overlook it, and give them the preference. Tho' their high merit does not stand in need of adventitious aid, yet it must be acknowledged, that it is an advantage to their fame, that the posterity of the Greeks and Romans, either do not at all exist, or are not now objects of contempt or envy to the present age.
Tho' this poem of Ossian has not perhaps all the minutiæ, which Aristotle, from Homer, lays
down as necessary to the conduct of an epic poem, yet, it is presumed, it has all
the grand essentials of the epopœa. Unity of time, place, and action is
preserved throughout. The poem opens in the midst of things; what is necessary of
preceding transactions to be known, is introduced by episodes afterwards; not
formally brought in, but seemingly rising immediately from the situation of
affairs. The circumstances are grand, and the diction animated; neither descending
into a cold meanness, nor swelling into ridiculous bombast.
The reader will find some alterations in the style of this book. These are drawn from more correct copies of the original which came to my hands, since the former publication. As the most part of the poem is delivered down by tradition, the style is sometimes various and interpolated. After comparing the different readings, I always made choice of that which agreed best with the spirit of the context.
The blue waves of Ullin roll in light. The green hills are
covered with day. Trees shake their dusky heads in the breeze. Grey torrents pour
their noisy streams.—Two green hills, with aged oaks, surround a narrow plain.
The blue course
The king, at length, resumed his soul, and took his pointed
spear. He turned his eyes to Moi-lena. The scouts of blue ocean came. They came with
steps of fear, and often looked behind. Cairbar knew that the mighty were near, and
called his gloomy chiefs.
Mór-lath, Foldath, who is here strongly marked, makes a great figure in the sequel of the
poem. His fierce, uncomplying character is sustained throughout. He seems, from a
passage in the second book, to have been Cairbar's greatest confident, and to have
had a principal hand in the conspiracy against Cormac king of Ireland. His tribe
was one of the most considerable of the race of the Fir-bolg.The sounding steps of his warriors came. They drew, at
once, their swords. There Morlath great in the day of battle. Hidalla, mildly
looking hero. Cormar, expert at sea. Málth os,
slow to speak. Foldath, 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.—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?
In peace he comes not, Cairbar. 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 Foldath's gloomy wrath: fly
to the grey streams of thy land, son of the little soul! Have not I seen that Oscar? I
beheld the chief in war. He is of the mighty in danger: but there are others who lift
the spear. —Erin has many sons as brave, king of Temora of Groves! 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 the wall of Tura.
Shall Foldath
Sons of green Erin, said Hidalla
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.
Cathmor, Cairbar
here 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 fo 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.Spread the feast on Moi-lena: let my hundred bards attend.
Thou, red-hair'd Olla, take the harp of the king. Go to Oscar chief of swords, and bid
him to our feast. To-day we feast and hear the song; to-morrow break the spears. Tell
him that I have raised the tomb of Catholwar of Inis-thona, where
they contracted a great frienship 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 Carusius
the usurper.great in battle, the son of Borbar-duthul, and brother of Cairbar king of
Ireland, had, before the insurrection of the Firbolg, passed over into Inishuna,
supposed to be a part of South-Britain, to assist Conmor king of that place
against his enemies. Cathmor was successful in the war, but, in the course of it,
Conmor was either killed, or died a natural death. Cairbar, upon intelligence of
the designs of Fingal to dethrone him, had dispatched a messenger for Cathmor, who
returned into Ireland a few days before the opening of the poem.
Fingal's army heard the joy that was in Cairbar's camp. The
character given of Cathmor is agreeable to the times. Some, through ostentation,
were hospitable; and others fell naturally into a custom handed down from their
ancestors. But what marks strongly the character of Cathmor, is his aversion to
praise; for he is represented to dwell in a wood to avoid the thanks of his
guests; which is still a higher degree of generosity than that of Axylus in Homer:
for the poet does not say, but the good man might, at the head of his own table,
have heard with pleasure the praise bestowed on him by the people he
entertained. No nation in the world carried hospitality to a greater length
than the ancient Scots. It was even infamous, for many ages, in a man of
condition, to have the door of his house shut at all, We have a story of this hospitable nature, handed down
by tradition, concerning one of the first Earls of Argyle. This nobleman, hearing
that an Irishman, of great quality, intended to make him a visit, with a very
numerous retinue of his friends and dependants, burnt the castle of Dunora, the
seat of his family, lest it should be too small to entertain his guests, and
received the Irish in tents on the shore. Extravagant as this behaviour might seem
in our days, it was admired and applauded in those times of hospitality, and the
Earl acquired considerable fame by it, in the songs of the bards. The open
communication with one another, which was the consequence of their hospitality,
did not a little tend to improve the understanding and enlarge the ideas of the
ancient Scots. It is to this cause, we must attribute that sagacity and sense,
which the common people, in the highlands, possess, still, in a degree superior
even to the vulgar of more polished countries. When men are crowded together in
great cities they see indeed many people, but are acquainted with few. They
naturally form themselves into small societies, and their knowledge scarce extends
beyond the alley or street they live in: add to this that the very employment of a
mechanic tends to contract the mind. The ideas of a peasant are still more
confined. His knowledge is circumscribed within the compass of a few acres; or, at
most, extends no further than the nearest market-town. The manner of life among
the inhabitants of the highlands is very different from these. As their fields are
barren, they have scarce any domestic employment. Their time is spent therefore in
an extensive wilderness, where they feed their cattle, and these, by straying far
and wide, carry their keepers after them, at times, to all the different
settlements of the clans. There they are received with hospitality and good cheer,
which, as they tend to display the minds of the hosts, afford an opportunity to
the guests to make their observations on the different characters of men; which is
the true source of knowledge and acquired sense. Hence it is that a common
highlander is acquainted with a greater number of characters, than any of his own
rank living in the most populous cities.Their faces brightened round with joy. They spread over
Moi-lena. the feast of shells is prepared. The songs of bards arise. We heardlest, as the bards express it, the stranger should
come and behold his contracted soul. Some of the chiefs were possessed of
this hospitable disposition to an extravagant degree; and the bards, perhaps upon
a private account, never failed to recommend it, in their eulogiums. Cean-uia' na dai', or the point to which
all the roads of the stangers lead, was an invariable epithet given by them
to the chiefs; on the contrary, they distinguished the inhospitable by the title
of the cloud which the strangers shun. This last however
was so uncommon, that in all the old poems I have ever met with, I found but one
man branded with this ignominious appellation; and that, perhaps, only founded
upon a private quarrel, which subsisted between him and the patron of the bard,
who wrote the poem.
Olla came with his songs. Oscar went to Cairbar's feast.
Three hundred warriors strode along Moi-lena of the streams. The grey dogs bounded on
the heath, their howling reached afar. Fingal saw the departing hero: the soul of the
king was sad. He dreaded Cairbar's gloomy thoughts, amidst the feast of shells.
My son raised 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 gathered 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.Hundred here is an indefinite number, and is only intended to express a
great many. It was probably the hyperbolical phrases of bards, that gave the first
hint to the Irish Senachies to place the origin of their monarchy in so remote a
period, as they have done.
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
Cormac's 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, Ο Cairbar,
neither to the weak in soul. The darkness of thy face is no storm to me; nor are thine
eyes the flames of death. Do I fear thy clanging shield? Tremble I at Olla's song? No:
Cairbar, frighten the feeble, Oscar is a rock.
And wilt thou not yield the spear? replied the rising pride
of Cairbar. Are thy words so mighty because Fingal is near? Fingal with aged locks
from Morven's hundred groves! He has fought with little men. But he must vanish before
Cairbar, like a thin pillar of mist before the winds of Athashallow river: the name of Cairbar's seat in
Connaught.
Were he who fought with little men near Atha's darkening
chief: Atha's chief would yield green Erin to avoid his rage. Speak not of the mighty,
Ο 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.
The Irish historians place the death of Cairbar,
in the latter end of the third century: they say, he was killed in battle against
Oscar the son of Ossian, but deny that he fell by his hand. As they have nothing
to go upon but the traditions of their bards, the translator thinks that the
account of Ossian is as probable: at the worst, it is but opposing one tradition
to another. It is, however, certain, that the Irish historians disguise, in some measure,
this part of their history. An Irish poem on this subject, which, undoubtedly, was
the source of their information, concerning the battle of Gabhra, where Cairbar
fell, is just now in my hands. The circumstances are less to the disadvantage of
the character of Cairbar, than those related by Ossian. As a translation of the
poem (which, tho' evidently no very ancient composition, does not want poetical
merit) would extend this note to too great a length, I shall only give the story
of it, in brief, with some extracts from the original Irish. Oscar, says the Irish bard, was invited to a feast, at Temora, by Cairbar king of
Ireland. A dispute arose between the two heroes, concerning the exchange of
spears, which was usually made, between the guests and their host, upon such
occasions. In the course of their altercation, Cairbar said, in a boastful manner,
that he would hunt on the hills of Albion, and carry the spoils of it into
Ireland, in spite of all the efforts of its inhabitants. The original words
are; Oscar replied, that, the next day, he himself would carry into Albion the spoils
of the five provinces of Ireland; in spite of the opposition of Cairbar. Oscar, in consequence of his threats, begun to lay waste Ireland; but as he
returned with the spoil into Ulster, thro' the narrow pass of Gabhra (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!
Albin an la'r na mhaireach.
Albin an la'r na mhaireach, &c.Caoil ghlen-Ghabbra) he was met, by Cairbar, and a battle
ensued, in which both the heroes fell by mutual wounds. The bard gives a very
curious list of the followers of Oscar, as they marched to battle. They appear to
have been five hundred in number, commanded, as the poet expresses it, by five heroes of the blood of kings. This poem mentions Fingal,
as arriving from Scotland, before Oscar died of his wounds.
The steel pierced his forehead, and divided his red hair behind. He lay, like a shattered rock, which Cromla shakes from its shaggy side. But never more shall Oscar rise! he leans on his bossy shield. His spear is in his terrible hand: Erin's sons stood distant and dark. Their shouts arose, like crowded streams, and Moi-lena echoed wide.
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 war.
Young Oscar is alone. Rise, sons of Morven; join the hero's sword.
Ossian rushed along the heath. Fillan bounded over
Moi-lena. Fingal strode in his strength, and the light of his shield is terrible.
We saw Oscar on his shield. We saw his blood around.
Silence darkened every face. Each turned his back and wept. The king strove to hide
his tears. His grey beard whistled in the wind. He bends his head above his son. 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 wars. The wars which ought to
come he beholds, but they are cut off from thy fame. When shall joy dwell at Selma?
When shall grief depart from Morven? My sons fall by degrees: Fingal shall be the last
of his race. The fame which I have received shall pass away: my age will be without
friends. I shall sit a grey cloud in my hall: nor shall I hear the return of a son, in
the midst of his sounding arms. Weep, ye heroes of Morven! never mere shall Oscar
rise!
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! Brana mountain-stream.
When Oscar saw his friends around, his white breast rose
with sighs.—The groans, he said, of aged chiefs; 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 renown. Place the horn of the deer, and my sword within my
narrow dwelling.—The torrent hereafter may raise the earth: 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
thy four grey stones; 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; I have seen a tomb, he will say, by the roaring stream, the
dark dwelling of a chief. He fell by car-borne Oscar, the first of mortal
men.—I, perhaps, shall hear his voice; 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 Moi-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 up their heads
around.
How long on Moi-lena shall we weep; 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, O 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, the terror of other times. Thus shall we pass, O 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 of harps. 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 their clouds, to receive their grey-hair'd son. But, before
I go hence, one beam of fame shall rise: so shall my days end, as my years begun, in
fame: my life shall be one stream of light to bards of other times.
Ullin rais'd his white sails: the wind of the south came
forth. He bounded on the waves towards Selma.—
The night came rolling down. The light of an hundred oaks
arose. Fingal sat beneath a tree. Old Althan
The setting sun
was yellow on Dora.the 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
I heard the king in silence. My tears began to flow. I hid
them with my aged locks; but he perceived my grief.
Son of Conachar! he said, is the king of Tura
He took his bow. The tears flow down, from both his
sparkling eyes.—Grief saddens sound: the bards bend forward, from their hundred
harps. The lone blast touched their trembling strings. The sound
A voice is heard at a distance, as of one in grief; it was
Carril of other times, who came from 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
And soon may I behold the chief! replied the blue-eyed
king. But my soul is sad for Cuchullin; his voice was pleasant in mine
Day rose on woody Temora, with all the beams of the east.
Trathin came to the hall, the son of old Gellámawhite-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
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 gloomy brow? Let
not thy sword rise against Cormac! Whither dost; thou turn thy speed?
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,
And art thou fallen in thy halls
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 desart; and thy thoughts are dark.— But thou
art the brother of Cathmor, and he will fight thy battles. ——But
Cathmor's soul is not like thine, thou feeble hand of war! The light of my bosom is
stained with thy deeds: the bards will not sing of my renown. They may say, "Cathmor
was brave, but he fought for gloomy Cairbar." They will pass over my tomb in
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, his battles are full of
fame.——But the little soul is a vapour that hovers round the marshy
lake: it never rises on the green hill, lest the winds should meet it there: its
dwelling is in the cave, it sends forth the dart of death.
Our young heroes, O warriors, are like the renown of our
fathers.—They fight in youth; they fall: their names are in the song. Fingal is
amidst his darkening years. He must not fall, as an aged oak, across a secret stream.
Near it are the steps of the hunter, as it lies beneath the wind. "How has that tree
fallen?" He, whistling, strides 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 grey beam of the morning rise, and shew us the foes of
Cormac.——Fillan! take the spear of the king; go to Mora's dark-brown
side. Let thine eyes travel over the heath, like flames of fire, Observe the foes of
Fingal, and
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.
This book opens, we may suppose, about midnight, with a
soliloquy of Ossian, who had retired, from the rest of the army, to mourn for his son
Oscar. Upon hearing the noise of Cathmor's army approaching, he went to find out his
brother Fillan, who kept the watch, on the hill of Mora, in the front of Fingal's
army. In the conversation of the brothers, the episode of Conar, the son of Trenmor,
who was the first king of Ireland, is introduced, which lays open the origin of the
contests between the Caël and Firbolg, the two nations who first possessed
themselves of that island. Ossian kindles a fire on Mora; upon which Cathmor desisted
from the design he had formed of surprising the army of the Caledonians. He calls a
council of his chiefs; reprimands Foldath for advising a night-attack, as the Irish
army were so much superior in number to the enemy. The bard Fonar introduces the story
of Crothar, the ancestor of the king, which throws further light on the history of
Ireland, and the original pretensions of the family of Atha, to the throne of that
kingdom. The Irish chiefs lie down to rest, and Cathmor himself undertakes the watch.
In his circuit, round the army, he is met by Ossian. The interview of the two heroes
is described. Cathmor obtains a promise from Ossian, to order a funeral elegy to be
sung over the grave of Cairbar; it being the opinion of the times, that the souls of
the dead could not be happy, till their elegies were sung by a bard. Morning comes.
Cathmor and Ossian part; and the latter, casually meeting with Carril the son of
Kinsena, sends that bard, with a funeral song, to the tomb of Cairbar.
Addresses to the spirits of deceased warriors are common, in
the compositions of Ossian. He, however, expresses them in such language as
prevents all suspicion of his paying divine honours to the dead, as was usual
among other unenlightened nations.—From the sequel of this apostroph, it
appears, that Ossian had retired from the rest of the army to mourn, in secret,
over the death of his son Oscar. This indirect method of narration has much of the
nature of the Drama, and is more forcible than a regular historical chain of
circumstances. The abrupt manner of Ossian may often render him obscure to
inattentive readers. Those who retain his poems, on memory, seem to be sensible of
this; and usually give the history of the pieces minutely before they begin to
repeat the poetry. Tho' this book has little action, it is not the least
important part of Temora. The poet, in several episodes, runs up the cause of the
war to the very source. The first population of Ireland, the wars between the two
nations who originally possessed that island, its first race of kings, and the
revolutions of its government, are important facts, and are delivered by the poet,
with so little mixture of the fabulous, that one cannot help preferring his
accounts to the improbable fusions of the Scotch and Irish historians. The
Milesian fables of those gentlemen bear about them the marks of a late invention.
To trace their legends to their source would be no difficult task; but a
disquisition of this sort would extend this note too far.Father of heroes, Trenmor! dweller of eddying winds! where the
dark-red course of thunder marks the troubled clouds! Open thou thy stormy halls, and
let the bards of old be near: let them draw near, with their songs and their half
viewless harps. No dweller of misty valley comes; no hunter unknown
Dost thou not behold thy father, at the stream of night?
The chiefs of Morven sleep far-distant. They have lost no son. But ye have lost a
hero, Chiefs of streamy Morven! Who could equal his strength, when battle rolled
against his side, like the darkness of crowded waters?——Why this cloud
on Ossian's soul? It ought to burn in danger. Erin is near with her host. The king of
Morven is alone.—Alone thou shalt not be, my father, while I can lift the
spear.
I rose, in my rattling arms; and listened to the wind of night. The shield of
Fillan
Comest thou, son of night, in peace? Or dost thou meet my
wrath? The foes of Fingal are mine. Speak, or fear my steel.— I stand not, in
vain, the shield of Morven's race.
Never mayst thou stand in vain, son of blue eyed Clatho.
Fingal begins to be alone; darkness gathers on the last of his days. Yet he has
twoFergus the second in
the Scotch histories. The beginning of the reign of Fergus, over the Scots, is
placed, by the most approved annals of Scotland, in the fourth year of the fifth
age: a full century after the death of Ossian. The genealogy of his family is
recorded thus by the highland Senachies; Fergus Mac-Arcath
Mac-Chongael, Mac-Fergus, Mac-Fio-gäel na buài: i.e. Fergus the son
of Arcath, the son of Congal, the son of Fergus, the son of Fingal the victorious. This subject is treated more at large, in the dissertation
prefixed to the poem.
Son of Fingal, replied the youth, it is not long since I
could lift the spear. Few are the marks of my sword in battle, but my soul is fire.
The chiefs of BolgaBolg signifies a quiver, from which proceeds Fir-bolg, i.e. bowmen; so called from their using bows, more than any of the
neighbouring nations.
Fillan, thou shalt not approach their host; nor fall before
thy fame is known. My name is heard in song: when needful I advance.—From the
skirts of night I shall view their gleaming tribes.—Why, Fillan, didst thou
speak of Oscar, to call forth my sigh? I must forgetConar-mór, i.e. Conar the great,
whom they place in the first century.
ConarCuan-mór nan lan, or Conmor of the swords, who,
according to them, was the first who crossed the great sea,
to Caledonia, from which circumstance his name proceeded, which signifies Great ocean. Genealogies of so ancient a date, however, are
little to be depended upon.
The chiefsCaël of Caledonia, and the Hebrides, in Ulster.
From the sequel, it appears that the Fir-bolg were, by much, the most powerful
nation; and it is probable that the Caël must have submitted to them, had they
not received succours from their mother-country, under the command of
Conar.
They came forth, like the streams of the desart, with the
roar of their hundred tribes. Conar was a rock before them: broken they rolled on
every side. But often they returned, and the sons of Ullin fell. The king stood, among
the tombs of his warriors, and darkly bent his mournful face. His soul was rolled into
itself; and he had marked the place, where he was to fall; when Trathalfiercely-looking warrior. Sulin-corma, blue
eyes. Colgar was the eldest of the fons of Trathal: Comhal, who was the
father of Fingal, was very young when the present expedition to Ireland happened. It
is remarkable, that, of all his ancestors, the poet makes the least mention of
Comhal; which, probably, proceeded from the unfortunate life and untimely death of
that hero. From fome passages, concerning him, we learn, indeed, that he was brave,
but he wanted conduct, and, as Ossian expresses it, his soul was
dark. This impartiality, with respect to a character so near him, reflects
honour on the poet.
As Trenmor, cloathed with meteors, descends from the halls
of thunder, pouring the dark storm before him over the troubled sea: so Colgar
descended to battle, and wasted the echoing field. His father rejoiced over the hero:
but an arrow came. His tomb was raised, without a tear. The king was to revenge his
son.—He lightened forward in battle, till Bolga yielded at her streams.
When peace returned to the land, and his blue waves bore
the king to Morven: then he remembered his son, and poured the silent tear. Thrice did
the bards, at the cave of Furmono, call the soul of Colgar. They called him to the
hills of his land; and he heard them in his mist. Trathal placed his sword in the
cave, that the spirit of his son might rejoice.
Colgar, son of Trathal, said Fillan, thou
wert renowned in youth! But the king hath not marked my sword, bright-streaming
Sudden I turned on my spear, and raised the flame of an oak
on high. I spread it large, on Mora's wind. Cathmor stopt in his
course.—Gleaming he stood, like a rock, on whose sides are the wandering of
blasts; which seize its echoing streams and clothe them over with ice. So stood the
friend
First of bards, said Cathmor, FonarFónar, the man of song. Before the introduction of
Christianity a name was not imposed upon any person, till he had distinguished
himself by some remarkable action, from which his name should be derived. Hence it
is that the names in the poems of Ossian, suit so well with the characters of the
persons who bear them.
They came, in their clanging arms. They bent forward to his
voice, as if a spirit of their fathers spoke from a cloud of night.—The horrid circle of Brumo, where often, they said, the ghosts of the dead
howled round the stone of fear.
Why delights Foldath, said the
king, to pour the blood of foes, by night? Fails his arm in battle, in the beams of
day? Few are the foes before us, why should we clothe us in mist? The valiant delight
to shine, in the battles of their land.——
Thy counsel was in vain, chief of Moma; the eyes of Morven
do not sleep. They are watchful, as eagles, on their mossy rocks. —Let each
collect, beneath his cloud, the strength of his roaring tribe. To-morrow I move, in
light, to meet the foes of Bolga!— Mighty
Not unmarked, said Foldath, were my steps before thy race.
In light, I meet the foes of Cairbar; the warrior praised my deeds.the airy hall of his
fathers.
Dost thou think, thou feeble man, replied the chief of
Atha; dost thou think that he can fall, without his fame, in Erin? Could the bards be
silent, at the tomb of the mighty Fingal? The song would burst in secret; and the
spirit of the king rejoice.—It is when thou shalt fall, that the bard shall
forget the song. Thou art dark, chief of Moma, tho' thine arm is a tempest in
war.—Do I forget the king of Erin, in his narrow house? My soul is not lost to
Cairbar, the brother of my love. I marked the bright beams of joy, which travelled
over his cloudy mind, when I returned, with fame, to Atha of the streams.
Tall they removed, beneath the words of the king; each to
his own dark tribe; where, humming, they rolled on the heath, faint-glittering to the
stars: like waves, in the rocky bay, before the nightly wind.——Beneath
an oak, lay the chief of Atha: his shield, a dusky round, hung high. Near him, against
a rock, leaned the strangerthe stranger of
Inis-huna, is meant Sulmalla, the daughter of Conmor king of Inis-huna, the
ancient name of that part of South-Britain, which is next to the lrish
coast.—She had followed Cathmor in disguise. Her story is related at large in
the fourth book.
Crothar, begun the bard, first dwelt at Atha's mossy stream. A
thousandtowers of
Atha in the time of Cathmor, which could not well be applied to wooden
buildings. In Caledonia they begun very early to build with stone. None of the
houses of Fingal, excepting Ti-foirmal, were of wood. Ti-foirmal was the great hall
where the bards met to repeat their compositions annually, before they submitted
them to the judgment of the king in Selma. By some accident or other, this wooden
house happened to be burnt, and an ancient bard, in the character of Ossian, has
left us a curious catalogue of the furniture which it contained. The poem is not
just now in my hands, otherwise I would lay here a translation of it before the
reader. It has little poetical merit, and evidently bears the marks of a period much
later, than that wherein Fingal lived.high-ridge, Cath-min, calm in
battle. Cón-lamha, soft hand. Turloch, man of the quiver. Cormul, blue
eye.
He pursued the chace in Ullin: on the moss-covered top of
Drumardo. From the wood looked the daughter of Cathmin, the blue-rolling eye of
Con-lama. Her sigh rose in secret. She bent her head, midst her wandering locks. The
moon looked in, at night, and saw the white-tossing of her arms; for she thought of
the mighty Crothar, in the season of her dreams.
Three days feasted Crothar with Cathmin. On the fourth they
awaked the hinds. Con-lama moved to the chace, with all her lovely steps. She met
Crothar in the narrow path. The bow fell, at once, from her hand. She turned her face
away, and half-hid it with her locks.——The love of Crothar rose. He
brought the white-bosomed maid to Atha.——Bards raised the song in her
presence; and joy dwelt round the daugther of Ullin.
The pride of Turloch rose, a youth who loved the
white-handed Con-láma. He came, with battle, to Alnecma; to Atha of the roes.
Cormul went forth to the strife, the brother of car-borne Crothar. He went forth, but
he fell, and the sigh of his people rose.——Silent and tall, across the
stream, came the darkening strength of Crothar: he rolled the foe from Alnecma, and
returned, midst the joy of
Con-láma.
Battle on battle comes. Blood is poured on blood. The tombs
of the valiant rise. Erin's clouds are hung round with ghosts. The chiefs of the south
gathered round the echoing shield of Crothar. He came, with death, to the paths of the
foe.
Descending like the eagle of heaven, with all his rustling
wings, when he forsakes the blast, with joy, the son of Trenmor came; Conar, arm of
death, from Morven of the groves.—He poured his might along green Erin. Death
dimly strode behind his sword. The sons of Bolga fled, from his course, as from a
stream, that bursting from the stormy desart, rolls the fields together, with all
their echoing woods.——Crotharpeople fled.—Cathmor took the song of Fonar in an
unfavourable light. The bards, being of the order of the Druids, who pretended to a
foreknowledge of events, were supposed to have some supernatural prescience of
futurity. The king thought, that the choice of Fonar's song proceeded, from his
forseeing the unfortunate issue of the war; and that his own fate was shadowed out,
in that of his ancestor Crothar. The attitude of the bard, after the reprimand of
his patron, is picturesque and affecting. We admire the speech of Cathmor, but
lament the effect it has on the feeling soul of the good old poet.
Why wakes the bard before me, said Cathmor, the memory of
those who fled? Has some ghost, from his dusky cloud, bent forward to thine ear; to
frighten Cathmor from the field with the tales of old? Dwellers of the folds of night,
your voice is but a
Abashed the bard sinks back in night: retired, he bends
above a stream. His thoughts are on the days of Atha, when Cathmor heard his song with
joy. His tears come rolling down: the winds are in his beard.
Erin sleeps around. No sleep comes down on Cathmor's eyes.
Dark, in his soul, he saw the spirit of low-laid Cairbar. He saw him, without his
song, rolled in a blast of night.——He rose. His steps were round the
host. He struck, at times, his echoing shield. The sound reached Ossian's ear, on Mora
of the hinds.
Fillan, I said, the foes advance. I hear the shield of war.
Stand thou in the narrow path. Ossian shall mark their course. If over my fall the
host shall pour; then be thy buckler heard. Awake the king on his heath, lest his fame
should cease.
I strode, in all my rattling arms; wide-bounding over a
stream that darkly-winded, in the field, before the king of Atha. Green Atha's king,
with lifted spear, came forward on my course.—Now would we have mixed in horrid
fray, like two contending ghosts, that bending forward, from two clouds, send forth
the roaring winds; did not Ossian behold, on high, the helmet of Erin's kings. The
Eagle's wing spread above it, rustling in the breeze. A red star looked thro' the
plumes. I stopt the lifted spear.
The helmet of kings is before me! Who art thou son of
night? Shall Ossian's spear be renowned, when thou art lowly-laid?——
Friend of the spirits of heroes, do I meet thee thus in
shades? I have wished for thy stately steps in Atha, in the days of feasts.—
Why should my spear now arise? The sun must behold us, Ossian; when we bend, gleaming,
in the strife. Future warriors shall mark the place: and, shuddering, think of other
years. They shall mark it, like the haunt of ghosts, pleasant and dreadful to the
soul.
And shall it be forgot, I said, where we meet in peace? Is
the remembrance of battles always pleasant to the soul? Do not we behold, with joy,
the place where our fathers feasted? But our eyes are full of tears, on the field of
their wars.—This stone shall rise, with all its moss, and speak to other years.
"Here Cathmor and Ossian met! the warriors met in peace!"—When thou, O stone,
shalt fail: and Lubar's stream roll quite away! then shall the traveller come, and
bend here, perhaps, in rest. When the darkened moon is rolled over his head, our
shadowy forms may come, and, mixing with his dreams, remind him of this place. But why
turnest thou so dark away, son of Borbar-duthulthe surly warrior of the dark-brown eyes. That his name suited
well with his character, we may easily conceive, from the story delivered concerning
him, by Malthos, toward the end of the sixth book. He was the brother of that
Colculla, who is mentioned in the episode which begins the fourth book.
Not forgot, son of Fingal, shall we ascend these winds. Our
deeds are streams of light, before the eyes of bards. But darkness is rolled on Atha:
the king is low, without his song: still there
Son of Erin, I replied, my wrath dwells not, in his
housefoe was low. How different is this from the behaviour of the
heroes of other ancient poems!—Cynthius aurem vellit.
Cathmor's swelling soul arose: he took the dagger from his
side; and placed it gleaming in my hand. He placed it, in my hand, with sighs, and,
silent, strode away.——Mine eyes followed his departure. He dimly
gleamed, like the form of a ghost, which meets a traveller, by night, on the
dark-skirted heath. His words are dark like songs of old: with morning strides the
unfinished shade away.
funeral song to be pronounced over the tomb of Cairbar.—The whole of
this passage, together with the address of Carril to the sun, is a lyric measure,
and was, undoubtedly, intended as a relief to the mind, after the long narrative
which preceded it. Tho' the lyric pieces, scattered through the poems of Ossian, are
certainly very beautiful in the original, yet they must appear much to disadvantage,
stripped of numbers, and the harmony of rhime. In the recitative or narrative part
of the poem, the original is rather a measured sort of prose, than any regular
verification; but it has all that variety of cadences, which suit the different
ideas, and passions of the speakers.-——This book takes up only the
space of a few hours.Who comes from Lubar's vale?
From the folds of the morning mist? The drops of heaven are on his head. His steps
The waves crowd away for fear: they hear the sound of thy
coming forth, O sun !——Terrible is thy beauty, son of heaven, when death
is folded in thy locks; when thou rollest thy vapors before thee, over the blasted
host. But pleasant is thy beam to the hunter, sitting by the rock in a storm, when
thou lookest from thy parted cloud, and brightenest his dewy locks; he looks down on
the streamy vale, and beholds the descent of roes.—— How long shalt thou
rise on war, and roll, a bloody shield, thro' heaven? I see the deaths of heroes
dark-wandering over thy face !——Why wander the words of Carril! does the
sun of heaven mourn! he is unstained in his course, ever rejoicing in his
fire.——Roll on, thou careless light; thou too, perhaps, must fall. Thy
dun robedun robe of the sun, is
probably meant an eclipse.
Pleasant is the voice of the song, O Carril, to Ossian's
soul! It is like the shower of the morning, when it comes through the rustling vale,
on which the sun looks thro' mist, just rising from his rocks.——But this
is no time, O bard, to sit down, at the strife of song. Fingal is in arms on the
vale.
Does not Carril behold that tomb, beside the roaring
stream? Three stones lift their grey heads, beneath a bending oak. A king is lowly
laid: give thou his soul to the wind. He is the brother of Cathmor! open his airy
hall.—Let thy song be a stream of joy to Cairbar's darkened ghost.
Morning coming on, Fingal, after a speech to his people,
devolves the command on Gaul, the son of Morni; it being the custom of the times, that
the king should not engage, till the necessity of affairs required his superior valour
and conduct.—The king and Ossian retire to the rock of Cormul, which overlooked
the field of battle. The bards sing the war-song. The general conflict is described.
Gaul, the son of Morni, distinguishes himself; kills Tur-lathon, chief of Moruth, and
other chiefs of lesser name.——On the other hand, Foldath, who commanded
the Irish army (for Cathmor, after the example of Fingal, kept himself from battle)
fights gallantly; kills Connal, chief of Dun-lora, and advances to engage Gaul
himself. Gaul, in the mean time, being wounded in the hand, by a random arrow, is
covered by Fillan, the son of Fingal, who performs prodigies of valour. Night comes
on. The horn of Fingal recalls his army. The bards meet them, with a congratulatory
song, in which the praises of Gaul and Fillan are particularly celebrated. The chiefs
sit down at a feast; Fingal misses Connal. The episode of Connal and Duth-caron
is introduced; which throws further light on the ancient
history of Ireland. Carril is dispatched to raise the tomb of
Connal.——The action of this book takes up the second day, from the
opening of the poem.
Who is that, at blue-streaming Lubar; by the bending hill of the roes? Tall,
he leans on an oak torn from high, by nightly winds.—Who but Comhal's son,
brightening in the last of his fields? His grey hair is on the breeze: he half
unsheaths the sword of Luno. His eyes are turned to Moi-lena, to
Wide-skirted comes down the foe! Sons of woody Morven,
arise. Be ye like the rocks of my land, on whose brown sides are the rolling of
waters. A beam of joy comes on my soul; I see them mighty before me. It is when the
foe is feeble, that the sighs of Fingal are heard; lest death should come, without
renown, and darkness dwell on his tomb.—Who shall lead the war, against the
host of Alnecma? It is, only when danger grows, that my sword shall shine.—Such
was the custom, heretofore, of Trenmor the ruler of winds: and thus descended to
battle the blue-shielded Trathal.
Breaker of echoing shields, whose head is deep in shades; hear me from the
darkness of Clora, O son of Colgach, hear! No rustling, like the eagle's wing, comes over the course of my streams.
Deep-bosomed in the mist of the desart, O king of Strumon, hear! Dwellest thou in the shadowy breeze, that pours its dark wave over the grass?
Cease to strew the beard of the thistle; O chief of Clora, hear! Or ridest thou on a beam, amidst the dark trouble of clouds? Pourest thou the
loud wind on seas, to roll their blue waves over isles? hear me, father of Gaul;
amidst thy terrors, hear! The rustling of eagles is heard, the murmuring oaks shake their heads on the
hills: dreadful and pleasant is thy approach, friend of the dwelling of
heroes. Who awakes me, in the midst of my cloud, where my locks of mist spread on the
winds? Mixed with the noise of streams, why rises the voice of Gaul?> My foes are aroud me, Morni: their dark ships descend from their waves. Give
the sword of Strumon, that beam which thou hidest in thy night Take the sword of resounding Strumon; I look on thy war, my son; I look, a dim
meteor, from my cloud: blue-shielded Gaul, destroy.The chiefs bend towards the king: each darkly seems to
claim the war. They tell, by halves, their mighty deeds: and turn their eyes on Erin.
But far before the rest the son of Morni stood: silent he stood, for who had not heard
of the battles of Gaul? They rose within his soul. His hand, in secret, seized the
sword. The sword which he brought from Strumon, when the strength of Morni failedstream of the hill, the name of the
seat of the family of Gaul, in the neighbourhood of Selma. During Gaul's expedition
to Tromathon, mentioned in the poem of Oithona, Morni his
father died. Morni ordered the sword of Strumon, (which had
been preserved, in the family, as a relique, from the days of Colgach, the most
renowned of his ancestors) to be laid by his side, in the tomb: at the same time,
leaving it in charge to his son, not to take it from thence, till he was reduced to
the last extremity. Not long after, two of his brothers being slain, in battle, by
Colda-ronnan, chief of Clutha, Gaul went to his father's
tomb to take the sword. His address to the spirit of the deceased hero, is the only
part now remaining, of a poem of Ossian, on the subject. I shall here lay it before
the reader. Gaul.Morni.Gaul.Morni.
Clatho was the daughter of Cathulla, king of Inistore. Fingal, in one of his
expeditions to that island, fell in love with Clatho, and took her to wife, after
the death of Ros crána, the daughter of Cormac, king of Ireland. Clatho
was the the mother of Ryno, Fillan and Bosmina, mentioned in the On his spear stood the son of Clathobattles of Lora,one of the lesser poems published in the former
collection. Fillan is often called the son of Clatho, to distinguish him from
those sons which Fingal had by Roscrána.
Nor is he unseen of Fingal. Sidelong he beheld his son. He
beheld him, with bursting joy; and turned, amidst his crowded soul. In silence turned
the king towards Mora of woods. He hid the big tear with his locks.—At length
his voice is heard.
First of the sons of Morni; thou rock that defiest the storm! Lead thou my
battle, for the race of low-laid Cormac. No boy's staff is thy spear: no harmless beam
of light thy sword. Son of Morni of steeds, behold the foe;
destroy.——Fillan, observe the chief: he is not calm in strife: nor burns
he, heedless, in battle; my son, observe the king. He is strong as Lubar's stream, but
never foams and roars.—High on cloudy Mora, Fingal shall behold the war. Stand,
Ossian
As the sudden rising of winds; or distant rolling of
troubled seas, when some dark ghost, in wrath, heaves the billows over an isle, the
seat of mist, on the deep, for many dark-brown years: so terrible is the sound of the
host, wide-moving over the field.
On Crona, said the bards, there bursts a stream by night.
It swells, in its own dark course, till morning's early beam. Then comes it white from
the hill, with the rocks and their hundred groves. Far be my steps from Crona: Death
is tumbling there. Be ye a stream from Mora, sons of cloudy Morven.
Who rises, from his car, on Clutha? The hills are troubled
before the king! The dark woods echo round, and lighten at his steel. See him, amidst
the foe, like Colgach's fiercely-looking;
which is a very proper name for a warrior, and is probably the origin of Galgacus;
tho' I believe it a matter of mere conjecture, that the Colgach here mentioned was
the same with that hero.—I cannot help observing, with how much propriety the
song of the bards is conducted. Gaul, whose experience might have rendered his
conduct cautious in war, has the example of his father, just rushing to battle, set
before his eyes. Fillan, on the other hand, whose youth might make him impetuous and
unguarded in action, is put in mind of the sedate and serene behaviour of Fingal
upon like occasions.
Selma is opened wide. Bards take the trembling harps. Ten
youths carry the oak of the feast. A distant sun-beam marks the hill. The dusky waves
of the blast fly over the fields of grass.—Why art thou so silent,
Morven?—The king returns with all his fame. Did not the battle roar; yet
peaceful is his brow? It roared, and Fingal overcame.—Be like thy father,
Fillan.
They moved beneath the song.—High waved their arms,
as rushy fields, beneath autumnal winds. On Mora stood the king in arms. Mist flies
round his buckler broad; as, aloft, it hung on a bough, on Cormul's mossy
rock.—In silence I stood by Fingal, and turned my eyes on Cromla's
Nor bent over a stream is Cathmor, like a youth in a
peaceful field: wide he drew forward the war, a dark and troubled wave.—But
when he beheld Fingal on Mora; his generous pride arose. "Shall the chief of Atha
fight, and no king in the field? Foldath lead my people forth. Thou art a beam of
fire."
Forth-issued the chief of Moma, like a cloud, the robe of
ghosts. He drew his sword, a flame, from his side; and bade theDun-ratho, a hill, with a plain on its tip. Corm-uil, blue eye. Foldath dispatches, here, Cormul to lie in ambush
behind the army of the Caledonians. This speech suits well with the character of
Foldath, which is, throughout, haughty and presumptuous. Towards the latter end of
this speech, we find the opinion of the times, concerning the unhappiness of the
souls of those who were buried without the funeral song. This doctrine, no doubt,
was inculcated by the bards, to make their order respectable and necessary.
Cormul, thou beholdest that path. It winds green behind the
foe. Place thy people there; lest Morven should escape from my sword.—Bards of
green-valleyed Erin, let no voice of yours arise. The sons of Morven must fall without
song. They are the foes of Cairbar. Hereafter shall the traveller meet their dark,
thick mist on Lena, where it wanders, with their ghosts, beside the reedy lake. Never
shall they rise, without song, to the dwelling of winds.
Cormul darkened, as he went: behind him rushed his tribe.
They sunk beyond the rock: Gaul spoke to Fillan of Moruth; as his eye pursued the
course of the dark-eyed king of Dunratho.
Thou beholdest the steps of Cormul; let thine arm be
strong. When he is low, son of Fingal, remember Gaul in war. Here I fall forward into
battle, amidst the ridge of shields.
The sign of death arose: the dreadful sound of Morni's
shield. Gaul poured his voice between. Fingal rose, high on Mora. Hestrength of Atha, is meant Cathmor. The expression is common in
Homer, and other ancient poets.
What beam of light hangs high in air? It is Morni's
dreadful sword.—Death is strewed on thy paths, O Gaul; thou soldest them
together in thy rage.—Like a young oak falls Tur-lathonbroad trunk of a tree. Móruth, great stream.Oichaoma, mild maid. Dun
lora, the hill of the misty stream.Duth-caron, dark-brown man.
Not peaceful is the hand of Foldath: he winds his course in
blood. Connal met him in fight; they mixed their clanging steel.—Why should
mine eyes behold them! Connal, thy locks are grey. —Thou wert the friend of
strangers, at the moss-covered rock of Dun-lora. When the skies were rolled together;
then thy feast was spread. The stranger heard the winds without; and rejoiced at thy
burning oak.—Why, son of Duth-caron, art thou laid in blood! The blasted tree
bends above thee: thy shield lies broken
I
took the spear, in my wrath; but Gaul rushed forward on the foe. The feeble
pass by his side; his rage is turned on Moma's chief. Now they had raised their
deathful spears: unseen an arrow came. It pierced the hand of Gaul; his steel fell
sounding to earth.——Young Fillan camebending
hill; a mountain in Inis-huna, or that part of South-Britain which is over
against the Irish coast.
Son of blue-eyed Clatho, said Gaul, thou art a beam from
heaven; that, coming on the troubled deep, binds up the tempest's wing.—Cormul
is fallen before thee. Early art thou in the fame of thy fathers.—Rush not too
far, my hero, I cannot lift the spear to aid. I stand harmless in battle: but my voice
shall be poured abroad.—The sons of Morven shall hear, and remember my former
deeds.
His terrible voice rose on the wind, the host bend forward
in the fight. Often had they heard him, at Strumon, when he called them to the chace
of the hinds.—Himself stood tall, amidst the war, as an oak in the skirts of a
storm, which now is clothed,
My soul pursues thee, O Fillan, thro' the path of thy fame.
Thou rolledst the foe before thee.—Now Foldath, perhaps, would fly; but night
came down with its clouds; and Cathmor's horn was heard from high. The sons of Morven
heard the voice of Fingal, from Mora's gathered mist. The bards poured their song,
like dew, on the returning war.
Who comes from Strumon, they said, amidst her wandering
locks? She is mournful in her steps, and lifts her blue eyes towards Erin. Why art
thou sad, Evir-chomamild and
stately maid, the wife of Gaul. She was the daughter of Casdu-cengals, chief
of I dronlo, one of the Hebrides.
Joy, like the rustling gale, comes on the soul of the king.
He remembers the battles of old; the days, wherein his fathers fought. The days of old
return on Fingal's mind, as he beholds the renown of his son. As the sun rejoices,
from his cloud, over the tree his beams have raised, as it shakes its lonely head on
the heath; sο joyful is the king over Fillan.
As the rolling of thunder on hills, when Lara's fields are
still and dark, such are the steps of Morven pleasant and dreadful to the ear. They
return with their sound, like eagles to their dark-browed rock, after the prey is torn
on the field, the dun sons of
Such was the nightly voice of bards, on Mora of the hinds.
A flame rose, from an hundred oaks, which winds had torn from Cormul's sleep. The
feast is spread in the midst: around sat the gleaming chiefs. Fingal is there in his
strength; the eagle-wing
My soul feels a want in our joy. I behold a breach among my
friends.—The head of one tree is low: the squally wind pours in on
Selma.—Where is the chief of Dun-lora? Ought he to be forgot at the feast? When
did he forget the stranger, in the midst of his echoing hall?—Ye are silent in
my presence!—Connal is then no more.—Joy meet thee, O warrior, like a
stream of light. Swift be thy course to thy fathers, in the folds of the
mountain-winds.—Ossian, thy soul is fire: kindle the memory of the king· Awake
the battles of Connal, when first he shone in war. The locks of Connal were grey; his
days of youth
Many, I said, are our paths to battle, in green-hilled
Inisfail. Often did our sails arise, over the blue-tumbling waves; when we came, in
other days, to aid the race of Conar.
The strife roared once in Alnecma, at the foam-covered
streams of Duth-úladark-rushing water.
Like the bursting strength of a stream, the sons of Bolga
rushed to war: Colc-ulla firm look in
readiness;he was the brother of Borbar-duthul, the father of Cairbar and
Cathmor, who after the death of Cormac, the son of Artho, successively mounted the
Irish throne.
Then rose the sword of Duth-caron, and the steel of
broad-shielded Connal. They shaded their flying friends, like two rocks with their
heads of pine.—Night came down on Duth-ula: silent strode the chiefs over the
field. A mountain-stream roared across the path, nor could Duth-caron bound over its
course.—Why stands my father? said Connal.—I hear the rushing foe.
Fly, Connal, he said; thy father's strength begins to
fail.—I come wounded from battle; here let me rest in night.— "But thou
shalt not remain alone, said Connal's bursting sigh. My shield is an eagle's wing to
cover the king of Dun-lora." He bends dark above the chief; the mighty Duth-caron
dies.
Colgan, the son of Cathmul, was the principal bard of
Cormac Mac-Conar, king of Ireland. Part of an old poem, on the loves of Fingal and
Ros-crana, is still preserved, and goes under the name of this Colgan; but whether
it is of his composition, or the production of a latter age, I shall not pretend
to determine. Be that as it will, it appears, from the obsolete phrases which it
contains, to be very ancient; and its poetical merit may perhaps excuse me, for
laying a translation of it before the reader. What remains of the poem is a
dialogue, in a lyric measure, between Fingal and Ros-crana, the daughter of
Cormac. She begins with a soliloquy, which is overheard by Fingal. By night, came a dream to Ros-crána! I feel my beating soul. No vision of
the forms of the dead, came to the blue eyes of Erin. But, rising from the wave
of the north, I beheld him bright in his locks. I beheld the son of the king. My
beating soul is high. I laid my head down in night; again ascended the form· Why
delayest thou thy coming, young rider of streamy waves! But, there, far-distant,
he comes; where seas roll their green ridges in mist!
Young dweller of my soul; why dost thou delay—— It was the soft voice of Moi-lena! the pleasant breeze of the valley of roes!
But why dost thou hide thee in shades? Young love of heroes rise.—Are not
thy steps covered with light? In thy groves thou appearest, Ros-crana, like the
sun in the gathering of clouds. Why dost thou hide thee in shades? Young love of
heroes rise. My fluttering soul is high!—Let me turn from the steps of the king. He
has heard my secret voice, and shall my blue eyes roll, in his
presence?—Roe of the hill of moss, toward thy dwelling I move. Meet me,
ye breezes of Mora, as I move thro' the valley of winds.—But why should
he ascend his ocean? —Son of heroes, my soul is thine!—My steps
shall not move to the desart: the light of Ros-crána is
here. It was the light tread of a ghost, the fair dweller of eddying winds. Why
deceivest thou me, with thy voice? Here let me rest in shades.—Shouldst
thou stretch thy white arm, from thy grove, thou sun-beam of Cormac of Erin! He is gone! and my blue eyes are dim; faint-rolling, in all my tears. But,
there, I behold him, alone; king of Morven, my soul is thine. Ah me! what
clanging of armour!—Colc-ulla of Atha is near!— Fingal, as we learn from the episode, with which the fourth book begins,
undertook an expedition into Ireland, to aid Cormac Mac-conar against the
insurrections of the Fir-bolg. It was then he saw, fell in love with, and married
Ros-crána, the daughter of Cormac.——Some traditions
give this poem to Ossian; but, from several circumstances, I conclude it to be an
imitation, but a very happy one, of the manner of that poet.——The
elegance of the sentiment, and beauty of the imagery, however, refer the
composition of it to an æra of remote antiquity; for the nearer we approach
to our own times, the less beautiful are the compositions of the bards.Day rose, and night returned. No lonely bard appeared,
deep-musing on the heath: and could Connal leave the tomb of his father,Ros-Crana.Fingal.Ros-crana.Fingal.Ros-crana.
Pleasant to the ear, said Fingal, is the praise of the
kings of men; when their bows are strong in battle; when they soften at the sight of
the sad.—Thus let my name be renowned, when bards shall lighten my rising soul.
Carril, son of Kinfena; take the bards and raise a tomb. To night let Connal dwell,
within his narrow house: let not the soul of the valiant wander on the winds.
—Faint glimmers the moon on Moi-lena, thro' the broad-headed groves of the
hill: raise stones, beneath its beams, to all the fallen in war.—Tho' no chiefs
were they, yet their hands were strong in fight. They were my rock in danger: the
mountain from which I spread my eagle-wings.—Thence am I renowned: Carril
forget not the low.
Loud, at once, fromt he hundred bards, rose the song of the
tomb. Carril strode before them, they are the murmur of streams
Young Fillan, at a distance stood. His helmet lay
glittering on the ground. His dark hair is loose to the blast: a beam of light is
Clatho's son. He heard the words of the king, with joy; and leaned forward on his
spear.
My son, said car-borne Fingal; I saw thy deeds, and my soul
was glad. The fame of our fathers, I said, bursts from its gathered cloud.—Thou
art brave, son of Clatho; but headlong in the strife. So did not Fingal advance, tho'
he never feared a foe.—Let thy people be a ridge behind; they are thy strength
in the field.—Then shalt thou be long renowned, and behold the tombs of thy
fathers. The memory of the past returns, my deeds in other years: when first I
descended from ocean on the green-valleyed isle.—We bend towards the voice of
the king. The moon looks abroad from her cloud. The grey-skirted mist is near, the
dwelling of the ghosts.
The second night continues. Fingal relates, at the feast,
his own first expedition into Ireland, and his marriage with Ros-crána, the
daughter of Cormac, king of that island.——The Irish chiefs convene in
the presence of Cath-mor. The situation of the king described. The story of Sul-malla,
the daughter of Conmor, king of Inis-huna, who, in the disguise of a young warrior,
had followed Cathmor to the war. The sullen behaviour of Foldath, who had commanded in
the battle of the preceding day, renews the difference between him and Malthos; but
Cathmor, interposing, ends it. The chiefs feast, and hear the song of Fonar the bard.
Cathmor returns to rest, at a distance from the army. The ghost of his brother Cairbar
appears to him in a dream; and obscurely foretels the issue of
the war.—The soliloquy of the king. He discovers Sul-malla. Morning comes. Her
soliloquy closes the book.
Temora, An Epic Poem.
Beneath an oak, said the king, I sat on
Selma's streamy rock, when Connal rose, from the sea, with the broken spear of
Duth-caron. Far-distant stood the youth, and turned away his eyes; for he remembered
the steps of his father, on his own green hills. I darkened in my place: dusky
thoughts rolled over my soul. The kings of Erin rose before me. I half-unsheathed my
sword.—Slowly approached the chiefs; they lifted up their silent eyes. Like a
ridge of clouds, they wait for the bursting forth of my voice: it was, to them, a wind
from heaven to roll the mist away.
I bade my white sails to rise, before the roar of Cona's
wind. Three hundred youths looked, from their waves, on Fingal's bossy shield. High on
the mast it hung, and marked the dark-blue sea.— But when the night came down,
I struck, at times, the warning boss: I struck, and looked on high, for fiery-haired
Ul-erinthe guide to Ireland, a
star known by that name in the days of Fingal, and very useful to those who sailed,
by night, from the Hebrides, or Caledonia, to the coast of Ulster. We find, from
this passage, that navigation was considerably advanced, at this time, among the
Caledonians.
Nor wanting was the star of heaven: it travelled red
between the clouds: I pursued the lovely beam, on the faint-gleaming
deep.— With morning, Erin rose in mist. We came into the bay of Moi-lena, where
its blue waters tumbled, in the bosom of echoing woods.—Here Cormac, in his
secret hall, avoided the strength of Colc-ulla. Nor he alone avoids the foe: the blue
eye of Ros-crana is there: Ros-cranathe beam of the rising sun; she was the mother of Ossian. The
Irish bards relate strange fictions concerning this princess. The character given of
her here, and in other poems of Ossian, does not tally with their accounts. Their
stories, however, concerning Fingal, if they mean him by Fion
Mac-Connal, are so inconsistent and notoriously fabulous, that they do not
deserve to be mentioned; for they evidently bear, along with them, the marks of late
invention.
Grey, on his pointless spear, came forth the aged steps of
Cormac. He smiled, from his waving locks, but grief was in his soul. He saw us few
before him, and his sigh arose.— I see the arms of Trenmor, he said; and these
are the steps of the king! Fingal! thou art a beam of light to Cormac's darkened
soul.— Early
Yet they may be rolledlike the roar of streams, and Fingal
continues the metaphor. The speech of the young hero is spirited, and consistent
with that sedate intrepidity, which eminently distiguishes his character
throughout.
The bursting tears of the king came down. He seized my hand
in silence.——"Race of the daring Trenmor, I roll no cloud before thee.
Thou burnest in the fire of thy fathers. I behold thy fame. It marks thy course in
battles, like a stream of light.——But wait the coming of Cairbar
The attitude of Ros-crana is aptly illustrated by this simile; for the ideas of
those times, concerning the spirits of the deceased, were not so gloomy and
disagreeable, as those of succeeding ages. The spirits of women, it was supposed,
retained that beauty, which they possessed while living, and transported
themselves, from place to place, with that gliding motion, which Homer ascribes to
the gods. The descriptions which poets, less ancient than Ossian, have left us of
those beautiful figures, that appeared sometimes on the hills, are elegant and
picturesque. They compare them to the A chief who lived three centuries ago, returning from the war, understood that
his wife or mistress was dead. The bard introduces him speaking the following
soliloquy, when he came, within sight of the place, where he had left her, at his
departure. "My soul darkens in sorrow. I behold not the smoak of my hall. No grey dog bounds
at my streams. Silence dwells in the vallyes of trees. "Is that a rain-bow on Crunath? It flies:—and the sky is dark. Again, thou
movest, bright, on the heath, thou sun-beam cloathed in a shower!—Hah! it
is she, my love, her gliding course on the bosom of winds!" In succeeding times the beauty of Ros-crana passed into a proverb; and the
highest compliment, that could be paid to a woman, was to compare her person with
'S tu fein an Ros-crána Siol Chormaec na n'ioma lan.We came to the hall of the king, where it rose in the midst
of rocks: rocks, on whose dark sides, were the marks of streams of old. Broad oaks
bend around with their moss: the thick birch waves its green head. Half-hid, in her
shady grove, Ros-crana raised the song. Her white hands rose on the harp. I beheld her
blue-rolling rain-bow on streams;
or, the gliding of sun-beams on the hills. I shall here
translate a passage of an old song, where both these beautiful images are
mentioned together.the daughter of Cormac.
Three days we feasted at Moi-lena: she rose bright amidst
my troubled soul.—Cormac beheld me dark. He gave the white-bosomed
maid.—She came with bending eye, amidst the wandering of her heavy
locks.—She came.——Straight the battle roared.—Colc-ulla
came: I took my spear. My sword rose, with my people, against the ridgy foe. Alnecma
fled. Colc-ulla fell. Fingal returned with fame.
He is renowned, O Fillan, who fights, in the strength of
his people. The bard pursues his steps, thro' the land of the foe.—But he who
fights alone; few are his deeds to other times. He shines, to-day, a mighty light.
To-morrow, he is low. One song contains his fame, his name is on one dark field. He is
forgot, but where his tomb sends forth the tufts of grass.
Such were the words of Fingal, on Mora of the roes. Three
bards, from the rock of Cormul, poured down the pleasant song. Sleep descended, in the
sound, on the broad-skirted host. Carril returned, with the bards, from the tomb of
Dun-lora's king. The voice of morning shall not come, to the dusky bed of the hero. No
more shalt thou hear the tread of roes, around thy narrow house.
terrible
beauty, if I may use the expression, which occurs so frequently in the
compositions of Ossian. The troubled motion of the army, and the sedate and careless
attitude of Cathmor, form a contrast, which, as I have before remarked, heightens
the features of description, and is calculated to enliven poetry.As roll the troubled clouds, round a meteor of night, when
they brighten their sides, with its light, along the heaving sea: so gathered Erin,
around the gleaming form of Atha's king. He, tall in the midst, careless lifts, at
times, his spear: as swells or falls the sound of Fonar's distant harp.
Near him leaned, against a rock, Sul-mallaslowly-rolling eyes. Caon-mór, wild and
tall. Inis-huna, green
island
The third day arose, and Fithilan inferior bard. It may either be taken here for the
proper name of a man, or in the literal sense, as the bards were the heralds and
messengers of those times. Cathmor, it is probable, was absent, when the rebellion
of his brother Cairbar, and the assassination of Cormac, king of Ireland, happened.
The traditions, which are handed down with the poem, say, that Cathmor and his
followers had only arrived, from Inis-huna, three days before the death of Cairbar,
which sufficiently clears his character from any imputation of being concerned in
the conspiracy, with his brother.war-song, and thrice called the
spirits of their deceased ancestors to come, on their clouds,
to behold the actions of their children. He then fixed the shield
of Trenmor, on a tree on the rock of Selma, striking it, at times, with the
blunt end of a spear, and singing the war-song between. Thus he did, for three
successive nights, and, in the mean time, messengers were dispatched to convene the
tribes; or, as Ossian expresses it, to call them from all their
streams. This phrase alludes to the situation of the residences of the clans,
which were generally fixed in valleys, where the torrents of the neighbouring
mountains were collected into one body, and became large
streams or rivers.—The lifting up of the
shield, was the phrase for beginning a war.
The tall forms of the chiefs stood around; all but
dark-browed Foldath
Calm and stately, to the beam of the oak, arose the form of
young Hidalla. His hair falls round his blushing cheek, in wreaths of waving light.
Soft was his voice in Clon-rawinding field. The th are seldom pronounced audibly
in the Gaelic language.
King of Erin, said the youth, now is the time of feasts.
Bid the voice of bards arise, and roll the night away. The soul returns, from song,
more terrible to war—Darkness settles on lnis-fail: from hill to hill bend the
skirted clouds. Far and grey, on the heath, the dreadful strides of ghosts are seen:
the ghosts of those who fell bend forward to their song.——Bid thou the
harps to rise, and brighten the dead, on their wandering blasts.
Be all the dead forgot, said Foldath's bursting wrath. Did
not I fail in the field, and shall I hear the song? Yet was not my course harmless in
battle: blood was a stream around my steps. But the feeble were behind me, and the foe
has escaped my sword.—In Clon-ra's vale touch thou the harp; let Dura answer to
thy voice; while some maid looks, from the wood, on thy long, yellow
locks.——Fly from Lubar's echoing plain: it is the field of heroes.
King of Temora
The king beheld the rising rage, and bending forward of
either chief: for, half-unsheathed, they held their swords, and rolled their silent
eyes.—Now would they have mixed in horrid fray, had not the wrath of Cathmor
burned. He drew his sword: it gleamed thro' night, to the high-flaming oak.
Sons of pride, said the king, allay your swelling souls.
Retire in night.—Why should my rage arise? Should I contend with both in
arms——It is no time for strife. Retire, ye clouds, at my feast. Awake my
soul no more.—They sunk from the king on either side; like"As
the sun is above the vapours, which his beams have raised; so is the soul of the
king above the sons of fear. They roll dark below him; he rejoices in the robe of
his beams. But when feeble deeds wander on the soul of the king, he is a darkened
sun rolled along the sky: the valley is sad below: flowers wither beneath the
drops of the night."
Silent sat the chiefs at the feast. They looked, at times,
on Atha's king, where he strode, on his rock, amidst his settling soul.— The
host lay, at length, on the field; sleep descended on Moi-lena.—The voice of
Fonar rose alone, beneath his distant tree. It rose in the praise of Cathmor son of
Larthonsea-wave, the name of
the chief of that colony of the Fir-bolg, which first migrated into Ireland.
Larthon's first settlement in that country is related in the seventh book. He was
the ancestor of Cathmor; and is here called Larthon of Lumon,
from a high hill of that name in Inis-huna, the ancient seat of the
Fir-bolg.——The poet preserves the character of Cathmor throughout. He
had mentioned, in the first book, the aversion of that chief to praise, and we find
him here lying at the side of a stream, that the noise of it might drown the voice
of Fonar, who, according to the custom of the times, sung his eulogium in his evening song. Tho' other chiefs, as well as Cathmor, might be
averse to hear their own praise, we find it the universal policy of the times, to
allow the bards to be as extravagant as they pleased in their encomiums on the
leaders of armies, in the presence of their people. The vulgar, who had no great
ability to judge for themselves, received the characters of their princes, entirely
upon the faith of the bards. The good effects which an high opinion of its ruler has
upon a community, are too obvious to require explanation; on the other hand,
distrust of the abilities of leaders produce the worst consequences.
Cairbar came to his dreams, half-seen from his low-hung
cloud. Joy rose darkly in his face: he had heard the song of Carril
Joy meet the soul of Cathmor: his voice was heard on
Moi-lena. The bard gave his song to Cairbar: he travels on the wind. My form is in my
father's hall, like the gliding of a terrible light, which winds thro' the desart, in
a stormy night.—No bard shall be wanting at thy tomb, when thou art lowly laid.
The sons of song love the valiant.—Cathmor, thy name is a pleasant
gale.—The mournful sounds arise! On Lubar's field there is a
voice!—Louder still ye shadowy ghosts! the dead were full of
fame.—Shrilly swells the feeble sound.—The rougher blast alone is
heard!—Ah, soon is Cathmor low!
Rolled into himself he flew, wide on the bosom of his
blast. The old oak felt his departure, and shook its whistling head. The king started
from rest, and took his deathful spear. He lifts his eyes around. He sees but
dark-skirted night.
It was the voice of
the king; but now his form is gone. Unmarked is your path in the air, ye children of
the night. Often,
So spoke the king of Alnecma, brightening in his rising
soul: valour, like a pleasant flame, is gleaming within his breast. Stately is his
stride on the heath: the beam of east is poured around. He saw his grey host on the
field, wide-spreading their ridges in light. He rejoiced, like a spirit of heaven,
whose steps come forth on his seas, when he beholds them peaceful round, and all the
winds are laid. But soon he awakes the waves, and rolls them large to some echoing
coast.
On the rushy bank of a stream, slept the daughter of
Inis-huna. The helmet
Such were the dreams of the maid when Atha's warrior came.
He saw her fair face before him, in the midst of her wandering locks. He knew the maid
of Lumon. What should Cathmor do?——His sigh arose: his tears came down.
But straight he
He struck that warning boss
Her steps are behind a rock, by the blue-winding
stream
Con-mor, the father of Sul-malla, was killed in that war, from
which Cathmor delivered Inis-huna. Lormar his son succeeded Conmor. It was the
opinion of the times, when a person was reduced to a pitch of misery, which could
admit of no alleviation, that the ghosts of his ancestors There is no people in the world, perhaps, who gave more universal credit to
apparitions, and the visits of the ghosts of the deceased to their friends, than
the common highlanders. This is to be attributed as much, at least, to the
situation of the country they possess, as to that credulous disposition which
distinguishes an unenlightened people. As their business was feeding of cattle, in
dark and extensive desarts, so their journeys lay over wide and unfrequented
heaths, where, often, they were obliged to sleep in the open air, amidst the
whistling of winds, and roar of waterfalls. The gloominess of the scenes around
them was apt to beget that melancholy disposition of mind, which most readily
receives impressions of the extraordinary and supernatural kind. Falling asleep in
this gloomy mood, and their dreams being disturbed by the noise of the elements
around, it is no matter of wonder, that they thought they heard The dreams of Inis-huna departed: they are
rolled away from my soul. I hear not the chace in my land. I am concealed in the skirt
of war. I look forth from my cloud, but no beam appears to light my path. I behold my
warrior low; for the broad-shieldedcalled
his soul away. This supernatural kind of death was called the voice of the dead; and is believed by the superstitious vulgar to this
day.the voice of the dead. This voice of the dead,
however, was, perhaps, no more than a shriller whistle of the winds in an old
tree, or in the chinks of a neighbouring rock. It is to this cause I ascribe those
many and improbable tales of ghosts, which we meet with in the highlands: for, in
other respects, we do not find that the highlanders are more credulous than their
neighbours.
Ossian, after a short address to the harp of Cona,
describes the arrangement of both armies on either side of the river Lubar. Fingal
gives the command to Fillan; but, at the same time, orders Gaul, the son of Morni, who
had been wounded in the hand in the preceding battle, to assist him with his counsel.
The army of the Fir-bolg is commanded by Foldath. The general onset is described. The
great actions of Fillan. He kills Rothmar and Culmin. But when Fillan conquers, in one
wing, Foldath presses hard on the other. He wounds Dermid, the son of Duthno, and puts
the whole wing to flight. Dermid deliberates with himself, and, at last, resolves to
put a stop to the progress of Foldath, by engaging him in single combat.—When
the two chiefs were approaching towards one another, Fillan came suddenly to the
relief of Dermid; engaged Foldath, and killed him. The behaviour of Malthos towards
the fallen Foldath. Fillan puts the whole army of the Fir-bolg to flight. The book
closes with an address to Clatho, the mother of that hero.
Thou dweller between the
shields that hang, on high, in Ossian's hall, descend from thy place, O harp, and let
me hear thy voice.—Son of Alpin, strike the string; thou must
Lubar is bright before me, in the
windings of its vale. On either side, on their hills, rise the tall forms of the
kings; their people are poured around them, bending forward to their words; as if
their fathers spoke, descending from their winds.—But the
Beneath the voice of Cathmor poured Erin, like the sound of
flame. Wide they came down to Lubar; before them is the stride of Foldath. But Cathmor
retired to his hill, beneath his bending oaks. The tumbling of a stream is near the
king: he lifts, at times, his gleaming spear. It was a flame to his people, in the
midst of war. Near him stood the daughter of Con-mor, leaning on her rock. She did not
rejoice over the strife: her soul delighted not in blood. A valley
Fingal beheld, on high, the son of Borbar-duthul: he saw
the deep-rolling of Erin, on the darkened plain. He struck that warning boss, which
bids the people obey; when he sends his chiefs before them, to the field of renown.
Wide rose their spears to the sun; their echoing shields reply around.—Fear,
like a vapor, did not wind among the host: for he, the king, was near, the strength of
streamy Morven.—Gladness brightened the hero, we heard his words of joy.
Like the coming forth of winds, is the sound of Morven's
sons! They are mountain waters, determined in their course. Hence is Fingal renowned,
and his name in other lands. He was not a
The king strode, at once, away to Cormul's
He strode onward, with the sound of his shield. My voice
pursued him, as he went. Can the son of Morni fall without his fame in Erin? But the
deeds of the mighty forsake their souls of fire. They rush careless over the fields of
renown: their words are never heard—I rejoiced over the steps of the chief: I
strode to the rock of the king, where he sat in his wandering locks, amidst the
mountain-wind.
In two dark ridges bend the hosts, towards each other, at
Lubar. Here Foldath rose a pillar of darkness: there brightened the youth of Fillan.
Each, with his spear in the stream, sent forth the voice of war.—Gaul struck
the shield of Morven; at once they plunge in battle.—Steel poured its gleam on
steel: like the fall of streams shone the field, when they mix their foam together,
from two dark-browed rocks.—Behold he comes the son of fame: he lays the people
low! Deaths sit on blasts around him!—Warriors strew thy paths, O Fillan!
the sound of the sea before a
storm. Druman-ard, high ridge. Cul-min,soft-haired. Cull-allin,beautiful locks.
Strutha, streamy river.Rothmar, the shield of warriors, stood between two chinky rocks. Two oaks,
which winds had bent from high, spread their branches on either side. He rolls his
darkening eyes on Fillan, and, silent, shades his friends. Fingal saw the approaching
fight; and all his soul arose.—But as the stone of LodaLoda or Loden. They seem to have differed materially,
in their construction, from those Druidical monuments which remain in Britain, and
the western isles. The places of worship among the Scandinavians were originally
rude and unadorned. In after ages, when they opened a communication with other
nations, they adopted their manners, and built temples. That at Upsal, in Sweden,
was amazingly rich and magnificent. Haquin, of Norway, built one, near Drontheim,
little inferior to the former; and it went always under the name of Loden.
.Mailet, introduction a l'histoire de
Dannemarc
Near are the steps of Culmin; the youth came, bursting into
tears. Wrathful he cut the wind, ere yet he mixed his strokes with Fillan. He had
first bent the bow with Rothmar, at the rock of his own blue streams. There they had
marked the place of the roe, as the sun-beam flew over the fern.—Why, son of
Cul-allin, dost thou rush on that beamMar Chul -aluin Strutha nar
fian; is a line of Ossian in another poem; i.e. Lovely as Cul-allin of Strutha of the storms.
The mother of Culmin remains in the hall; she looks forth
on blue-rolling Strutha. A whirlwind rises, on the stream, dark-eddying round the
ghost of her son. His dogs are howling
As a roe, pierced in secret, lies panting, by her wonted
streams, the hunter looks over her feet of wind, and remembers her stately bounding
before; so lay the son of Cul-allin, beneath the eye of Fillan. His hair is rolled in
a little stream: his blood wandered on his shield. Still his hand held the sword, that
failed him in the midst of danger.—Thou art fallen, said Fillan, ere yet thy
fame was heard.—Thy father sent thee to war: he expects to hear thy deeds. He
is grey, perhaps, at his streams, and his eyes are towards Moi-lena. But thou shalt
not return, with the spoil of the fallen foe.
Fillan poured the flight of Erin before him, over the
echoing heath.—But, man on man, fell Morven before the dark-red rage of
Foldath; for, far on the field, he poured the roar of half his tribes. DermidDermid O
duine, who makes so great a figure in the fictions of the Irish bards.
Then said the foe, in his pride, They have fled, and my
fame begins. Go, Malthos, and bid the king
Malthos heard, with darkening doubt; he rolled his silent
eyes.—He knew the pride of Foldath, and looked up to the king on his hill;
then, darkly turning, he plunged his sword in war.
This valley had its name
from Clono, son of Lethmal of Lora, one of the ancestors of Dermid, the son of
Duthno. His history is thus related in an old poem. In the days of Conar, the son
of Trenmor, the first king of Ireland, Clono passed over into that kingdom, from
Caledonia, to aid Conar against the Fir-bolg. Being remarkable for the beauty of
his person, he soon drew the attention of Sulmin, the young wife of an Irish
chief. She disclosed her passion, which was not properly returned by the
Caledonian. The lady sickened, thro' disappointment, and her love for Clono came
to the ears of her husband. Fired with jealousy, he vowed revenge. Clono, to avoid
his rage, departed from Temora, in order to pass over into Scotland; and, being
benighted in the valley mentioned here, he laid him down to sleep. "Arise from thy bed of moss; son of low-laid Lethmal, arise. The sound of the
coming of foes, descends along the wind. Whose voice is that, like many streams, in the season of my rest? Arise, thou dweller of the souls of the lovely; son of Lethmal, arise. How dreary is the night! The moon is darkened in the sky; red are the paths of
ghosts, along its sullen face! Green-skirted meteors set around. Dull is the
roaring of streams, from the valley of dim forms. I hear thee, spirit of my
father, on the eddying course of the wind. I hear thee; but thou bendest not,
forward, thy tall form, from the skirts of night." As Clono prepared to depart, the husband of Sulmin came up, with his numerous
attendants. Clono defended himself, but, after a gallant resistance, he was
overpowered and slain. He was buried in the place where he was killed, and the
valley was called after his name. Dermid, in his request to Gaul the son of Morni,
which immediately follows this paragraph, alludes to the tomb of Clono, and his
own connection with that unfortunate chief.In Clono'sThere, (to use the words of the poet) Lethmal descended in the dreams of Clono; and told him that danger was
near. For the reader's amusement I shall translate the vision, which does
not want poetical merit.LethmalClono.Lethmal. Clono.
I hear the roar of battle. My people are alone. My steps
are slow on the heath; and no shield is mine.—Shall he then prevail?—It
is then after Dermid is low! I will call thee forth, O Foldath, and meet thee yet in
fight.
He took his spear, with dreadful joy. The son of Morni
came.—"Stay, son of Duthno, stay thy speed; thy steps are marked with blood. No
bossy shield is thine. Why shouldst thou fall unarmed?"—King of Strumon, give
thou thy shield. It has often rolled back the war. I shall stop the chief, in his
course.—Son of Morni, dost thou behold that stone? It lifts its grey head thro'
rass. There dwells a chief of the race of Dermid.—Place me there in night.
He slowly rose against the hill, and saw the troubled
field. The gleaming ridges of the fight, disjoined and broken round.—As distant
fires, on heath by night, now seem as lost in smoak, then rearing their red streams on
the hill, as blow or cease the winds: so met the intermitting war the eye of
broad-shielded Dermid. —Thro' the host are the strides of Foldath, like some
dark ship on wintry waves, when it issues from between two isles, to sport on echoing
seas.
Dermid, with rage, beheld his course. He strove to rush
along. But he failed in the midst of his steps; and the big tear came down.—He
sounded his father's horn; and thrice struck his bossy shield. He called thrice the
name of Foldath, from his roaring tribes.—Foldath, with joy, beheld the chief:
he lifted high his bloody spear.—As a rock is marked with streams, that fell
troubled down its side in a storm; so, streaked with wandering blood, is the dark form
of Moma.
The host, on either side, withdrew from the contending of
kings.—They raised, at once, their gleaming points.—Rushing came Fillan
of Moruthson of
Moruth, from a stream of that name in Morven, near which he was born.
As meet two broad-winged eagles, in their sounding strife,
on the winds: so rushed the two chiefs, on Moi-lena, into gloomy
fight.——By turns are the steps of the kings
The fall of Foldath, if we
may believe tradition, was predicted to him, before he had left his own country to
join Cairbar, in his designs on the Irish throne. He went to the cave of Moma, to
enquire of the spirits of his fathers, concerning the success of the enterprise of
Cairbar. The responses of oracles are always attended with obscurity, and liable
to a double meaning: Foldath, therefore, put a favourable interpretation on the
prediction, and pursued his adopted plan of aggrandizing himself with the family
of Atha. I shall, here, translate the answer of Dark, I stand in your presence; fathers of Foldath, hear. Shall my steps pass
over Atha, to Ullin of the roes? Thy steps shall pass over Atha, to the green dwelling of kings. There shall thy
stature arise, over the fallen, like a pillar of thunder-clouds. There, terrible
in darkness, shalt thou stand, till the Cloncath, or Foldaththe ghosts of
his ancestors as it is handed down by tradition. Whether the legend is
really ancient, or the invention of a late age, I shall not pretend to determine,
tho', from the phraseology, I should suspect the last.Foldath, addressing the
spirits of his fathers.The Answer.reflected beam,
or Clon-cath of Moruth, come; Mo-ruth of many streams,
that roars in distant lands."reflected beam, say my traditional authors,
was the name of the sword of Fillan; so that it was, in the latent signification
of the word Clon-cath, that the deception lay. My principal
reason for introducing this note, is, that if this tradition is equally ancient
with the poem, which, by the bye, is doubtful, it serves to shew, that the
religion of the Fir-bolg differed from that of the Caledonians, as we never find
the latter enquiring of the spirits of their deceased ancestors.
Malthosparched or sandy field. The etymology of Dardu-lena is
uncertain. The daughter of Foldath was, probably, so called, from a place in Ulster,
where her father had defeated part of the adherents of Artho, kind of Ireland.
Dor-du-lena; the dark wood of Moi-lena. As Foldath was proud
and ostentatious, it would appear, that he transferred the name of a place, where he
himself had been victorious, to his daughter.
Rememberest thou her, said Foldath, because no son is mine;
no youth to roll the battle before him, in revenge of me? Malthos, I am revenged. I
was not peaceful in the field. Raise the tombs of those I have slain, around my narrow
house. Often shall I forsake the blast, to rejoice above their graves; when I behold
them spread around, with their long-whistling grass.
His soul rushed to the vales of Moma, and came to
Dardu-lena's dreams, where she slept, by Dalrutho's stream, returning from the chace
of the hinds. Her bow is near the maid, unstrung; the breezes fold her long hair on
her breasts. Cloathed in the beauty of youth, the love of heroes lay. Dark-bending,
from the skirts of the wood, her wounded father came. He appeared, at times, then
seemed as hid in mist.——Bursting into tears she rose: she knew that the
chief was low. To her came a beam from his soul when folded in its storms. Thou wert
the last of his race, blue-eyed Dardu-lena!
These sudden transitions from the subject are not uncommon in the compositions of
Ossian. That in this place has a peculiar beauty and propriety. The suspence, in
which the mind of the reader is left, conveys the idea of Fillan's danger more
forcibly home, than any description the poet could introduce. There is a sort of
eloquence, in silence with propriety. A minute detail of the circumstances of an
important scene is generally cold and insipid. The human mind, free and fond of
thinking for itself, is disgusted to find every thing done by the poet. It is,
therefore, his business only to mark the most striking out-lines, and to allow the
imaginations of his readers to finish the figure for themselves. The address to Clatho, the mother of Fillan, which concludes this book, if we
regard the versification of the origina1, is one of the most beautiful passages in
the poem. The wild simplicity and harmony of its cadences are inimitably
beautiful. It is sung still by many in the north, and is distingusihed by the name
of Wide-spreading over echoing Lubar, the flight of Bolga is
rolled along. Fillan hung forward on their steps; and strewed, with dead, the heath.
Fingal rejoiced over his son.—Blue-shielded Cathmor rose.—— Laoi chaon Chlatho: i.e. The harmonius
hymn of Clatho. The book ends in the afternoon of the third day, from the
opening of the poem.
Leave, blue-eyed Clatho, leave thy hall. Behold that early
beam of thine. The host is withered in its course. No further look—it is
dark.——Light-trembling from the harp, strike, virgins, strike the
sound.—No hunter he descends, from the dewy haunt of the bounding roe. He bends
not his bow on the wind; or sends his grey arrow abroad.
Deep-folded in red war, the battle rolls against his side.
Or, striding midst the ridgy strife, he pours the deaths of thousands forth. Fillan is
like a spirit of heaven, that descends from the skirt of his blast. The troubled ocean
feels his steps, as he strides from wave to wave. His path kindles behind him; islands
shake their heads on the heaving seas.
This book opens with a speech of Fingal, who sees Cathmor
descending to the assistance of his flying army. The king dispatches Ossian to the
relief of Fillan. He himself retires behind the rock of Cormul, to avoid the sight of
the engagement between his son and Cathmor. Ossian advances. The descent of Cathmor
described. He rallies the army, renews the battle, and, before Ossian could arrive,
engages Fillan himself. Upon the approach of Ossian, the combat between the two heroes
ceases. Ossian and Cathmor prepare to fight, but night coming on prevents them. Ossian
returns to the place where Cathmor and Fillan fought. He finds Fillan mortally
wounded, and leaning against a rock. Their discourse. Fillan dies: his body is laid,
by Ossian, in a neighbouring cave.—The Caledonian army return to Fingal. He
questions them about his son, and, understanding that he was killed, retires, in
silence, to the rock of Cormul.—Upon the retreat of the army of Fingal, the
Fir-bolg advance. Cathmor finds Bran, one of the dogs of Fingal, lying on the shield
of Fillan, before the entrance of the cave, where the body of that hero lay. His
reflexions thereupon. He returns, in a melancholy mood, to his army. Malthos
endeavours to comfort him, by the example of his father Borbar-duthul. Cathmor retires
to rest. The song of Sul-malla concludes the book, which ends about the middle of the
third night, from the opening of the poem.
rising of
Cathmor, raises our ideas of the valour of that hero to the highest pitch.
The apostrophes's which are crowded on one another, are expressive of the
perturbation of Fingal's soul, and of his fear for his son, who was not a match for
the king of Ireland. The conduct of the poet in removing Fingal from the sight of
the engagement, is very judicious; for the king might be induced, from seeing the
inequality of the combat between Fillan and Cathmor, to come to battle himself, and
so bring about the catastrophe of the poem prematurely. The removal of Fingal
affords room to the poet for introducing those affecting scenes which immediately
succeed, and are among the chief beauties of the poem.—They who can deny art
to Ossian, in conducting the catastrophe of Temora, are certainly more prejudiced
against the age he lived in, than is consistent with good sense. I cannot finish
this note, without observing the delicacy and propriety of Fingal's address to
Ossian. By the appellation of the father of Oscar, he raises,
at once, in the mind of the hero, all that tenderness for the safety of Fillan,
which a situation so similar to that of his own son, when he fell, was capable to
suggest.Cathmor rises on echoing hill! Shall Fingal
take the sword of Luno? But what should become of thy fame, son of white-bosomed
Clatho? Turn not thine eyes from Fingal, daughter of Inistore. I shall not quench thy
early beam; it shines
He sunk behind his rock, amidst the sound of Carril's
song.—Brightening, in my growing soul, I took the spear of Temoraspear of Temora was that which Oscar had
received, in a present, from Cormac, the son of Artho, king of Ireland. It was of it
that Cairbar made the pretext for quarrelling with Oscar, at the feast, in the first
book. After the death of Oscar we find it always in the hands of Ossian. It is said,
in another poem, that it was preserved, as a relique, at Temora, from the days of
Conar, the son of Trenmor, the first king of Ireland.
Now is the coming forth of
Cathmor, in the armour of kings! Dark-rolled the eagle's wing, above his helmet of
fire. Unconcerned are his steps, as if they were to the chace of Atha. He raised, at
times, his terrible voice; Erin, abashed, gathered round.—Their souls returned
back, like a stream: they wondered at the steps of their fear: for he rose, like the
beam of the morning on a haunted heath: the traveller looks back, with bending eye, on
the field of dreadful forms.
Sudden, from the rock of Moi-lena, are Sul-malla's
trembling steps. An oak took the spear from her hand; half-bent she loosed the lance:
but then are her eyes on the king, from amidst her wandering locks.—No friendly
strife is before thee; no light contending of bows, as when the youth of Clubawinding bay; an arm of the sea in
Inis-huna, or the western coast of South-Britain. It was in this bay that Cathmor
was wind-bound when Sul-malla came, in the disguise of a young warrior, to accompany
him in his voyage to Ireland. Conmor, the father of Sul-malla, as we learn from her
soliloquy, at the close of the fourth book, was dead before the departure of his
daughter.
As the rock of Runo, which takes the passing clouds for its
robe, seems growing, in gathered darkness, over the streamy heath; so seemed the chief
of Atha taller, as gathered his people round.—As different blasts fly over the
sea, each behind its dark-blue wave, so Cathmor's words, on every side, poured his
warriors forth.—Nor silent on his hill is Fillan; he mixed his words with his
echoing shield. An eagle he seemed, with sounding wings, calling the wind to his rock,
when he sees the coming forth of the roes, on Lutha'sthe maid of Lutha. Lutha signifies swift
stream.
Now they bent forward in battle: death's hundred voices
rose; for the kings, on either side, were like fires on the souls of the
people.—I bounded along; high rocks and trees rushed tall between the war and
me.—But I heard the noise of steel, between my clanging arms. Rising, gleaming,
on the hill, I beheld the backward steps of hosts: their backward steps, on either
side, and wildly-looking eyes. The chiefs were met in dreadful fight; the two
blue-shielded kings. Tall and dark, thro' gleams of steel, are seen the striving
heroes.—I rushed.—My fears for Fillan flew, burning across my soul.
I came; nor Cathmor fled; nor yet advanced: he sidelong
stalked along. An icy rock, cold, tall he seemed. I called forth all my
steel.—Silent awhile we strode, on either side of a rushing stream: then,
sudden turning, all at once, we raised our pointed spears.—We raised our
spears, but night came down. It is dark
I came to the place where Fillan
Why standest thou, robed in darkness, son of woody Selma?
Bright is thy path, my brother, in this dark-brown field. Long has been thy strife in
battle. Now the horn of Fingal is heard. Ascend to the cloud of thy father, to his
hill of feasts. In the evening mist he sits, and hears the voice of Carril's harp.
Carry joy to the aged, young breaker of the shields.
Can the vanquished carry joy? Ossian, no shield is mine. It
lies broken on the field. The eagle-wing of my helmet is torn. It is when foes fly
before them that fathers delight in their sons. But their sighs burst forth, in
secret, when their young warriors yield.—No: Fillan will not behold the king.
Why should the hero mourn?
Son of blue-eyed Clatho, why dost thou awake my soul? Wert
thou not a burning fire before him; and shall he not rejoice?——
In this, as well as the former
publication, I have only admitted into the text compleat poems, or independent
episodes: the fragments which remain of the compositions of Ossian, I have chosen
to throw, occasionally, into the notes. I shall here give a translation of a part
of a poem concerning the death of Fillan. It is a dialogue between Clatho the
mother, and Bos-mina the sister, of that hero. "Daughter of Fingal, arise: thou light between thy locks. Lift thy fair head
from rest, soft-gliding sun-beam of Selma! I beheld thy arms, on thy breast,
white-tossed amidst thy wandering locks: when the rustling breeze of the morning
came from the desart of streams. Hast thou seen thy fathers, Bos-mina, descendng
in thy dreams? Arise, daughter of Clatho; dwells there aught of grief in thy
soul? A thin form passed before me, fading as it flew: like the darkening wave of a
breeze, along a field of grass. Descend, from thy wall, O harp, and call back
the soul of Bos-mina, it has rolled away, like a stream. I hear thy pleasant
sound.—I hear thee, O harp, and my voice shall rise. How often shall ye rush to war, ye dwellers of my soul? Your paths are distant,
kings of men, in Erin of blue streams. Lift thy wing, thou southern breeze, from
Clono's darkening heath: spread the sails of Fingal towards the bays of his
land. But who is that, in his strength, darkening in the presence of war? His arm
stretches to the foe, like the beam of the sickly sun; when his side is crusted
with darkness; and he rolls his dismal course thro' the sky.—Who is it,
but the father of Bos-mina? Shall he return till danger is past! Fillan, thou art a beam by his side; beautiful, but terrible, is thy light. Thy
sword is before thee, a blue fire of night. When shalt thou return to thy roes;
to the streams of thy rushy fields? When shall I behold thee from Mora, while
winds strew my long locks on moss!—But shall a young eagle return from
the field where the heroes fall! Soft, as the song of Loda, is the voice of Selma's maid. Pleasant to the ear of
Clatho is the name of the breaker of shields.—Behold, the king comes from
ocean: the shield of Morven is borne by bards. The foe has fled before him, like
the departure of mist.—I hear not the sounding wings of my eagle; the
rushing forth of the son of Clatho.—Thou art dark, O Fingal; shall he not
return?*****Ossian, give me that broken shield: these feathers that are
rolled in the wind. Place them near to Fillan, that less of his fame may fall. Ossian,
I begin to fail.—Lay me in that hollow rock. Raise no stone above: lest one
should ask about my fame. I am fallen in the first of my fields; fallen without
renown. Let thy voice alone send joy to my flying soul. Why should the bard know where
dwells the early-fallen FillanClatho.Bos-mina.Clatho.
Is thy spirit on the eddying winds, blue-eyed king of
shields? Joy pursue my hero, thro' his folded clouds. The forms of thy fathers, O
Fillan, bend to receive their son. I behold the spreading of their fire on Mora; the
blue-rolling of their misty wreaths.—Joy meet thee my
brother.——But we are dark and sad. I behold the foe round the aged, and
the wasting away of his fame. Thou art left alone in the field, grey-haired king of
Selma.
I laid him in the hollow rock, at the roar of the nightly
stream. One red star looked in on the hero: winds lift, at times, his locks. I
listened: no sound is heard: for the warrior slept.——As lightning on a
cloud, a thought came rushing over my soul.—My eyes rolled in fire: my stride
was in the clang of steel.
I will find thee, chief of Atha, in the gathering of thy
thousands. Why should that cloud escape, that quenched our early beam? Kindle your
meteors on your hills, my fathers, to light
The abashed behaviour of the army of Fingal proceeds rather from shame than
fear. The king was not of a tyrannical disposition: It is a vulgar error, that the common Highlanders lived, in abject slavery, under
their chiefs. Their high ideas of, and attachment to, the heads of their families,
probably, led the unintelligent into this mistake.—When the honour of the
tribe was concerned, the commands of the chief were obeyed, without restriction:
but, if individuals were oppressed, they threw themselves into the arms of a
neighbouring clan, assumed a new name, and were encouraged and protected. The fear
of this desertion, no doubt, made the chiefs cautious in their government. As
their consequence, in the eyes of others, was in proportion to the number of their
people, they took care to avoid every thing that tended to diminish it. It was but very lately that the authority of the laws extended to the Highlands.
Before that time the clans were governed, in civil affairs, not by the verbal
commands of the chief, but by what they called Distant, round the king, on Mora, the broken ridges of Morven
are rolled. They turned their eyes: each darkly bends,He, as
he professes himself in the fifth book, never was a dreadful
form, in their presence, darkened into wrath. His voice was no thunder to their
ears: his eye sent forth no death.—The first ages of society are not
the times of arbitrary power. As the wants of mankind are few, they retain their
independence. It is an advanced state of civilization that moulds the mind to that
submission to government, of which ambitious magistrates take advantage, and raise
themselves into absolute power.Clechda, or
the traditional precedents of their ancestors. When differences happened between
individuals, some of the oldest men in the tribe were chosen umpires between the
parties, to decide according to the Clechda. The chief
interposed his authority, and, invariably, enforced the decision.—In their
wars, which were frequent, on account of family-feuds, the chief was less reserved
in the execution of his authority; and even then he seldom extended it to the
taking the life of any of his tribe.—No crime was capital, except murder;
and that was very unfrequent in the highlands. No corporal punishment, of any
kind, was inflicted. The memory of an affront of this sort would remain, for ages,
in a family, and they would seize every opportunity to be revenged, unless it came
immediately from the hands of the chief himself; in that case it was taken, rather
as a fatherly correction, than a legal punishment for offences.
Where is the son of Selma, he who led in war? I behold not
his steps, among my people, returning from the field. Fell the young bounding roe, who
was so stately on my hills?—He fell;— for ye are silent. The shield of
war is broke.——Let his armour be near to Fingal; and the sword of
dark-brown Luno. I am waked on my hills; with morning I descend to war.
Mac-Arcath na ceud fról, this
custom of retiring from the army, before an engagement, is numbered, among the wise
institutions of Fergus, the son of Arc or Arcath, the first king of Scots. I shall
here translate the passage; in some other note I may, probably, give all that
remains of the poem. Fergus of the hundred streams, son of Arcath
who fought of old: thou didst first retire at night: when the foe rolled before
thee, in echoing fields. Nor bending in rest is the king: he gathers battles in
his soul. Fly, son of the stranger; with morn he shall rush abroad. When, or
by whom, this poem was writ, is uncertain. It has much of the spirit of the ancient
composition of the Scottish bards; and seems to be a close imitation of the manner
of Ossian.High on Cormul's rock, an oak flamed to
the wind. The grey skirts of mist are rolled around; thither strode the king in his
This circumstance,
concerning Bran, the favourite dog of Fingal, is, perhaps, one of the most
affecting passages in the poem. I remember to have met with an old poem, composed
long after the time of Ossian, wherein a story of this sort is very happily
introduced. In one of the invasions of the Danes, Ullin-clundu, a considerable
chief, on the western coast of Scotland, was killed in a rencounter with a flying
party of the enemy, who had landed, at no great distance, from the place of his
residence. The few followers who attended him were also slain.—The young
wife, of Ullin-clundu, who had not heard of his fall, fearing the worst, on
account of his long delay, alarmed the rest of his tribe who went in search of him
along the shore.They did not find him; and the beautiful widow became
disconsolate. At length he was discovered, by means of his dog, who sat on a rock
beside the body, for some days.—The poem is not just now in my hands;
otherwise its poetical merit might induce me to present the reader with a
translation of it. The stanza concerning the dog, whose name was Du-chos, or Nor settled, from the storm, is Erin's sea of war; they
glittered, beneath the moon, and, low-humming, still rolled on the field.—Alone
are the steps of Cathmor, before them on the heath; he hung forward, with all his
arms, on Morven's flying host. Now had he come to the mossy cave, where Fillan lay in
night. One tree was bent above the stream, which glittered over the
rock.—— There shone to the moon the broken shield of Clatho's son; and
near it, on grass, lay hairy-footed BranBlackfoot, is very descriptive."Dark-sided Du-chos! feet of wind! cold is thy feat on rocks. He (the dog)
sees the roe; his ears are high; and half he bounds away. He looks around; but
Ullin sleeps; he droops again his head. The winds come part; dark Du-chos
thinks, that Ullin's voice is there. But still he beholds him silent, laid
amidst the waving heath. Dark-sided Du-chos, his voice no more shall send thee
over the heath!"
Cathmor saw the white-breasted dog; he saw the broken
shield. Darkness is blown back on his soul; he remembers the falling away of the
people. They come, a stream; are rolled away; another race succeeds.—"But some
mark the fields, as they pass, with their own mighty names. The heath, thro'
dark-brown years, is theirs; some blue stream winds to their fame.— Of these be
the chief of Atha, when he lays him down on earth. Often may the voice of future times
meet Cathmor in the air: when he strides from wind to wind, or folds himself in the
wing of a storm."
In order to illustrate
this passage, it is proper to lay before the reader the scene of the two preceding
battles. Between the hills of Mora and Lona lay the plain of Moi-lena, thro' which
ran the river Lubar. The first battle, wherein Gaul, the son of Morni, commanded
on the Caledonian side, was fought on the banks of Lubar. As there was little
advantage obtained, on either side, the armies, after the battle, retained their
former positions. In the second battle, wherein Fillan commanded, the Irish, after the fall of
Foldath, were driven up the hill of Lona; but, upon the coming of Cathmor to their
aid, they regained their former situation, and drove back the Caledonians, in
their turn: so that Green Erin gathered round the king, to hear the voice of
his power. Their joyful faces bend, unequal, forward, in the light of the oak. They
who were terrible were removed: LubarLubar winded again in their
host
Why is the king so sad, said Malthos eagle-eyed?—
Remains there a foe at Lubar? Lives there among them, who can lift the spear? Not so
peaceful was thy father, Borbar-duthulThe voices of Erin, a poetical
expression for the bards of Ireland.
To me, said Cathmor, no song shall rise; nor Fonar sit on
the rock of Lubar. The mighty there are laid low. Disturb not their rushing ghosts.
Far, Malthos, far remove the sound of Erin's song. I rejoice not over the foe, when he
ceases to lift the spear. With morning we pour our strength abroad. Fingal is wakened
on his echoing hill.
Like waves, blown back by sudden winds, Erin retired, at
the voice of the king. Deep-rolled into the field of night, they spread their humming
tribes. Beneath his own tree, at intervals, eachChlêre, which is, probably, derived
from the latin Clericus. The Chlêre, be their name
derived from what it will, became, at last, a public nuisance; for, taking advantage
of their sacred character, they went about, in great bodies, and lived, at
discretion, in the houses of the chiefs; till another party, of the same order,
drove them away by mere dint of satire. Some of the indelicate disputes of these
worthy poetical combatants are handed down, by tradition, and shew how much the
bards, at last, abused the privileges, which the admiration of their countrymen had
conferred on the order.— It was this insolent behaviour that induced the
chiefs to retrench their number, and to take away those privileges which they were
no longer worthy to enjoy. Their indolence, and disposition to lampoon, extinguished
all the poetical fervour, which distinguished their predecessors, and makes us the
less regret the extinction of the order.
Amidst the harp, at intervals, she listened whether the
warrior slept. Her soul was up; she longed, in secret, to pour her own sad song. The
field is silent. On their wings, the blasts of night retire. The bards had ceased; and
meteors came, red-winding with their ghosts.—The sky grew dark: the forms of
the dead were blended with the clouds. But heedless bends the daughter of Conmor, over
the decaying flame. Thou wert alone in her soul, car-borne chief of Atha. She raised
the voice of the song, and touched the harp between.
white knee, the wife of
Conmor, king of Inis-huna, and the mother of Sul-malla. She is here represented, as
missing her daughter, after she had fled with Cathmor. This song is very beautiful
in the original. The expressive cadences of the measure are inimitably suited to the
situation of the mind of Sul-malla.Clun-galo came;
she missed the maid.—Where art thou, beam of light? Hunters, from the mossy
rock, saw you the blue-eyed fair?—Are her steps on grassy Lumon; near the bed
of roes?—Ah me! I behold her bow in the hall. Where art thou, beam of
light?
the sun of
her soul, and continues the metaphor throughout. Those, who deliver this song
down by tradition, say that there is a part of the original lost.—This book
ends, we may suppose, about the middle of the third night, from the opening of the
poem.Cease, love of Conmor, cease; I hear thee not
on the ridgy heath. My eye is turned to the king, whose path is terrible in war. He
for whom my soul is up, in the season of my rest.— Deep-bosomed in war he
stands, he beholds me not from his cloud.—Why, sun of Sul-malla, dost thou not
look forth?—I dwell in darkness here; wide over me flies the shadowy mill.
Filled with dew are my locks: look thou from thy cloud, O sun of Sul-malla's soul.
This book begins, about the middle of the third night from
the opening of the poem. The poet describes a kind of mist, which rose, by night, from
the lake of Lego, and was the usual residence of the souls of the dead, during the
interval between their decease and the funeral song. The appearance of the ghost of
Fillan above the cave where his body lay. His voice comes to Fingal, on the rock of
Cormul. The king strikes the shield of Trenmor, which was an infallible sign of his
appearing in arms himself. The extraordinary effect of the sound of the shield.
Sul-malla, starting from sleep, awakes Cathmor. Their affecting discourse. She insists
with him, to sue for peace; he resolves to continue the war. He directs her to retire
to the neighbouring valley of Lona, which was the residence of an old Druid, until the
battle of the next day should be over. He awakes his army with the sound of his
shield. The shield described. Fonar, the bard, at the desire of Cathmor, relates the
first settlement of the Firbolg in Ireland, under their leader Larthon. Morning comes.
Sul-malla retires to the valley of Lona. A Lyric song concludes the book.
No poet departs less from his subject than Ossian. No
far-fetched ornaments are introduced; the episodes rise from, and are indeed
essential to, the story of the poem. Even his lyric songs, where he most indulges
the extravagance of fancy, naturally spring from his subject. Their propriety and
connection with the rest of the poem, shew that the Celtic bard was guided by
judgment, amidst the wildest flights of imagination. It is a common supposition
among mankind, that a genius for poetry and sound sense seldom centre in the same
person. The observation is far from being just; for true genius and judgment must
be inseparable. The wild flights of fancy, without the guidance of judgment, are,
as Horace observes, like the dreams of a sick man, irksome and confused. Fools can
never write good poems. A warm imagination, it is true, domineers over a common
portion of sense; and hence it is that so few have succceded in the poetical way.
But when an uncommon strength of judgment, and a glowing fancy, are properly
tempered together, they, and they only, produce genuine poetry The present
book is not the least interesting part of Temora. The awful images, with which it
opens, are calculated to prepare the mind for the solemn scenes which are to
follow. Ossian, always, throws an air of consequence on every circumstance which
relates to Fingal. The very sound of his shield produces extraordinary effects;
and these are heightened, one above another, in a beautiful climax. The distress
of Sul-malla, and her conference with Cathmor, are very affecting. The description
of his shield is a curious piece of antiquity; and is a proof of the early
knowledge of navigation among the inhabitants of Britain and Ireland. Ossian, in
short, throughout this book, is often sublime, and always pathetic. Αs a specimen of the harmony of Galic versification without rhime, I shall lay a
few lines, of the opening of this book, before those who understand the original.
The words are not, after the Irish manner, bristled over with unneccessary
quiescent consonants, so disagreeable to the eye, and which rather embarass than
assist the reader. Lego, so often mentioned by Ossian, was a lake, in Connaught, in which the river
Lara emptied itself. On the banks of this lake dwelt Branno, the father-in-law of
Ossian, whom the poet often visited before and after the death of Evir-allin. This
circumstance, perhaps, occasioned the partiality, with which he always mentions
Lego and Lara; and accounts for his drawing so many of his images from them. The
signification of Leigo, is, As the mist, which rose from the lake of Lego, occasioned diseases and death, the
bards feigned, as here, that it was the residence of the ghosts of the deceased,
during the interval between their death,and the pronouncing of the funeral elegy
over their tombs; for it was not allowable, without that ceremony was performed,
for the spirits of the dead to mix with their ancestors, the lake of disease, probably
so called, on account of the morasses which surrounded it.in
their airy halls. It was the business of the spirit of the nearest relation
to the deceased, to take the mist of Lego, and pour it over the grave. We find
here Conar, the son of Trenmor, the first king of Ireland, according to Ossian,
performing this office for Fillan, as it was in the cause of the family of Conar,
that that hero was killed. The description of the appearance of the ghost is
picturesque and solemn, imposing a still attention to the speech that follows it,
which, with great propriety, is short and awful.From the wood-skirted waters of Lego, ascend, at times, grey-bosomed mists;
when the gates of the west are closed, on the sun's eagle-eye. Wide, over Lara's
stream, is poured the vapour dark and deep: the moon, like a dim shield, is swimming
thro' its folds. With this, clothe the spirits of old their sudden gestures
A sound came from the desart; it was Conar, king of
Inis-fail. He poured his mist on the grave of Fillan, at blue-winding
Lubar.——Dark and mournful sat the ghost, in his grey ridge of smoak. The
blast, at times, rolled him together: but the form returned again. It returned with
bending eyes: and dark winding of locks of mist.
It has been observed, that
Ossian takes great delight in describing night-scenes. This, in some measure, is
to be attributed to his melancholy disposition, which delighted to dwell upon
solemn objects. Even other poets, of a less serious turn than Ossian, have best
succeeded in descriptions of this sort. Solemn scenes make the most lasting
impressions on the imagination; gay and light objects only touch the surface of
the soul, and vanish. The human mind is naturally serious: levity and chearfulness
may be amiable, but they are too often the characteristics of weakness of
judgment, and a deplorable shallowness of soul.—The night-descriptions of
Ossian were in high repute among succeeding bards. One of them delivered a
sentiment, in a distich, more favourable to his taste for poetry, than to his
galantry towards the ladies. I shall here give a translation of it. Tho' tradition is not very satisfactory concerning the history of this poet, it
has taken care to inform us, that he was It is"More pleasant to me is the night of Cona, dark-streaming from Ossian's harp;
more pleasant it is to me, than a white-bosomed dweller between my arms; than a
fair-handed daughter of heroes, in the hour of rest."
very old when he
wrote the distich. He lived (in what age is uncertain) in one of the western
isles, and his name was Turloch Ciabh-glas, or Turloch of the
grey-locks.
Why dost thou mix, said the king, with the dreams of thy
father? Can I forget thee, my son, or thy path of fire in the field? Not such come the
deeds of the valiant on the soul of Fingal. They are not there a beam of lightning,
which is seen, and is then no more.—I remember thee, O Fillan, and my wrath
begins to rise.
The king took his deathful spear, and struck the
deeply-sounding shield: his shieldthe
son of Luno.—Such are the strange fictions which the modern Scotch and
Irish bards have formed on the original of Ossian.to the light touch of ghosts; who were supposed
to have a fore-knowledge of events. The same opinion prevailed long in the north,
and the particular sound was called, the warning voice of the
dead. The voice of deaths, mentioned in the preceding
sentence, was of a different kind. Each person was supposed to have an attendant
spirit, who assumed his form and voice, on the night preceding his death, and
appeared, to some in the attitude, in which the person was to die. The voices of death were the foreboding shrieks of those
spirits.
He struck again the shield; battles rose in the dreams of
his people. The wide-tumbling strife is gleaming over their souls. Blue-shielded kings
descend to war. Backward-looking armies fly; and mighty deeds are half-hid, in the
bright gleams of steel.
But when the third sound arose: deer started from the
clefts of their rocks. The screams of fowl are heard, in the desart, as each flew,
frighted, on his blast.—The sons of Morven half-rose, and half-assumed their
spears.—But silence rolled back on the host: they knew the shield of the king.
Sleep returned to their eyes; the field was dark and still.
A bard, several ages more modern than Ossian, was so sensible
of the beauty of this passage, as to give a close imitation of it, in a poem,
concerning the great actions of Keneth Mac-Alpin, king of Scotland, against the
Picts. As the poem is long, I shall only give here the story of it, with a
translation of that paragraph, which bears the nearest resemblance to the passage
of Temora just now before me. When Keneth was making preparations for that war,
which terminated in the subversion of the Pictish kingdom, Flathal, his sister,
had demanded permission from him, of attending him in the expedition; in order to
have a share in revenging the death of her father Alpin, who had been barbarously
murdered by the Picts. The king, tho' he, perhaps, approved of the gallant
disposition of his sister, refused, on account of her sex, to grant her request.
The heroine, however, dressed herself in the habit of a young warrior; and, in
that disguise, attended the army, and performed many gallant exploits. On the
night preceding the final overthrow of the Picts, Keneth, as was the custom among
the kings of Scots, retired to a hill, without the verge of the camp, to meditate
on the dispositions he was to make in the approaching battle. Flathal, who was
anxious about the safety of her brother, went, privately, to the top of an
adjoining rock, and kept watch there to prevent his being surprized by the
enemy.——Keneth fell asleep, in his arms; and Flathal observed a body
of the Picts surrounding the hill, whereon the king lay.—The sequel of the
story may be gathered from the words of the bard. In the sequel of the piece, the bard does not imitate
Ossian, and his poem is so much the worse for it.—Keneth, with his sister's
assistance, forced his way thro' the advanced parties of the enemy, and rejoined
his own army. The bard has given a catalogue of the Scotch tribes, as they marched
to battle; but, as he did not live near the time of Keneth, his accounts are to be
little depended on."Her eyes, like stars, roll over the plain. She trembled for Alpin's race.
She saw the gleaming foe. Her steps arose: she stopt.—" Why should he know
of Flathal? he the king men!— But hark! the sound is high.—It is but
the wind of night, lone-whistling in my locks.—I hear the echoing
shields!"—Her spear fell from her hand. The lofty rock resounds.—He
rose, a gathered cloud.
"Who wakes Conad of Albion, in the midst of his secret hill? I heard the soft
voice of Flathal. Why, maid, dost thou shine in war? The daughters roll their blue
eyes, by the streams. No field of blood is theirs.
"Alpin of Albion was mine, the father of Flathal of harps. He is low, mighty
Conad, and my soul is fire. Could Flathal, by the secret stream, behold the blood
of her foes? I am a young eagle, on Dura, king of Drum-albin of
winds."
—No sleep was thine in
darkness, blue-eyed daughter of Con-mor! Sul-malla heard the dreadful shield, and
rose, amidst the
Again the shield resounds!—She rushed.—She
stopt.—Her voice half-rose. It failed.—She saw him, amidst his arms,
that gleamed to heaven's fire. She saw him dim in his locks, that rose to nightly
wind.—Away, for fear, she turned her steps.——"Why should the king
of Erin awake? Thou art not the dream of his rest, daughter of Inis-huna."
More dreadful rung the shield. Sul-malla starts. Her helmet
falls. Loud-echoed Lubar's rock, as over it rolled the steel.—Bursting from the
dreams of night, Cathmor half-rose, beneath his tree. He saw the form of the maid,
above him, on the rock. A red star, with twinkling beam, looked thro' her floating
hair.
Who
comes thro' night to Cathmor, in the season of his dreams? Bring'st thou ought of war?
Who art thou, son of night? —Stand'st thou before me, a form of the times of
old? A voice from the fold of a cloud, to warn me of Erin's danger?
Nor lonely scout am I, nor voice from folded cloud: but I
warn thee of the danger of Erin. Dost thou hear that sound? It is not the feeble, king
of Atha, that rolls his signs on night.
Let the warrior roll his signs; to Cathmor they are the
sounds of harps. My joy is great, voice of night, and burns over all my thoughts. This
is the music of kings, on lonely hills, by night; when they light their daring souls,
the sons of mighty deeds! The feeble dwell alone, in the valley of the breeze; where
mists lift, their morning skirts, from the blue-winding streams.
Not feeble, king of men, were they, the fathers of my race.
They dwelt in the folds of battle; in their distant lands. Yet delights not my soul,
in the signs of death!—HeFiön-ghal na bua', Fingal of victories. In a poem, just now in my hands, which
celebrates some of the great actions of Arthur the famous British hero, that
appellation is often bestowed on him.—The poem, from the phraseology, appears
to be ancient; and is, perhaps, tho' that is not mentioned, a translation from the
Welsh language.
Like a dropping rock, in the desart, stood Cathmor in his
tears. Her voice came, a breeze, on his soul, and waked the memory of her land; where
she dwelt by her peaceful streams, before he came to the war of Conmor.
Daughter of strangers, he said; (she trembling turned away)
long have I marked thee in thy steel, young pine of Inis-huna.—But my soul, I
said, is folded in a storm. Why should that beam arise, till my steps return in
peace?—Have I been pale in thy presence, when thou bidst me to fear the
king?——The time of danger, O maid, is the season of my soul; for then it
swells, a mighty stream, and rolls me on the foe.
Beneath the moss-covered rock of Lona, near his own blue
stream; grey in his locks of age, dwells Clonmalcrooked eye-brow. From the retired life of this person, it
appears, that he was of the order of the Druids; which supposition is not, at all,
invalidated by the appellation of king of harps, here
bestowed on him; for all agree that the bards were of the number of the Druids
originally.
In after ages, the allusions of the bards, to
particular passages of the works of Ossian, were very numerous. I have met with a
poem, which was writ three centuries ago, in which the bard recommends, to a lady
of his own times, the behaviour of Sul-malla, in this place. The poem has little
to recommend it, excepting the passage, of which I am to give a translation here.
The bards, when they alluded to the works of Ossian, seem to have caught some
portion of his fire: upon other occasions, their compositions are little more than
a group of epithets reduced into measure. Only their poems, upon martial subjects,
fall under this censure. Their love sonnets, and pastoral verses, are far from
wanting their beauties; but a great deal of these depend upon a certain To return to the old poem, which gave occasion to this note. It is an address to
the wife of a chief, upon the departure of her husband to war. The passage, which
alludes to Sul-malla, is this:—— A light fell on the soul of the maid; it rose kindled
before the king. She turned her face to Cathmor, from amidst her waving locks.
Soonercuriosa felicitas of expression in the original; so that
they would appear greatly to their disadvantage in another language. What the
modern bards are most insupportable in, are their nauseous panegyrics upon their
patrons. We see, in them, a petty tyrant, whose name was never heard, beyond the
contracted limits of his own valley, stalking forth in all the trappings of a
finished hero. From their frequent allusions, however, to the entertainments which
he gave, and the strength of his cups, we may easily guess
from whence proceeded the praise of an indolent and effeminate race of men: for
the bards, from the great court paid, originally, to their order, became, at last,
the most flagitious and dispirited of all mortals. Their compositions, therefore,
on this side of a certain period, are dull and trivial to the highest degree. By
lavishing their praises upon unworthy objects, their panegyricks became common and
little regarded; they were thrust out of the houses of the chiefs, and wandered
about, from tribe to tribe, in the double capacity of poet and harper. Galled with
this usage, they betook themselves to satire and lampoon, so that the compositions
of the bards, for more than a century back, are almost altogether of the
sarcastical kind. In this they succeeded well; for, as there is no language more
copious than the Galic, so there is scarcely any equally adapted to those quaint
turns of expression which belong to satire. ——Tho' the chiefs
disregarded the lampoons of the bards, the vulgar, out of mere fear, received them
into their habitations, entertained them, as well as their circumstances would
allow, and kept existing, for some years, an order, which, by their own
mismanagement, had deservedly fallen into contempt."Why art thou mournful on
rocks; or lifting thine eyes on waves? His ship has bounded towards battle. His
joy is in the murmur of fields. Look to the beams of old, to the virgins of
Ossian of harps. Sul-malla keeps not her eagle, from the field of blood. She
would not tear thee, O Cathmor, from the sounding course of
renown."
Young branch of green-headed Lumon, why dost thou shake in
the storm? Often has Cathmor returned, from darkly-rolling wars. The darts of death
are but hail to me; they have often bounded from my shield. I have risen brightened
from battle, like a meteor from a stormy cloud. Return not, fair beam, from thy vale,
when the roar of battle grows. Then might the foe escape, as from my fathers of
old.
They told to Son-mortall handsome man. He was the father of Borbar-duthul, chief of
Atha, and grandfather to Cathmor himself. The propriety of this episode is evident.
But, tho' it appears here to be only introduced as an example to Sul-mulla; the poet
probably had another design in view, which was further to illustrate the antiquity
of the quarrel between the Firbolg and Caël.man of the field. This chief was
killed in battle by Cormac Mac-Conar, king of Ireland, the father of Ros-crana, the
first wife of Fingal. The story is alluded to in other poems.
Far behind followed Sul-allinbeautiful eye, the wife of Son-mor.
Nor rose the rage of Son-mor, but his days were silent and
dark. Sul-allin wandered, by her grey streams, with her tearful eyes. Often did she
look, on the hero, when he was folded in his thoughts. But she shrunk from his eyes,
and turned her lone steps away.—Battles rose, like a tempest, and drove the
mist from his soul. He beheld, with joy, her steps in the hall, and the white rising
of her hands on the harp.
head of
the bear. Col-derna, slant and sharp beam. Ul-oicho,
ruler of night. Cathlin, beam of the wave. Reul-durath, star of the twilight. Berthin, fire of the
hill. Tonthéna, meteor of the waves. These
etymologies, excepting that of Cean-mathon, are pretty exact. Of it I am not so
certain; for it is not very probable, that the Firbolg had distinguished a
constellation, so very early as the days of Larthon, by the name of the
bear.In his arms strode the chief of Atha, to where
his shiield hung, high, in night: high on a mossy bough, over Lubar's streamy roar.
Seven bosses rose on the shield; the seven voices of the king,
It may, perhaps, be for the credit of this bard, to translate no more of this
poem, for the continuation of his description of the Irish giants betrays his want
of judgment.On each boss is placed a star of night; Can-mathon with
beams unshorn; Col-derna rising from a cloud: Uloicho robed in mist; and the soft beam
of Cathlin glittering on a rock. Laughing, on its own blue wave, Reldurath half-sinks
its western light. The red eye of Berthin looks, thro' a grove, on the hunter, as he
returns, by night, with the spoils of the bounding roe.—Wide, in the midst,
arose the cloudless beams of Ton-thena, that star which looked, by night, on the
course of the sea-tossed Larthon: Larthon, the first of Bolga's race, who travelled on
the windsTo travel on the winds, a
poetical expression for sailing.Lear, sea, and thon, wave. This name was given to the
chief of the first colony of the Fir-bolg, who settled in Ireland, on account of his
knowledge in navigation. A part of an old poem is still extant, concerning this
hero. The author of it, probably, took the hint from the episode in this book,
relating to the first discovery of Ireland by Larthon. It abounds with those
romantic fables of giants and magicians, which distinguish the compositions of the
less ancient bards. The descriptions, contained in it, are ingenious and
proportionable to the magnitude of the persons introduced; but, being unnatural,
they are insipid and tedious. Had the bard kept within the bounds of probability,
his genius was far from being contemptible. The exordium of his poem is not
destitute of merit; but it is the only part of it, that I think worthy of being
presented to the reader. "Who first sent the black ship, thro' ocean, like a
whale thro' the bursting of foam?—Look, from thy darkness, on Cronath,
Ossian of the harps of old!— Send thy light on the blue rolling waters,
that I may behold the king.——I see him dark in his own shell of oak!
sea-tossed Larthon, thy soul is strong.—It is careless as the wind of thy
sails; as the wave that roll by thy side. But the silent green isle is before
thee, with its sons, who are tall as woody Lumon; Lumon which sends, from its top,
a thousand streams, white-wandering down its sides.—"
Beneath the spear of Cathmor, rose that voice which awakes
the bards. They came, dark-winding, from every side; each, with the sound of his harp.
Before them rejoiced the king, as the traveller, in the day of the sun; when he hears,
far-rolling around, the murmur of mossy streams; streams that burst, in the desart,
from the rock of roes.
Why, said Fonar, hear we the voice of the king, in the
season of his rest? Were the dim forms of thy fathers bending in thy dreams? Perhaps
they stand on that cloud, and wait for Fonar's song; often they come to the fields
where their sons are to lift the spear.—Or shall our voice arise for him who
lifts the spear no more; he that consumed the field, from Moma of the groves?
Not forgot is that cloud in war, bard of other times. High
shall his tomb rise, on Moi-lena, the dwelling of renown. But, now, roll back my soul
to the times of my fathers: to the years when first they rose, on Inis-huna's waves.
Nor alone pleasant to Cathmor is the remembrance of wood-covered Lumon.— Lumon
of the streams, the dwelling of white-bosomed maids.
Lumon of the streams, thou risest on Fonar's soul! Thy sun is on thy side, on
the rocks of thy bending trees. The dun roe is
Now he dares to call the winds, and to mix with the mist of
ocean. Blue Inis—fail rose, in smoak; but dark-skirted night came down. The sons of
Bolga feared. The fiery haired Ton-théna rose. Culbin's bay received the ship, in
the bosom of its echoing woods. There, issued a stream, from Duthuma's horrid cave;
where spirits gleamed, at times, with their half-finished forms.
Dreams descended on Larthon: he saw seven spirits of his
fathers. He heard their half-formed words, and dimly beheld the times to come. He
beheld the kings of Atha, the sons of future days. They led their hosts, along the
field, like ridges of mist, which winds pour, in autumn, over Atha of the groves.
Larthon raised the hall of Samlaapparitions, so called from the vision of Larthon,
concerning his posterity.heavenly, exquisitely beautiful. She was the wife of
Larthon.
Morning pours from the east. The misty heads of the
mountains rise. Valleys shew, on every side, the grey-winding of their streams. His
host heard the shield of Cathmor: at once they rose around, like a crowded sea, when
first it feels the wings of the wind. The waves know not whither to roll; they lift
their troubled heads.
Sad and slow retired Sul-malla to Lona of the streams. She
went—and often turned; her blue eyes rolled in tears. But when she came to the
rock, that darkly-covered Lona's vale: she looked, from her bursting soul, on the
king; and sunk, at once, behind.
Son of Alpin, strike the string. Is
there aught of joy in the harp? Pour it then, on the soul of Ossian: it is folded in
mist.—I hear thee, O bard, in my night. But cease the lightly-trembling sound.
The joy of grief belongs to Ossian, amidst his dark-brown years.
Green thorn of the hill of ghosts, that shakest thy head to
nightly winds! I hear no sound in thee; is there no spirit's windy
Ullin, Carril and Ryno, voices of the days of old! Let me
hear you, while yet it is dark, to please and awake my soul.——I hear you
not, ye sons of song; in what hall of the clouds is your rest? Do you touch the
shadowy harp, robed with morning mist, where the rustling sun comes forth from his
green-headed waves?
The fourth morning, from the opening of the poem, comes on.
Fingal, still continuing in the place, to which he had retired on the preceding night,
is seen, at intervals, thro' the mist, which covered the rock of Cormul. The descent
of the king is described. He orders Gaul, Dermid, and Carril the bard, to go to the
valey of Cluna, and conduct, from thence, to the Caledonian army, Ferad artho, the son
of Cairbre, the only person remaining of the family of Conar, the first king of
Ireland—The king takes the command of the army, and prepares for battle.
Marching towards the enemy, he comes to the cave of Lubar, where the body of Fillan
lay. Upon seeing his dog Bran, who lay at the entrance of the cave, his grief
returns.—Cathmor arranges the Irish army in order of battle. The appearance of
that hero. The general conflict is described. The actions of Fingal and Cathmor. A
storm. The total rout of the Fir-bolg. The two kings engage, in a column of mist, on
the banks of Lubar. Their attitude and conference after the combat. The death of
Cathmor.—Fingal resigns the spear of Trenmor to Ossian.
The ceremonies observed on that occasion.——The spirit of Cathmor, in the
mean time, appears to Sul-malla, in the valley of Lona. Her sorrow.—Evening
comes on. A feast is prepared.—The coming of Ferad-artho is announced by the
songs of a hundred bards.—The poem closes, with a speech of Fingal.
In the course of my notes, I have made it more my business to
explain, than to examine, critically, the works of Ossian. The first is my
province, as the person best acquainted with them, the second falls to the share
of others. I shall, however, observe, that all the precepts, which Aristotle drew
from Homer, ought not to be applied to the composition of a Celtic bard; nor ought
the title of the latter to the Ossian is now approaching to the grand catastrophe.
The preparations he has made, in the preceding book, properly introduce the
magnificence of description, with which the present book opens, and tend to show
that the Celtic bard had more art, in working up his fable, than some of those,
who closely imitated the perfect model of Homer. The transition from the pathetic
to the sublime is easy and natural. Till the mind is opened, by the first, it
scarcely can have an adequate comprehension of the second. The soft and affecting
scenes of the seventh book form a sort of contrast to, and consequently heighten,
the features of the more grand and terrible images of the eighth. The
simile, with which this book opens, is, perhaps, the longest, and the most
minutely descriptive, of any in the works of Ossian. The images of it are only
familiar to those who live in a cold and mountainous country. They have often seen
a lake suddenly frozen over, and strewed with withered grass, and boughs torn, by
winds, from the mountains, which form its banks; but, I believe, few of them would
be of the mind of the ancient bard, who preferred these winter-scenes to the
irriguous vales of May.— If the simile of a frozen lake aptly illustrates the stillness and silent
expectation of an army, lying under arms, waiting for the coming of their king, so
the comparison of the sudden rising of waves, around a spirit, is also very
expressive of the tumultuous joy of Fingal’s army, upon the appearance of that
hero.——An ancient bard, sensible of the beauty of this passage, has
happily imitated it, in a poem, concerning Kenneth Mac Alpin, king of
Scotland.—I had occasion to quote this piece, in a note in the preceding
book. Kenneth had retired privately, by night, to a hill, in the neighbourhood of
his army, and, upon his return, next morning, the bard says, epopœa
to be disputed, even if he should differ, in some circumstances, from a Greek
poet. —Some allowance should be made for the different manners of nations.
The genius of the Greeks and Celtæ was extremely dissimilar. The first were
lively and loquacious; a manly conciseness of expression distinguished the latter.
We find, accordingly, that the compositions of Homer and Ossian are marked with
the general and opposite characters of their respective nations, and,
consequently, it is improper to compare the minutiæ of their poems together. There are, however, general rules,
in the conduct of an epic poem, which, as they are natural, are, likewise,
universal. In these the two poets exactly correspond. This similarity, which could
not possibly proceed from imitation, is more decisive, with respect to the grand
essentials of the epopœa, than all the
precepts of Aristotle.To me, says he, bring back my woods, which strew their leaves on blasts: spread
the lake below, with all its frozen waves. Pleasant is the breeze on the bearded
ice; when the moon is broad in heaven, and the spirit of the mountain roars.
Roll away the green vales of May; they are thoughts of maids, &c. Such
are the words of this winter poet, but what he afterwards adds, gives us to
understand, that those frigid scenes were not his sole delight: for he speaks,
with great tenderness, of the oak-lighted hall of the
chief; and the strength of the shells, at night, when the
course of winds is abroad.that he was like the form of a spirit, returning to his secret bay. In the
first of a blast he stands. The waves lift their roaring heads. Their green
backs are quivering round. Rocks eccho back their
joy.As when the wintry winds have seized
the waves of the mountain-lake, have seized them, in stormy night, and cloathed them
over with ice; white, to the hunter’s early eye, the billows still seem to roll. He
turns his ear to the sound of each unequal ridge. But each is silent, gleaming, strewn
with
Now is the coming forth of the king.—First appeared
the sword of Luno; the spear half issuing from a cloud, the shield still dim in mist.
But when the stride of the king came abroad, with all his grey, dewy locks in the
wind; then rose the shouts of his host over every moving tribe. They gathered,
gleaming, round, with all their echoing shields. So rise the green seas round a
spirit, that comes down from the squally wind. The traveller hears the sound afar, and
lifts his head over the rock. He looks on the troubled bay, and thinks he dimly sees
the form. The waves sport, unwieldy, round, with all their backs of foam.
Far-distant stood the son of Morni, Duthno’s race, and
Cona’s bard. We stood far-distant; each beneath his tree. We shuned the eyes of the
king; we had not conquered in the field.—A little stream rolled at my feet: I
touched its light wave, with my spear. I touched it with my spear; nor there was the
soul of Ossian. It darkly rose, from thought to thought, and sent abroad the sigh.
Son of Morni, said the king, Dermid, hunter of roes! why
are ye dark, like two rocks, each with its trickling waters? No
Tall they strode towards the king; they saw him turned to
Mora’s wind. His tears came down, for his blue-eyed son, who slept in the cave of
streams. But he brightened before them, and spoke to the broad-shielded kings.
Crommal, with woody rocks, and misty top, the field of
winds, pours forth, to the fight, blue Lubar’s streamy roar. Behind it rolls
clear-winding Lavath, in the still vale of deer. A cave is dark in a rock; above it
strong-winged eagles dwell; broad-headed oaks, before it, sound in Cluna’s
wind.—Within, in his locks of youth, is Ferad-arthoa man in the place of Artho. The
occasion of the name was this. Artho, when his brother was born, was absent, on an
expedition, in the south of Ireland. A false report was brought to his father, that
he was killed.—Cairbar, to use the words of the poem
on the subject, darkened for his fair-haired son. He turned to the
young beam of light, the son of Beltanno of Conachar. Thou shalt be Ferad-artho,
he said, a fire before thy race. Cairbar, soon after, died, nor did Artho
long survive him. Artho was succeeded, in the Irish throne, by his son Cormac, who,
in his minority, was murdered by Cairbar, the son of Borbar-duthul.—
Ferad-artho, says tradition, was very young, when the expedition of Fingal, to
settle him on the throne of Ireland, happened. During the short reign of young
Cormac, Ferad-artho lived at the royal palace of Temora. Upon the murder of the
king, Condan, the bard, conveyed Ferad-artho, privately, to the cave of Cluna,
behind the mountain Crommal, in Ulster, where they both lived concealed, during the
usurpation of the family of Atha. All these particulars, concerning Ferad-artho, may
be gathered from the compositions of Ossian: A bard, less ancient, has delivered the
whole history, in a poem just now in my possession. It has little merit, if we
except the scene between Ferad-artho, and the messengers of Fingal, upon their
arrival, in the valley of Cluna. After hearing of the great actions of Fingal, the
young prince proposes the following questions concerning him, to Gaul and
Dermid.—“Is the king tall as the rock of my cave? Is his spear a fir of
Cluna? Is he a rough-winged blast, on the mountain, which takes the green oak by the
head, and tears it from its hill?—Glitters Lubar within his stride, when he
sends his stately steps along.——Nor is he tall, said Gaul, as that
rock: nor glitter streams within his strides, but his soul is a mighty flood, like
the strength of Ullin’s seas.”
Lift up, O Gaul, the shield before him. Stretch, Dermid,
Temora’s spear. Be thy voice in his ear, O Carril, with the deeds of his fathers. Lead
him to green Moilena, to the dusky field of
Such were his words; nor aught replied the silent, striding
kings. They looked side-long, on Erin’s host, and darkened, as they went.
—Never before had they left the king, in the midst of the stormy
field.—Behind them, touching at times his harp, the grey-haired Carril moved.
He foresaw the fall of the people, and mournful was the found!—It was like a
breeze that comes, by fits, over Lego’s reedy lake; when sleep half-descends on the
hunter, within his mossy cave.
Why bends the bard of Cona, said Fingal, over his secret stream?—Is this a
time for sorrow, father of low-laid Oscar? Be the warriors Oscar and Fillan are here, emphatically called "Malvina is like the bow of the shower, in the secret valley of streams; it is
bright, but the drops of heaven are rolling on its blended light. They say, that I
am fair within my locks, but, on my brightness, is the wandering of tears.
Darkness flies over my soul, as the dusky wave of the breeze, along the grass of
Lutha.—Yet have not the roes failed me, when I moved between the
hills.—Pleasant, beneath my white hand, arose the sound of harps. What
then, daughter of Lutha, travels over thy soul, like the dreary path a ghost,
along the nightly beam?—Should the young warrior fall, in the roar of his
troubled fields! —Young virgins of Lutha arise, call back the wandering
thoughts of Malvina. Awake the voice of the harp, along my echoing vale. Then
shall my soul come forth, like a light from the gates of the morn, when clouds are
rolled around them, with their broken sides. "Dweller of my thoughts, by
night, whose form ascends in troubled fields, why dost thou stir up my soul, thou
far-distant son of the king?—Is that the ship of my love, its dark course
thro’ the ridges of ocean? How art thou so sudden, Oscar, from the heath of
shields—— The rest of this poem, it is said, consisted of a
dialogue between Ullin and Malvina, wherein the distress of the latter is carried
to the highest pitch.the
warriors. Ossian was not forgetful of them, when, to
use his own expression, peace returned to the land. His
plaintive poems, concerning the death of these young heroes, were very numerous. I
had occasion, in a preceding note, to give a translation of one of them, (a
dialogue between Clatho and Bos-mina) in this I shall lay before the reader a
fragment of another. The greatest, and, perhaps, the moft interesting part of the
poem, is lost. What remains, is a soliloquy of Malvina, the daughter of Toscar, so
often mentioned in Ossian’s compositions. She, sitting alone, in the vale of
Moi-lutha, is represented as descrying, at a distance, the ship which carried the
body of Oscar to Morven.
As comes the sudden voice of winds to the becalmed ship of
Inis-huna, and drives it large, along the deep, dark rider of the wave; so the voice
of Fingal sent Ossian, tall, along the heath. He lifted high his shining shield, in
the dusky wing of war: like the broad, blank moon, in the skirt of a cloud, before the
storms arise.
Loud, from moss-covered Mora, poured down, at once, the
broad-winged war. Fingal led his people forth, king of Morven of streams.—On
high spreads the eagle’s wing. His grey hair is poured on his shoulders broad. In
thunder are his mighty strides. He often flood, and saw behind, the wide-gleaming
rolling of armour.—A rock he seemed, grey over with ice, whose woods are high
in wind. Bright streams leap from its head, and spread their foam on blasts.
Now he came to Lubar’s cave, where Fillan darkly slept:
Bran still lay on the broken shield: the eagle-wing is strewed on winds. Bright, from
withered furze, looked forth the hero’s spear.—Then grief stirred the soul of
the king, like whirlwinds blackening on a lake. He turned his sudden step, and leaned
on his bending spear.
White-breasted Bran came bounding with joy to the known
path of Fingal. He came, and looked towards the cave, where the blue-eyed hunter lay,
for he was wont to stride, with morning, to the dewy bed of the roe.—It was
then the tears of the king came down, and all his soul was dark.—But as the
rising wind rolls away the storm of rain, and leaves the white streams to the sun, and
high hills with their heads of grass: so the returning war brightened the mind of
Fingal. He bounded
Nor Erin heard, with fear, the sound: wide they came
rolling along. Dark Malthos, in the wing of war, looks forward from shaggy brows. Next
rose that beam of light Hidalla; then the side-long-looking gloom of Maronnan.
Blue-shielded Clonar lifts the spear; Cormar shakes his bushy locks on the
wind.—Slowly, from behind a rock, rose the bright form of Atha. First appeared
his two pointed spears, then the half of his burnished shield: like the rising of a
nightly meteor, over the vale of ghosts. But when he shone all abroad: the hosts·
plunged, at once, into strife. The gleaming waves of steel are poured on either
side.
As meet two troubled seas, with the rolling of all their
waves, when they feel the wings of contending winds, in the rock-sided sirth of Lumon;
along the echoing hills is the dim course of ghosts: from the blast fall the torn
groves on the deep, amidst the foamy path of whales.—So mixed the
hosts!—Now Fingal; now Cathmor came abroad.—The dark tumbling of death
is before them: the gleam of broken steel is rolled on their steps, as, loud, the
high-bounding kings hewed down the ridge of shields.
Tla-min, "Clonar, son of
Conglas of I-mor, young hunter of dun-sided roes! where art thou laid, amidst
rushes, beneath the passing wing of the breeze?—I behold thee, my love, in
the plain of thy own dark streams! The clung thorn is rolled by the wind, and
rustles along his shield. Bright in his locks he lies: the thoughts of his dreams
fly, darkening, over his face. Thou thinkest of the battles of Ossian, young son
of the "Half-hid, in the grove, I sit down. Fly back, ye mists of the hill. Why should
ye hide her love from the blue eyes of Tla-min of harps? "As the spirit, seen in a dream, flies off from our opening eyes, we think, we
behold his bright path between the closing hills; so fled the daughter of
Clun-gal, from the sight of Clonar of shields. Arise, from the gathering of
trees; blue-eyed Tlamin arise. "I turn me away from his steps. Why should he know of my love! My white breast
is heaving over sighs, as foam on the dark course of streams.—But he
passes away, in his arms!—Son of Conglas, my soul is sad. "It was the shield of Fingal! the voice of kings from Selma of harps!—My
path is towards green Erin. Arise, fair light, from thy shades. Come to the
field of my soul, there is the spreading of hosts. Arise, on Clonar’s troubled
soul, young daughter of blue-shielded Clungal."—— Clungal was the chief of I-mor, one of the Hebrides.Maronnan fell, by Fingal, laid large across a stream. The
waters gathered by his side, and leapt grey over his bossy shield.—Clonar is
pierced by Cathmor: nor yet lay the chief on earth. An oak seized his hair in his
fall. His helmet rolled on the ground. By its thong, hung his broad shield; over it
wandered his streaming blood. Tla-minmildly-soft. The loves of Clonar and Tlamin were rendered
famous in the north, by a fragment of a Lyric poem, still preserved, which is
ascribed to Ossian. Be it the composition of whom it will, its poetical merit may,
perhaps, excuse me, for inserting it here. It is a dialogue between Clonar and
Tla-min. She begins with a soliloquy, which he overhears.Clonar.Tlamin.Clonar.
Nor did Ossian forget the spear, in the wing of his war. He
strewed the field with dead.—Young Hidalla came. Soft voice of
Then rose the voice of Fingal, and the sound of the flying
foe, I saw the king, at times, in lightning, darkly-striding in his might. I struck my
echoing shield, and hung forward on the steps of Alnecma: the foe is rolled before me,
like a wreath of
The sun looked forth from his cloud. The hundred streams of
Moi-lena shone. Slow rose the blue columns of mist, against the glittering
hill.—Where are the mighty kings?column of mist over the whole, and leaves the combat to the imagination of
the reader.—Poets have almost universally failed in their descriptions of
this sort. Not all the strength of Homer could sustain, with dignity, the minutiæ of a single combat. The throwing of
a spear, and the braying of a shield, as some of our own poets most elegantly
express it, convey no grand ideas. Our imagination stretches beyond, and,
consequently, despises, the description. It were, therefore, well, for some poets,
in my opinion, (tho' it is, perhaps, somewhat singular) to have, sometimes, like
Ossian, thrown mist over their single
combats.
I rushed along. The grey mist rose.—Tall, gleaming,
they flood at Lubar.—Cathmor leaned against a rock. His half-fallen shield
received the stream, that leapt from the moss above.—Towards him is the stride
of Fingal: he saw the hero’s blood. His sword fell slowly to his side.—He
spoke, midst his darkening joy.
Yields the race of Borbar-duthul? Or still does he lift the
spear? Not unheard is thy name, at Atha, in the green dwelling of strangers. It has
come, like the breeze of his
By Atha of the stream, he said, there rises a mossy rock.
On its head is the wandering of boughs, within the course of winds. Dark, in its face,
is a cave, with its own loud rill.—There have I heard the tread of
strangersthat he was like Cathmor of Atha, the friend of strangers.
It will seem strange, that, in all the Irish traditions, there is no mention made of
Cathmor. This must be attributed to the revolutions and domestic confusions which
happened in that island, and utterly cut off all the real traditions concerning so
ancient a period. All that we have related of the state of Ireland before the fifth
century is of late invention, and the work of ill informed senachies and injudicious
bards.
Why speaks the king of the tomb?—Ossian! the warrior
has failed!—Joy meet thy soul, like a stream, Cathmor, friend of
strangers!—My son, I hear the call of years; they take my spear as they pass
along. Why does not Fingal, they seem to say, rest within his hall? Dost thou always
delight in blood? In the tears of the sad?—No: ye darkly-rolling years, Fingal
delights not in blood. Tears are wintry streams that waste away my soul. But, when I
lie down to rest, then comes the mighty voice of war. It awakes me, in my hall, and
calls forth all my steel.—It shall call it forth no more; Ossian, take thou thy
father’s spear. Lift it, in battle, when the proud arise.
My fathers, Ossian, trace my steps; my deeds are pleasant
to their eyes. Wherever I come forth to battle, on my field, are their columns of
mist.—But mine arm rescued the feeble; the haughty sound my rage was fire.
Never over the fallen did mine eye rejoice. For thisthe dark in
soul, to use the expression of the poet, were spurned away from the habitation of heroes, to wander on all the winds. Another opinion,
which prevailed in those times, tended not a little to make individuals emulous to
excel one another in martial achievements. It was thought, that, in the hall of clouds, every one had a feat, raised above others, in
proportion as he excelled them, in valour, when he lived.—The simile in this
paragraph is new, and, if I may use the expression of a bard, who alludes to it, beautifully terrible.
Father of heroes, Trenmor, dweller of eddying winds! I give
thy spear to Ossian, let thine eye rejoice. Thee have I seen, at times, bright from
between thy clouds; so appear to my son, when he is to lift the spear: then shall he
remember thy mighty deeds, though thou art now but a blast.
He gave the spear to my hand, and raised, at once, a stone
on high, to speak to future times, with its grey head of moss. Beneath he placed a
sword
When thou, O stone, shall moulder down, and lose thee, in
the moss of years, then shall the traveller come, and whistling pass away.—Thou
know'st not, feeble man, that fame once shone on
Brightening in his fame, the king strode to Lubar’s
founding oak, where it bent, from its rock, over the bright-tumbling stream. Beneath
it is a narrow plain, and the sound of the fount of the rock.—Here the
standardsun-beam. The reason of this
appellation, I gave, more than once, in my notes on the former collection of
Ossian’s poems.
Grey, at his mossy
cave, is bent the aged form of Clonmal. The eyes of the bard had failed. He leaned
forward, on his staff.
Why art thou dark, said the maid? The strife of arms is
past. Soon
The abrupt manner, in which Ossian quits
the story of Sul-malla, is judicious. His subject led him immediately to relate
the restoration of the family of Conar to the Irish throne; which we may consider
effectually done, by the defeat and death of Cathmor, and the arrival of
Ferad-artho in the Caledonian army. To pursue here, the story of the "Awake, thou daughter of Conmor, from the fern-skirted cavern of
Lona. Awake, thou sun-beam in He is
mixed with the warriors of old, those fires that have hid their heads. At times
shall they come forth in song. Not forgot has the warrior failed.—He has
not seen, Sul-malla, the fall of a beam of his own: no fair-haired son, in his
blood, young troubler of the field.—I am lonely, young branch of Lumon, I
may hear the voice of the feeble, when my strength shall have failed in years, for
young Oscar has ceased, on his field.——* * * * The rest of the
poem is lost; from the story of it, which is still preserved, we understand, that
Sul-malla returned to her own country. Sul-malla makes a considerable figure in
another poem of Ossian; her behaviour in that piece accounts for that partial
regard with which the poet speaks of her throughout Temora.It was the spirit of Cathmor, stalking, large, a gleaming
form. He sunk by the hollow stream, that roared between the hills.—"It was but
the hunter, she said, who searches for the bed of the roe. His steps are not forth to
war; his spouse expects him with night.—He shall, whistling, return, with the
spoils of the dark-brown hinds."——Her eyes are turned to the hill; again
the stately form came down. She rose, in the midst of joy. He retired in mist. Gradual
vanish his limbs of maid of Inis-buna, which was foreign to the subject, would be
altogether inconsistent with the rapid manner of Ossian, and a breach on unity of
time and action, one of the fundamental essentials of the epopœa the rules of which our Celtic bard gathered from
nature, not from the precepts of critics.—Neither did the poet totally
desert the beautiful Sul-malla, deprived of her lover, and a stranger, as she was,
in a foreign land. Tradition relates, that Ossian, the next day after the decisive
battle between Fingal and Cathmor, went to find out Sul-malla, in the valley of
Lona. His address to her, which is still preserved, I here lay before the
reader.
Evening came down on Moi-lena. Grey rolled the streams of
the land. Loud came forth the voice of Fingal: the beam of oaks arose. The people
gathered round with gladness; with gladness blended with shades. They sidelong looked
to the king, and beheld his unfinished joy.—Pleasant, from the way of the
Sudden bursts the song from our bards, on Lena: the host
struck their shields midst the sound. Gladness rose brightening on the king, like the
beam of a cloudy day, when it rises, on the green hill, before the roar of
winds.—He struck the bossy shield of kings; at once they cease around. The
people lean forward, from their spears, towards the voice of their land
Sons of Morven, spread the feast, send the night away on
song. Ye have shone around me, and the dark storm is past. My people are the windy
rocks, from which I spread my eagle-wings, when I rush forth to renown, and seize it
on its field.—Οssian, thou hast the spear of Fingal: it is not the staff of a
boy with which he strews the thistle round, young wanderer of the field.—No: it
is the lance of the mighty, with which they stretched
An address to Malvina, the daughter of Toscar.—The
poet relates the arrival of Cathlin in Selma, to solicit aid against Duth-carmor of
Cluba, who had killed Cathmol, for the sake of his daughter Lanul.—Fingal
declining to make a choice among his heroes, who were all claiming the command of the
expedition; they retired each to his hill of ghosts, to be
determined by dreams. The spirit of Trenmor appears to Ossian and Oscar: they sail, from
the bay of Carmona, and, on the fourth day, appear off the valley of Rath-col, in
Inis-huna, where Duth-carmor had fixed his residence.——Ossian dispatches a
bard to Duth-carmor to demand battle.—Night comes on.—The distress of
Cathlin of Clutha.—Ossian devolves the command on Oscar, who, according to the
custom of the kings of Morven, before battle, retired to a neighbouring
hill.—Upon the coming on of day, the battle joins.—Oscar and Duth-carmor
meet. The latter falls.—Oscar carries the mail and helmet of Duth-carmor to
Cathlin, who had retired from the field. Cathlin is discovered to be the daughter of
Cathmol, in disguise, who had been carried off, by force, by, and had made her escape
from, Duth-carmor.
The traditions, which accompany this poem, inform us, that both
it, and the succeeding piece, went, of old, under the name of "Congal, son of Fergus of Durath, thou light
between thy locks, ascend to the rock of Selma, to the oak of the breaker of
shields. Look over the bosom of night, it is streaked with the red paths of the
dead: look on the night of ghosts, and kindle, O Congal, thy soul. Be not, like the
moon on a stream, lonely in the midst of clouds: darkness closes around it; and the
beam departs.—Depart not, son of Fergus, ere thou markest the field with thy
sword. Ascend to the rock of Selma; to the oak of the breaker of
shields."Laoi-Oi-lutha; i. e. the hymns of the maid of Lutha.
They pretend also to fix the time of its composition, to the third year after the
death of Fingal; that is, during the expedition of Fergus the son of Fingal, to the
banks of Uisca duthon. In support of this opinion, the
Highland senachies have prefixed to this poem, an address of Ossian, to Congal the
young son of Fergus, which I have rejected, as having no manner of connection with
the rest of the piece.——It has poetical merit; and, probably, it was
the opening of one of Ossian’s other poems, tho’ the bards injudiciously transferred
it to the piece now before us.Come, thou beam that art lonely, from
watching in the night! The squally winds are around thee, from all their echoing hills.
Red, over my hundred streams, are the light-covered paths of the dead. They rejoice, on
the eddying winds, in the
I hear thee, from thy darkness, in Selma, thou that watchest,
lonely, by night! Why didst thou with-hold the song, from Ossian’s failing
soul?——As the falling brook to the ear of the hunter, descending from his
storm-covered hill; in a sun-beam rolls the echoing stream; he hears, and shakes his
dewy locks: such is the voice of Lutha, to the friend of the spirits of
heroes.—My swelling bosom beats high. I look back on the days that are
past.——Come, thou beam that art lonely, from the watching of night.
Car-mona, It may not be disagreeable
to the reader to lay here before him the ceremony of the Cran-tara, which was of a
similar nature, and, till very lately, used in the Highlands.—When the news
of an enemy came to the residence of the chief, he immediately killed a goat with
his own sword, dipped the end of an half-burnt piece of wood in the blood, and gave
it to one of his servants, to be carried to the next hamlet. From hamlet to hamlet
this In the echoing bay of Carmonabay of the dark brown hills, an arm of the sea,
in the neighbourhood of Selma.—In this paragraph are mentioned the signals
presented to Fingal, by those who came to demand his aid. The suppliants held, in
one hand, a shield covered with blood, and, in the other, a broken spear; the first
a symbol of the death of their friends, the last an emblem of their own helpless
situation. If the king chose to grant succours, which generally was the case, he
reached to them the shell of feasts, as a token of his
hospitality and friendly intentions towards them.tessera was carried with the utmost expedition, and, in
the space of a few hours, the whole clan were in arms, and convened in an appointed
place; the name of which was the only word that accompanied the delivery of the Cran-tara. This symbol was the manifesto of the chief, by which
he threatened fire and sword to those of his clan, that did not immediately appear
at his standard.
In his hall lies Cathmol of Clutha, by the winding of his own
dark streams. Duth-carmor saw white-bosomed Lanulfull-eyed, a surname which, according to tradition, was bestowed
on the daughter of Cathmol, on account of her beauty; this tradition, however, may
have been founded on that partiality, which the bards have shewn to Cathlin of Clutha; for, according to them, no falshood could
dwell in the soul of the lovely.
Selma’s king looked around. In his presence, we rose in arms.
But who should lift the shield? for all had claimed the war. The night came down; we
strode, in silence; each to his hill of ghosts: that spirits might descend, in our
dreams, to mark us for the field.
We struck the shield of the dead, and raised the hum of songs. We thrice called the ghosts of our fathers. We laid us down in dreams.——Trenmor came, before mine eyes, the tall form of other years. His blue hosts were behind him in half-distinguished rows. Scarce seen is their strife in mist, or their stretching forward to deaths. I listened; but no sound was there. The forms were empty wind.
I started from the dream of ghosts. On a sudden blast flew my
whistling hair. Low-sounding, in the oak, is the departure of the dead. I took my shield
from its bough. Onward came the rattling of steel. It was OscarOscar of Lego, from his mother being the
daughter of Branno, a powerful chief, on the banks of that lake. It is remarkable that
Ossian addresses no poem to Malvina, in which her lover Oscar was not one of the
principal actors. His attention to her, after the death of his son, shews that
delicacy of sentiment is not confined, as some fondly imagine, to our own polished
times.
As rushes forth the blast, on the bosom of whitening waves;
so careless shall my course be, thro’ ocean, to the dwelling of foes. I have seen the
dead, my father. My beating soul is high. My fame is bright before me, like the streak
of light on a cloud, when the broad sun comes forth, red traveller of the sky.
Grandson of Branno, I said; not Oscar alone shall meet the
foe. I rush forward, thro’ ocean, to the woody dwelling of heroes. Let us contend, my
son, like eagles, from one rock; when they lift their broad wings, against the stream of
winds.—We raised our sails in Carmona. From three ships, they marked my shield on
the wave, as I looked on nightly Ton-thenafire of the wave, was that remarkable star, which, as has been
mentioned in the seventh book of Temora, directed the course of Larthon to Ireland. It
seems to have been well known to those, who sailed on that sea, which divides Ireland
from South-Britain. As the course of Ossian was along the coast of Inis-huna, he
mentions with propriety, that star which directed the voyage of the colony from that
country to Ireland.
A green field, in the bosom of hills, winds silent with its
own blue stream. Here, midst the waving of oaks, were the dwellings of kings of old. But
silence, for many dark-brown years, had settled in grassy Rath-colwoody field, does not appear to have been the
residence of Duth-carmor: he seems rather to have been forced thither by a storm; at
least I should think that to be the meaning of the poet, from his expression, that Ton-thena had hid her head, and that he bound
his white-bosomed sails; which is as much as to say, that the weather was
stormy, and that Duth-carmor put in to the bay of Rathcol for shelter.
We came. I sent the bard, with songs, to call the foe to
fight. Duth-carmor heard him, with joy. The king’s soul was like a beam of fire; a beam
of fire, marked with smoak, rushing, varied thro’ the bosom of night. The deeds of
Duth-carmor were dark, tho’ his arm was strong.
Night came, with the gathering of clouds. By the beam of the
oak we sat down. At a distance stood Cathlin of Clutha. I saw the changingas those
rain-bows of heaven are changeful, say my authors, speaking of women, she felt
the return of her former passion, upon the approach of Duth-carmor’s danger.—I
myself, who think more favourably of the sex, must attribute the agitation of
Cathlin’s mind to her extream sensibility to the injuries done her by Duth-carmor: and
this opinion is favoured by the sequel of the story.
Oscar of Lego, I said, be thine the secret hillson of
Loda.—Magic and incantation could not, however, prevail; for Trenmor,
assisted by the valour of his son Trathal, entirely broke the power of the Druids.
Wide, in Caracha’s echoing field, Carmal had poured his
tribes. They were a dark ridge of waves; the grey-haired bards were like moving foam on
their face. They kindled the strife around, with their red-rolling eyes.—Nor
alone were the dwellers of rocks;
But, Trenmor, they turned not from battle; he drew forward
the troubled war; in its dark skirt was Trathal, like a rising light.—It was
dark; and Loda’s son poured forth his signs, on night.—The feeble were not before
thee, son of other lands!
Then rose the strife
of kings, about the hill of night; but it was soft as two summer gales, shaking their
light wings, on a lake.——Trenmor yielded to his son; for the fame of the
king was heard.—Trathal came forth before his father, and the foes sailed, in
echoing Caracha. The years that are past, my son, are marked with mighty deeds
In clouds rose the eastern light. The foe came forth in arms.
The strife is mixed at Rath-col, like the roar of streams. Behold the contending of
kings! They meet beside the oak. In gleams
Nor, in the field, are the steps of Cathlin. The stranger
stood by a secret stream, where the foam of Rath-col skirted the mossy stones. Above,
bends the branchy birch, and strews its leaves, on winds. The inverted spear of Cathlin
touched, at times, the stream.——Oscar brought Duth-carmor’s mail: his
helmet with its eagle-wing. He placed them before the stranger, and his words were
heard.——"The foes of thy father have failed. They are laid in the field of
ghosts. Renown returns to Morven, like a rising wind. Why art thou dark, chief of
Clutha? Is there cause for grief?"
Son of Ossian of harps, my soul is darkly sad. I behold the
arms of Cathmol, which he raised in war. Take the mail of Cathlin, place it high in
Selma’s hall; that thou mayst remember the hapless in thy distant land.
From white breasts descended the mail. It was the race of
kings; the soft-handed daughter of Cathmol, at the streams of Clutha.—Duth-carmor saw
her bright in the hall, he came, by night, to Clutha. Cathmol met him, in battle, but
the hero fell. Three days dwelt the foe, with the maid. On the fourth she fled in arms.
She remembered the race of kings, and felt her bursting soul.
Why, maid of Toscar of Lutha, should I tell how Cathlin
failed? Her tomb is at rushy Lumon, in a distant land. Near it were the steps of
Sul-malla, in the days of grief. She raised the song, for the daughter of strangers, and
touched the mournful harp.
Come, from the watching of night, Malvina, lonely beam!
This poem, which, properly speaking, is a continuation of the
last, opens with an address to Sul-malla, the daughter of the king of Inis-huna, whom
Ossian met, at the chace, as he returned from the battle of Rath-col. Sul-malla invites
Ossian and Oscar to a feast, at the residence of her father, who was then absent in the
wars.——Upon hearing their name and family, she relates an expedition of
Fingal into Inis-huna. She casually mentioning Cathmor, chief of Atha, (who then
assisted her father against his enemies) Ossian introduces the episode of Culgorm and
Surandronlo, two Scandinavian kings, in whose wars Ossan himself and Cathmor were
engaged on opposite sides.——The story is imperfect, a part of the original
being lost.—Ossian, warned, in a dream, by the ghost of Trenmor, sets sail from
Inis-huna.
The expedition of Ossian to Inis-huna happened a short time
before Fingal passed over into Ireland, to dethrone Cairbar the son of
Borbar-duthul. Cathmor, the brother of Cairbar, was aiding Conmor, king of
Inis-huna, in his wars, at the time that Ossian defeated Duth-carmor, in the valley
of Rath-col. The poem is more interesting, that it contains so many particulars
concerning those personages, who make so great a figure in Temora. The exact
correspondence in the manners and customs of Inis-huna, as here described, to those
of Caledonia, leaves no room to doubt, that the inhabitants of both were originally
the same people. Some may alledge, that Ossian might transfer, in his poetical
descriptions, the manners of his own nation to foreigners. This objection is easily
answered. Why has he not done this with regard to the inhabitants of
Scandinavia?—We find the latter very different in their customs and
superstitions from the nations of Britain and Ireland. The Scandinavian manners are
remarkably barbarous and fierce, and seem to mark out a nation much less advanced in
a state of civilization, than the inhabitants of Britain were in the times of
Ossian.Who moves so stately, on Lumon, at the
roar of the foamy waters? Her hair falls upon her heaving breast. White is her arm
behind, as slow she bends the bow. Why dost thou wander in desarts, like a light thro’ a
cloudy field? The
It was the young branch of Lumon, Sul-malla of blue eyes. She
sent the bard from her rock, to bid us to her feast. Amidst the song we sat down, in
Conmor’s echoing hall. White moved the hands of Sul-malla, on the trembling strings.
Half-heard, amidst the found, was the name of Atha’s king: he that was absent in battle
for her own green land.—Nor absent from her soul was he: he came midst her
thoughts by night: Ton-thena looked in, from the sky, and saw her tossing arms.
The sound of the shells had ceased. Amidst long locks,
Sul-malla rose. She spoke with bended eyes, and asked of our course thro' seas; “for of
the kings of men are ye, tall riders of the wave
Not unmarked, said the maid, by Sul-malla, is the shield of
Morven’s king. It hangs high, in Conmor’s hall, in memory of the past; when Fingal came
to Cluba, in the days of other years. Loud roared the boar of Culdarnu, in the midst of
his rocks and woods. Inis-huna sent her youths, but they failed; and virgins wept over
tombs,—Careless went the king to Culdarnu. On his spear rolled the strength of
the woods.—He was bright, they said, in his looks, the first of mortal
men.—Nor at the feast were heard his words. His deeds passed from his soul of
fire, like the rolling of vapours from the face of the wandering sun.—Not
careless looked the blue eyes of Cluba on his stately steps. In white bosoms rose the
king of Selma, in midst of their thoughts by night. But the winds bore the stranger to
the echoing vales of his roes.——Nor lost to other lands was he, like a
meteor that sinks in a cloud. He came forth, at times, in his brightness, to the distant
dwelling of foes. His fame came, like the sound of winds, to Cluba’s woody vale
Darkness dwells in Cluba of harps: the race of kings is
distant far; in battle is Conmor of spears; and Lormar
Not unseen by Ossian, I said, rushed Cathmor from his
streams, when he poured his strength on I-thorno
They met a boar, at a foamy stream: each pierced it with his
spear. They strove for the fame of the deed: and gloomy battle rose. From isle to isle
they sent a spear, broken and stained with blood, to call the friends of their fathers,
in their sounding arms. Cathmor came, from Bolga, to Culgorm, red-eyed king: I aided
Suran-dronlo, in his land of boars.
We rushed on either side of a stream, which roared thro’ a
blasted heath. High broken rocks were round, with all their bending trees. Near are two
circles of Loda, with the stone of power; where spirits descended, by night, in dark-red
streams of fire.——There, mixed with the murmur of waters, rose the voice
of aged men, they called the forms of night, to aid them in their war.
Heedless I stood, with my people,
where fell the foamy stream from rocks. The moon moved red from the mountain. My song,
at times, arose. Dark, on the other side, young Cathmor heard my voice; for he lay,
beneath the oak, in all his gleaming arms.——Morning came; we rushed to
fight: from wing to wing is the rolling of strife. They fell, like the thistle’s head,
beneath autumnal winds.
In armour came a stately form: I mixed my strokes with the
king. By turns our shields are pierced: loud rung our steely mails. His helmet fell to
the ground. In brightness shone the foe. His
Not so passed the striving kings
Tradition has handed
down the name of this princess. The bards call her Runo-forlo, which has no other
sort of title for being genuine, but its not being of Galic original; a distinction,
which the bards had not the art to preserve, when they feigned names for foreigners.
The highland senachies, who very often endeavoured to supply the deficiency, they
thought they found in the tales of Ossian, have given us the continuation of the
story of the daughter of Suran-dronlo. The catastrophe is so unnatural, and the
circumstances of it so ridiculously pompous, that, for the sake of the inventors, I
shall conceal them. The wildly beautiful appearance of Runo-forlo, made a deep
impression on a chief, some ages ago, who was himself no contemptible poet. The
story is romantic, but not incredible, if we make allowances for the lively
imagination of a man of genius.—Our chief sailing, in a storm, along one of
the islands of Orkney, saw a woman, in a boat, near the shore, whom he thought, as
he expresses it himself, The battle ceased in I-thorno. The strangers met in peace:
Cathmor from Atha of streams, and Ossian, king of harps. We placed the dead in earth.
Our steps were by Runar’s bay. With the bounding boat, afar, advanced a ridgy wave. Dark
was the rider of seas, but a beam of light was there, like the ray of the sun, in
Stromlo’s rolling smoak. It was the daughteras beautiful as a sudden ray of the sun,
on the dark-heaving deep. The verses of Ossian, on the attitude of
Runo-forlo, which was so similar to that of the woman in the boat, wrought so much
on his fancy, that he fell desperately in love.—The winds, however, drove him
from the coast, and, after a few days, he arrived at his residence in
Scotland.—There his passion increased to such a degree, that two of his
friends, fearing the consequence, sailed to the Orkneys, to carry to him the object
of his desire.—Upon enquiry they soon found the nymph, and carried her to the
enamoured chief; but mark his surprize, when, instead of a ray of
the sun, he saw a skinny fisher-woman, more than middle aged, appearing
before him.—Tradition here ends the story: but it may be easily supposed that
the passion of the chief soon subsided.
Come, ye dwellers of Loda! Carchar, pale in the midst of
clouds! Sluthmor, that stridest in airy halls! Corchtur, terrible in winds! Receive,
from his daughter’s spear, the foes of Suran-dronlo.
No shadow, at his roaring streams; no mildly-looking form was
he! When he took up his spear, the hawks shook their sounding wings: for blood was
poured around the steps of dark-eyed Surandronlo.
He lighted me, no harmless beam, to glitter on his streams.
Like meteors, I was bright, but I blasted the foes of
Suran-dronlo——
Nor unconcerned heard Sul-malla, the praise of Cathmor of
shields. He was within her soul, like a fire in secret heath, which awakes at the voice
of the blast, and sends its beam abroad. Amidst the song removed the daughter of kings,
like the soft sound of a summer-breeze; when it lifts the heads of flowers, and curls
the lakes and streams.
By night came a dream to Ossian; without form stood the
shadow of Trenmor. He seemed to strike the dim shield, on Selma’s streamy rock. I rose,
in my rattling steel; I knew that war was near. Before the winds our sails were spread;
when Lumon shewed its streams to the morn.
Come from the watching of night, Malvina, lonely beam!
Fingal, in one of his voyages to the Orkney islands, was
driven, by stress of weather, into a bay of Scandinavia, near the residence of Starno,
king of Lochlin. Starno invites Fingal to a feast. Fingal, doubting the faith of the
king, and mindful of his former breach of hospitality, [Fingal, b. 3.] refuses to
go.——Starno gathers together his tribes: Fingal resolves to defend
himself.——Night coming on, Duth-maruno proposes to Fingal, to observe
the motions of the enemy.—The king himself undertakes the watch. Advancing
towards the enemy, he, accidentally, comes to the cave of Turthor, where Starno had
confined Conban-carglas, the captive daughter of a neighbouring chief.—Her
story is imperfect, a part of the original being lost.—Fingal comes to a place
of worship, where Starno and his son, Swaran, consulted the spirit of Loda, concerning
the issue of the war.—The rencounter of Fingal and Swaran.—The duän concludes, with a description of the airy hall of
Cruth-loda supposed to be the Odin of Scandinavia.
A tale of the times of old!—Why, thou wanderer
unseen, that bendest the thistle of Lora,—why, thou breeze of the valley, hast
thou left mine ear? I hear no distant roar of streams, no sound of the harp, from the
rocks! Come, thou huntress of Lutha, roll back his soul to the bard.
I look forward to Lochlin of lakes, to the dark, ridgy bay
of U-thorno, where Fingal descended from Ocean, from the roar of winds. Few are the
heroes of Morven, in a land unknown!—Starno sent a dweller of Loda, to bid
Fingal to the feast; but the king remembered the past, and all his rage arose.
Nor Gormal’s mossy towers, nor Starno shall Fingal behold.
Deaths wander, like shadows, over his fiery soul. Do I forget that beam of light, the
white-handed daughter
Duth-marunoblack and steady; Cromma glas, bending and swarthy; Struthmor, roaring stream;
Cormar, expert at sea.
Around him they rose in wrath.—No words came forth:
they seized their spears. Each soul is rolled into itself.—At length the sudden
clang is waked, on all their echoing shields.—Each took his hill, by night; at
intervals, they darkly stood. Unequal bursts the hum of songs, between the roaring
wind.—Broad over them rose the moon.—In his arms, came tall Duth-maruno;
he from Cromacharn of rocks, stern hunter of the boar. In his dark boat he rose on
waves, when Crumthormoth
Son of Comhal, he said, my steps shall be forward thro’
night. From this shield I shall view them, over their gleaming tribes. Starno, of
lakes, is before me, and Swaran, the foe of strangers. Their words are not in vain, by
Loda’s stone of power.—If Duth-maruno returns not, his spouse is lonely, at
home, where meet two roaring streams, on Crathmo-craulo’s plain. Around are hills,head
of the people, the son of Duth-maruno. He became afterwards famous, in the
expeditions of Ossian, after the death of Fingal. The traditional tales concerning
him are very numerous, and, from the epithet, in them, bestowed on him (Candona of boars) it would appear, that he applied himself to
that kind of hunting, which his father, in this paragraph, is so anxious to
recommend to him. As I have mentioned the traditional tales of the Highlands, it may
not be improper here, to give some account of them. After the expulsion of the
bards, from the houses of the chiefs, they, being an indolent race of men, owed all
their subsistence to the generosity of the vulgar, whom they diverted with repeating
the ccmpositions of their predecessors, and running up the genealogies of their
entertainers to the family of their chiefs. As this subject was, however, soon
exhausted, they were obliged to have recourse to invention, and form stories having
no foundation in fact which were swallowed, with great credulity, by an ignorant
multitude. By frequent repeating, the fable grew upon their hands, and, as each
threw in whatever circumstance he thought conducive to raise the admiration of his
hearers, the slory became, at last, so devoid of all probability, that even the
vulgar themselves did not believe it. They, however, liked the tales so well, that
the bards found their advantage in turning professed tale-makers. They then launched
out into the wildest regions of fiction and romance. I firmly believe, there are
more stories of giants, enchanted castles, dwarfs, and palfreys, in the Highlands,
than in any country in Europe. These tales, it is certain, like other romantic
compositions, have many things in them unnatural, and, consequently, disgustful to
true taste, but, I know not how it happens, they command attention more than any
other fictions I ever met with.—The extream length of these pieces is very
surprising, some of them requiring many days to repeat them, but such hold they take
of the memory, that few circumstances are ever omitted by those who have received
them only from oral tradition: What is still more amazing, the very language of the
bards is still preserved. It is curious to see, that the descriptions of
magnificence, introduced in these tales, is even superior to all the pompous
oriental fictions of the kind.
Not forgeting my fathers, said Fingal, I have bounded over
ridgy seas: theirs was the times of danger, in the days of old. Nor gathers darkness
on me, before foes, tho’ I am young, in my locks.—Chief of Crathmo-craulo, the
field of night is mine.
He rushed, in all his arms, wide-bounding over Turthor’s
dream, that sent its sullen roar, by night, thro’ Gormal’s misty vale.—A
moon-beam glittered on a rock; in the midst, stood a stately form; a form with
floating locks, like Lochlin’s white-bosomed maids.—Unequal are her steps, and
short: she throws a broken song on wind. At times she tosses her white arms: for grief
is in her soul.
Torcul-torno, according
to tradition, was king of Crathlun, a district in Sweden. The river Lulan ran near
the residence of Torcul-torno. There is a river in Sweden, still called Lula,
which is probably the same with Lulan. The war between Starno and
Torcul-torno,which terminated in the death of the latter, had its rise at a
hunting party. Starno being invited, in a friendly manner, by Torcul-torno, both
kings, with their followers, went to the mountains of Stivamor, to hunt. A boar
rushed from the wood before the kings, and Torcul-torno killed it. Siarno thought
this behaviour a breach upon the privilege of guests, who were always The paragraph, just now before us, is the song of
Conban-carglas, at the time she was discovered by Fingal. It is in Lyric measure,
and set to music, which is wild and simple, and so inimitably suited to the
situation of the unhappy lady, that few can hear it without tears.Torcul-tornohonoured, as tradition expresses it, with
the danger of the chace. A quarrel arose, the kings came to battle, with
all their attendants, and the party of Torcul-torno were totally defeated, and he
himself slain. Starno pursued his victory, laid waste the district of Crathlun,
and, coming to the residence of Torcul-torno, carried off, by force,
Conban-carglas, the beautiful daughter of his enemy. Her he confined in a cave,
near the palace of Gormal, where, on account of her cruel treatment, she became
distracted.
Thou, sometimes, hidest the moon, with thy shield. I have
seen her dim, in heaven. Thou kindlest thy hair into meteors, and sailest along the
night.—Why am I forgot, in my cave, king of shaggy boars? Look, from the hall
of Loda, on lonely Conban-carglas.
"Who art thou, said Fingal, voice of night?
——She, trembling, turned away. “Who art thou, in thy darkness?"
——She shrunk into the cave.——The king loosed the thong
from her hands; he asked about her fathers.
Torcul-torno, she said, once dwelt at Lulan’s foamy stream:
he dwelt——but, now, in Loda’s hall, he shakes the sounding shell. He met
Starno of Lochlin, in battle; long fought the dark-eyed kings. My father fell, at
length, blue-shielded Torcul-torno.
By a rock, at Lulan’s stream, I had pierced the bounding
roe. My white hand gathered my hair, from off the stream of winds. I heard a noise.
Mine eyes were up. My soft breast rose on high. My step was forward, at Lulan, to meet
thee, Torcul-torno!
It was Starno, dreadful king!——His red eyes
rolled on Conban-carglas. Dark waved his shaggy brow, above his gathered smile. Where
is my father, I said, he that was mighty in war? Thou are left alone among foes,
daughter of Torcul-torno!
He took my hand. He raised the sail. In this cave he placed
me dark. At times, he comes, a gathered mist. He lifts, before me, my father’s shield.
Often passes a beamthe beam of youth,
it afterwards appears, that Conban-carglas means Swaran, the son of Starno, with
whom, during her confinement, she had fallen in love.
Daughter of Lulan, said Fingal, white-handed
Conban-carglas; a cloud, marked with streaks of fire, is rolled along the soul. Look
not to that dark-robed moon; nor yet to those meteors of heaven; my gleaming steel is
around thee, daughter of Torcul-torno.
It is not the steel of the feeble, nor of the dark in soul.
The maids are not shut in our
Fingal, again, advanced his steps, wide thro’ the bosom of
night, to where the trees of Loda shook amidst squally winds. Three stones, with heads
of moss, are there; a stream, with
They heard the tread of Fingal. The warriors rose in arms.
“Swaran, lay that wanderer low, said Starno, in his pride. Take the shield of thy
father; it is a rock in war.”—Swaran threw his gleaming spear: it stood fixed
in Loda’s tree. Then came the foes forward, with swords. They mixed their rattling
steel. Thro’ the thongs of Swaran’s shield rushed the blade
Nor unseen of his father is Swaran. Starno turned away in
wrath. His shaggy brows waved dark, above his gathered rage. He struck Loda’s tree,
with his spear; he raised the hum of songs.—They came to the host of Lochlin,
each in his own dark path; like two foam-covered streams, from two rainy vales.
To Turthor’s plain Fingal returned. Fair rose the beam of
the east. It shone on the spoils of Lochlin in the hand of the king. From her cave
came forth, in her beauty, the daughter of Torcul-torno. She gathered her hair from
wind; and wildly raised her song. The song of Lulan of shells, where once her father
dwelt.
She saw Starno’s bloody shield. Gladness rose, a light, on
her face. She saw the cleft helmet of Swaran
U-thorno, that risest in waters; on whose side are the
meteors of night! I behold the dark moon descending behind thy echoing woods. On thy
top dwells the misty Loda, the house of the spirits of men.—In the end of his
cloudy hall bends forward Cruth-loda of swords. His form is dimly seen, amidst his
wavy mist. His right-hand is on his shield: in his left is the half-viewless shell.
The roof of his dreadful hall is marked with nightly fires.
The race of Cruth-loda advance, a ridge of formless shades.
He reaches the sounding shell, to those who shone in war; but, between him and the
feeble, his shield rises, a crust of darkness. He is a setting meteor to the weak in
arms.—Bright, as a rainbow on streams, came white-armed
Conban-carglas.——
Fingal returning, with day, devolves the command of the
army on Duth-maruno, who engages the enemy, and drives them over the stream of
Turthor. Fingal, after recalling his people, congratulates Duth-maruno on his success,
but discovers, that that hero was mortally wounded in the
engagement.—Duth-maruno dies. Ullin, the bard, in honour of the dead,
introduces the episode of Colgorm and Strina-dona, with which the duän concludes.
Where art thou, son of the king, said dark-haired
Duth-maruno? Where hast thou
failed, young beam of
Selma?—He returns not from the bosom of night! Morning is spread U-thorno: in
his mist is the sun, on his hill.—Warriors, lift the shields, in my presence.
He must not fall, like a fire from heaven, whose place is not marked on the
ground.——He comes, like an eagle, from the skirt of his squally wind! In
his hand are the spoils of foes.—King of Selma, our souls were sad.
Near us are the foes, Duth-maruno. They come forward, like
waves in mist, when their foamy tops are seen, at times, above the low-sailing
vapour.—The traveller shrinks on his journey, and knows not whither to
fly.—No trembling travellers are we!—Sons
Caël, or
Gauls, who possessed the countries to the of the Firth of Edinburgh, were,
originally, a number of distinct tribes, or clans, each subject to its own chief,
who was free and independent of any other power. When the Romans invaded them, the
common danger might, perhaps, have induced those reguli to
join together, but, as they were unwilling to yield to the command of one of their
own number, their battles were ill-conducted, and, consequently,
unsuccessful.—Trenmor was the first who represented to the chiefs, the bad
consequences of carrying on their wars in this irregular manner, and advised, that
they themselves should alternately lead in battle. They did so, but they were
unsuccessful. When it came to Trenmor’s turn, he totally defeated the enemy, by his
superior valour and conduct, which gained him such an interest among the tribes,
that he, and his family after him, were regarded as kings; or, to use the poet’s
expression, the words of power rushed forth from Selma of
kings.—The regal authority, however, except in time of war, was but
inconsiderable; for every chief, within his own district, was absolute and
independent.—From the scene of the battle in this episode, (which was in the
valley of Crona, a little to the north of Agricola’s wall) I should suppose, that
the enemies of the Caledonians were the Romans, or provincial Britons.The deeds of old, said Duth-maruno, are like paths to our
eyes, O Fingal. Broad-shielded Trenmor, is still seen, amidst his own dim years. Nor
feeble was the soul of the king. There, no dark deed wandered in
secret.——From their hundred streams came the tribes, to grassy
Colglan-crona. Their chiefs were before them. Each strove to lead the war. Their
swords were often half-un-sheathed. Red rolled their eyes of rage. Separate they
stood, and hummed their surly songs.——"Why should they yield to each
other? their fathers were equal in war."
Trenmor was there, with his people, stately in youthful
locks. He saw the advancing foe. The grief of his soul arose. He bade
"Not unknown, said Cromma-glaswho was the guiding star of the women of
Erin. The bard, it is to be hoped, misrepresented the ladies of his country,
for Morna’s behaviour was, according to him, so void of all decency and virtue, that
it cannot be supposed, they had chosen her for their guiding
star.——The poem consists of many stanzas. The language is
figurative, and the numbers harmonious; but the piece is so full of anachronism, and
so unequal in its composition, that the author, most undoubtedly, was either mad, or
drunk, when he wrote it.——It is worthy of being remarked, that Comhal
is, in this poem, very often called, Comhal na h'Albin, or
Comhal of Albion, which sufficiently demonstrates, that the
allegations of Keating and O Flaherty, concerning Fion
Mac-Comnal, are but of late invention.
Like the murmur of waters, the race of U-thorno came down.
Starno led the battle, and Swaran of stormy isles. They looked forward from iron
shields, like Cruth-loda fiery-eyed, when he looks from behind the darkened moon, and
strews his signs on night.
The foes met by Turthor’s stream. They heaved like ridgy
waves. Their echoing strokes are mixed. Shadowy death flies over the hosts. They were
clouds of hail, with squally winds in their skirts. Their showers are roaring
together. Below them swells the dark-rolling deep.
Strife of gloomy U-thorno, why should I mark thy wounds?
Thou art with the years that are gone; thou fadest on my soul. Starno brought forward
his skirt of war, and Swaran his own dark wing. Nor a harmless fire is Duth-maruno’s
word.—Lochlin is rolled over her streams. The wrathful kings are folded in
thoughts. They roll their silent eyes, over the flight of their land.—The horn
of Fingal was heard; the sons of woody Albion returned. But many lay, by Turthor’s
stream, silent in their blood.
Chief of Crom-charn, said the king, Duth-maruno, hunter of
boars! not harmless returns my eagle, from the field of foes. For this white-bosomed
Lanul shall brighten, at her streams; Candona shall rejoice, at rocky
Crathmo-craulo.
Colgorm
He drew an arrow from his side. He fell pale, in a land
unknown. His soul came forth to his fathers, to their stormy isle. There they pursued
boars of mist, along the skirts of winds.——The chiefs stood silent
around, as the stones of Loda, on their hill. The traveller sees them, thro’ the
twilight, from his lonely path. He thinks them the ghosts of the aged, forming future
wars.
Night came down, on U-thorno. Still stood the chiefs in
their grief. The blast hissed, by turns, thro’ every warrior's hair.—Fingal, at
length, bursted forth from the thoughts of his soul. He called Ullin of harps, and
bade the song to rise.—No falling fire, that is only seen, and then retires in
night; no departing meteor was Crathmo-craulo’s chief. He was like the strong-beaming
sun, long rejoicing on his hill. Call the names of his fathers, from their dwellings
old.
I-thornoFón
Oi-marra or, the Song of mermaids. Some part of the
air is absolutely infernal, but there are many returns in the measure, which are
inexpressibly wild and beautiful. From the genius of the music, I should think it
came originally from Scandinavia, for the fictions delivered down concerning the Oi-marra, (who are reputed the authors of the music) exactly
correspond with the notions of the northern nations, concerning their diræ or, goddesses of death.—Of all the names in
this episode, there is none of a Galic original, except Strina-dona, which
signifies, the strife of heroes.
In Tormoth’s resounding isle, arose Lurthan, streamy hill.
It bent its woody head above a silent vale. There, at foamy Cruruth’s source, dwelt
Rurmar, hunter of boars. His daughter was fair as a sun-beam, white-bosomed
Strina-dona!
Many a king of heroes, and hero of iron shields; many a
youth of heavy locks came to Rurmar’s echoing hall. They came to woo the maid, the
stately huntress of Tormoth wild.—But thou lookest careless from thy steps,
high-bosomed Strina-dona!
If on the heath she moved, her breast was whiter than the
down of CanaCana is a certain kind of
grass, which grows plentiful in the heathy morasses of the north. Its stalk is of
the reedy kind, and it carries a tuft of down, very much resembling cotton. It is
excessively white, and, consequently, often introduced by the bards, in their
similies concerning the beauty of women.
Colgorm came, in his ship, and Corcul-Suran, king of
shells. The brothers came, from I-thorno, to woo the sun-beam of Tormoth’s isle. She
saw them in their echoing steel. Her soul was fixed on blue-eyed
Colgorm.—Ul-lochlin’sguide to Lochlin; the name of a star.
Wrathful the brothers frowned. Their flaming eyes, in
silence, met. They turned away. They struck their shields. Their hands were trembling
on their swords. They rushed into the strife of heroes, for long-haired
Strina-dona.
Corcul-suran fell in blood. On his isle, raged the strength
of his father. He turned Colgorm, from I-thorno, to wander on all the winds.—In
Crathmo-craulo’s rocky field, he dwelt, by a foreign stream. Nor darkened the king
alone, that beam of light was near, the daughter of echoing Tormoth, white-armed
Strina-dona
Ossian, after some reflections, describes the situation of
Fingal, and the position of the army of Lochlin.—The conversation of Starno and
Swaran.—The episode of Cormar-trunar and Foinar-bragal.—Starno, from his
own example, recommends to Swaran, to surprize Fingal, who had retired alone to a
neighbouring hill. Upon Swaran’s refusal, Starno undertakes the enterprize himself, is
overcome, and taken prisoner, by Fingal.—He is dismissed, after a severe
reprimand for his cruelty.
Whence is the stream of years? Whither do they roll along?
Where have they hid, in mist, their many-coloured sides? I look into the times of old,
but they seem dim to Ossian’s eyes, like reflected moon-beams, on a distant lake. Here
rise the red beams of war!—There, silent, dwells a feeble race! They mark no
years with their deeds, as slow they pass along.—Dweller between the shields;
thou that awakest the failing soul, descend from thy wall, harp of Cona, with thy
voices three! Come with that which kindles the past: rear the forms of old, on their
own dark-brown years!
Ossian
Mac-Fion. It however appears, from several pious ejaculations, that it was
rather the composition of some good priest, in the fifteenth or sixteenth century,
for he speaks, with great devotion, of pilgrimage, and more particularly, of the blue-eyed daughters of the convent. Religious, however, as this
poet was, he was not altogether decent, in the scenes he introduces between Swaran
and the wife of Congcullion, both of whom he represents as
giants. It happening unfortunately, that Congcullion was only
of a moderate stature, his wife, without hesitation, preferred Swaran, as a more
adequate match for her own gigantic size. From this fatal preference proceeded so
much mischief, that the good poet altogether lost sight of his principal action, and
he ends the piece, with an advice to men, in the choice of their wives, which,
however good it may be, I shall leave concealed in the obscurity of the original.
Uthorno, hill of storms, I behold my race on thy
side. Fingal is bending, in night, over Duth-maruno’s tomb. Near
He twice struck the tree in wrath. He rushed before his
son. He hummed a surly song; and heard his hair in wind. Turned
Annir, said Starno of lakes, was a fire that consumed of
old. He poured death from his eyes, along the striving fields. His joy was in the fall
of men. Blood, to him, was a summer stream, that brings joy to withered vales, from
its own mossy rock.—He came forth to the lake Luth-cormo, to meet the tall
Corman-trunar, he from Urlor of streams, dweller of battle’s wing.
The chief of Urlor had come to Gormal, with his
dark-bosomed ships; he saw the daughter of Annir, white-armed Foinar-bragal. He saw
her: nor careless rolled her eyes, on the rider of stormy waves. She fled to his ship
in darkness, like a moon-beam thro’ a nightly vale.—Annir pursued along the
deep; he called the winds of heaven.—Nor alone was the king; Starno was by his
side. Like U-thorno’s young eagle, I turned my eyes on my father.
We came to roaring Urlor. With his people came tall
Corman-trunar. We fought; but the foe prevailed. In his wrath stood Annir of lakes. He
lopped the young trees, with his sword. His eyes rolled red in his rage. I marked the
soul of the king, and I retired in night.——From the field I took a
broken helmet: a shield that was pierced with steel: pointless was the spear in my
hand. I went to find the foe.
On a rock sat tall Corman-trunar, beside his burning oak;
and, near him, beneath a tree, sat deep-bosomed Foinar-bragal. I threw my broken
shield before her; and spoke the words of peace.—Beside his rolling sea, lies
Annir of many lakes. The king was pierced in battle; and Starno is to raise his tomb.
Me, a son of Loda, he sends to white-handed Foinar-bragal, to bid her send a lock from
her hair, to rest with her father, in earth.—And thou king of roaring Urlor,
let the battle cease, till Annir receive the shell, from fiery-eyed Cruth-loda.
Bursting into
tears, she rose, and tore a lock from her hair; a lock, which wandered, in the blast,
along her heaving breast.—Corman-trunar gave the shell; and bade me to rejoice
before him.—I rested in the shade of night; and hid my face in my helmet
deep.—Sleep descended on the foe. I rose, like a stalking ghost. I pierced the
side of Corman-trunar. Nor did Foinar-bragal escape. She rolled her white bosom in
blood. Why then, daughter of heroes, didst thou wake my rage?—Morning rose. The
foe were fled, like the departure of mist. Annir struck his bossy shield. He called
his dark-haired son. I came, streaked with wandering blood: thrice rose the shout of
the king, like the bursting forth of a squall of wind, from a cloud, by
night.—We rejoiced, three days, above the dead, and called the hawks of heaven.
They came, from all their winds, to feast on Annir’s foes.—Swaran!—
Son of Annir of Gormal, Swaran shall not stay in shades. I
move forth in light: the hawks rush from all their winds. They are wont to trace my
course: it is not harmless thro’ war.
Burning rose the rage of the king. He thrice raised his
gleaming spear. But, starting, he spared his son; and rushed into the night.—By
Turthor’s stream a cave is dark, the dwelling of Conban-carglas. There he laid the
helmet of kings, and called the maid of Lulan, but she was distant far, in Loda’s
resounding hall.
Swelling in his rage, he strode, to where Fingal lay alone.
The king was laid on his shield, on his own secret hill.—Stern hunter of shaggy
boars, no feeble maid is laid before thee; no boy, on his ferny bed, by Turthor’s
murmuring stream. Here is spread the couch of the mighty, from which they rise to
deeds of death. Hunter of shaggy boars awaken not the terrible.
Starno came murmuring on. Fingal arose in arms. “Who art
thou, son of night?” Silent he threw the spear. They mixed their gloomy strife. The
shield of Starno fell, cleft in twain. He is bound to an oak. The early beam
arose.—Then Fingal beheld the king of Gormal. He rolled a while his silent
eyes. He thought
A tale of the times of old!
After an address to Malvina, the daughter of Toscar, Ossian
proceeds to relate his own expedition to Fuärfed, an island of
Scandinavia.—Mal-orchol, king of Fuärfed, being hard pressed in war, by
Ton-thormod, chief of Sar-dronlo, (who had demanded, in vain, the daughter of Mal-orchol
in marriage) Fingal sent Ossian to his aid.——Ossian, on the day after his
arrival, came to battle with Ton-thormod, and took him prisoner.—Mal-orchol
offers his daughter Oina-morul to Ossian; but he, discovering her passion for
Ton-thormod, generously surrenders her to her lover, and brings about a reconciliation
between the two kings.
As flies the unconstant sun, over Larmon's grassy hill; so
pass the tales of old, along my soul, by night. When bards are removed to their place;
when harps are hung in Selma's hall; then comes a voice to Ossian, and awakes his soul.
It is the voice of years that are gone: they roll before me, with all their deeds. I
seize the tales, as they pass, and pour them forth in song. Nor a troubled stream is the
song of the king, it is like the rising of music from Lutha of the strings.—Lutha
of many strings, not silent are thy streamy rocks, when the white hands of Malvina move
upon the harp.—Light of the shadowy thoughts, that fly across my soul, daughter
of Toscar of helmets, wilt thou not hear the song! We call back, maid of Lutha, the
years that have rolled away.
It was in the days of the king, while yet my locks were
young, that I marked Con-cathlinmild
beam of the wave. What star was so called of old is not easily ascertained.
Some now distinguish the pole-star by that name. A song, which is still in repute,
among the sea faring part of the Highlanders, alludes to this passage of Ossian. The
author commends the knowledge of Ossian in sea affairs, a merit, which, perhaps, few
of us moderns will allow him, or any in the age in which he lived.—One thing is
certain, that the Caledonians often made their way thro' the dangerous and tempestuous
seas of Scandinavia; which is more, perhaps, than the more polished nations,
subsisting in those times, dared to venture.—In estimating the degree of
knowledge of arts among the ancients, we ought not to bring it into companion with the
improvements of modern times. Our advantages over them proceed more from accident,
than any merit of ours.
In Col-coiled, I bound my sails, and sent my sword to
Mal-orchol of shells. He knew the signal of Albion, and his joy arose. He came from his
own high hall, and seized my hand in grief. “Why comes the race of heroes to a falling
king? Ton-thormod of many spears is the chief of wavy Sar-dronlo. He saw and loved my
daughter, white-bosomed Oina-morul. He sought; I denied the maid; for our fathers had
been foes.—He came, with battle, to Fuärfed; my people are rolled
away.—Why comes the race of heroes to a falling king?”
I come not, I said, to look, like a boy, on the strife.
Fingal remembers Mal-orchol, and his hall for strangers. From his waves, the warrior
descended, on thy woody isle. Thou wert no cloud before him. Thy feast was spread with
songs. For this my sword shall rise; and thy foes perhaps may fail.—Our friends
are not forgot in their danger, tho' distant is our land.
Son of the daring Trenmor, thy words are like the voice of
Cruth-loda, when he speaks, from his parting cloud, strong dweller
We went. On the harp arose the white hands of Oina-morul. She
waked her own sad tale, from every trembling string. I stood in silence; for bright in
her locks was the daughter of many isles. Her eyes were like two stars, looking forward
thro' a rushing shower. The mariner marks them on high, and blesses the lovely
beams.—With morning we rushed to battle, to Tormul's resounding stream: the foe
moved to the sound of Ton-thormod's bossy shield. From wing to wing the strife was
mixed. I met the chief of Sar-dronlo. Wide flew his broken steel. I seized the king in
fight. I gave his hand, bound fast with thongs, to Mal-orchol, the giver of shells. Joy
rose at the feast of Fuärfed, for the foe had failed.——Ton-thormod
turned his face away, from Oina-morul of isles.
Son of Fingal, begun Mal-orchol, not forgot shalt thou pass
from me. A light shall dwell in thy ship, Oina-morul of slow-rolling eyes. She shall
kindle gladness, along thy mighty soul. Nor unheeded shall the maid move in Selma, thro'
the dwelling of kings.
In the hall I lay in night. Mine eyes were half-closed in
sleep. Soft music came to mine ear: it was like the rising breeze, that whirls, at
first, the thistle's beard; then flies, dark-shadowy, over the grass. It was the maid of
Fuärfed wild: she raised the nightly song; for she knew that my soul was a stream,
that flowed at pleasant sounds.
Who looks, she said, from his rock, on ocean's closing mist?
His long locks, like the raven's wing, are wandering on the blast. Stately are his steps
in grief. The tears are in his eyes. His manly breast is heaving over his bursting
soul.—Retire, I am distant far; a wanderer in lands unknown. Tho' the race of
kings are around me, yet my soul is dark.—Why have our fathers been foes,
Ton-thormod love of maids!
Soft voice of the streamy isle, why dost thou mourn by night?
The race of daring Trenmor are not the dark in soul. Thou shalt not wander, by streams
unknown, blue-eyed Oina-morul.—Within this bosom is a voice; it comes not to
other ears: it bids Ossian hear the hapless, in their hour of
woe.——Retire, soft singer by night; Ton-thormod shall not mourn on his
rock.
With morning I loosed the king. I gave the long-haired maid.
Mal-orchol heard my words, in the midst of his echoing halls.——"King of
Fuärfed wild, why should Ton-thormod
Such were the deeds of Ossian, while yet his locks were
young: tho' loveliness, with a robe of beams, clothed the daughter of many
isles.—We call back, maid of Lutha, the years that have rolled away!
Fingal dispatches Ossian and Toscar to raise a stone, on the
banks of the stream of Crona, to perpetuate the memory of a victory, which he had
obtained in that place. When they were employed in that work, Car-ul, a neighbouring
chief, invited them to a feast.—They went: and Toscar fell desperately in love
with Colna-dona, the daughter of Car-ul. Colna-dona became no less enamoured of Toscar.
An incident, at a hunting party, brings their loves to a happy issue.
Colna-dona signifies of troubled streams, dark wanderer of distant vales, I
behold thy course, between trees, near Car-ul's echoing halls. There dwelt bright
Colna-dona, the daughter of the king. Her eyes were rolling stars; her arms were white
as the foam of streams. Her breast rose slowly to sight, like ocean's heaving wave. Her
soul was a stream of light.—Who, among the maids, was like the love of
heroes?the
love of heroes. Col-amon, narrow river. Car-ul, dark-eyed. Col-amon, the residence of Car-ul, was in the
neighbourhood of Agricola's wall, towards the south. Car-ul seems to have been of
the race of those Britons, who are distinguished by the name of Maiatæ, by the
writers of Rome. Maiatæ is derived from two Galic words, Moi, a plain, and Aitich,
inhabitants; so that the signification of Maiatæ is,
the inhabitants of the plain country; a name given to the
Britons, who were settled in the Lowlands, in contradistinction to the Caledonians,
(i. e. Cael-don, the Gauls of the
hills) who were possessed of the more mountainous division of North
Britain.Col-amon
Beneath the voice of the king, we moved to Cronamurmuring, was the name of a small
stream, which discharged itself in the river Carron. It is often mentioned by Ossian,
and the scenes of many of his poems are on its banks.—The enemies, whom Fingal
defeated here, are not mentioned. They were, probably, the provincial Britons. That
tract of country between the Firths of Forth and Clyde has been, thro' all antiquity,
famous for battles and rencounters, between the different nations, who were possessed
of North and South Britain. Stirling, a town situated there, derives its name from
that very circumstance. It is a corruption of the Galic name, Strila, i. e. the hill, or rock, of contention.
I took a stone from the stream, amidst the song of bards. The
blood of Fingal's foes hung curdled in its ooze. Beneath, I placed, at intervals, three
bosses from the shields of foes, as rose or fell the sound of Ullin's nightly song.
Toscar laid a dagger in earth, a mail of sounding steel. We raised the mould around the
stone, and bade it speak to other years.
Oozy daughter of streams, that now art reared on high, speak
to the feeble, O stone, after Selma's race have failed!—Prone, from the stormy
night, the traveller shall lay him, by thy side: thy whirling moss shall sound in his
dreams; the years that were past
From Col-amon came a
bard, from Car-ul, the friend of strangers. He bade us to the feast of kings, to the
dwelling of bright Colna-dona. We went to the hall of harps. There Car-ul brightened
between his aged locks, when he beheld the sons of his friends, like two young trees
before him.
Sons of the mighty, he said, ye bring back the days of old,
when first I descended from waves, on Selma's streamy vale. I pursued Duth-mocarglos,
dweller of ocean's wind. Our fathers had been foes, we met by Clutha's winding waters.
He fled, along the sea, and my sails were spread behind him.—Night deceived me,
on the deep. I came to the dwelling of kings, to
Car-ul placed the oak of feasts. He took two bosses from our
shields. He laid them in earth, beneath a stone, to speak to the hero's race. “When
battle, said the king, shall roar, and our sons are to meet in wrath. My race shall
look, perhaps, on this stone, when they prepare the spear.—Have not our fathers
met in peace, they will say, and lay aside the shield?”
Night came down. In her long locks moved the daughter of
Car-ul. Mixed with the harp arose the voice of white-armed Colna-dona.—Toscar
darkened in his place, before the love of heroes. She came on his troubled soul, like a
beam to the dark-heaving ocean: when it bursts from a cloud, and brightens the foamy
side of a wave
With morning we awaked the woods; and hung forward on the
path of the roes. They fell by their wonted streams. We returned thro' Crona's vale.
From the wood a youth came forward, with a shield and pointless spear. “Whence, said
Toscar
By Col-amon of streams, said the youth, bright Colna-dona
dwelt. She dwelt; but her course is now in desarts, with the son of the king; he that
seized her soul as it wandered thro' the hall.
Stranger of tales, said Toscar, hast thou marked the
warrior's course? He must fall,—give thou that bossy shield!—In wrath he
took the shield. Fair behind it rose the breasts of a maid, white as the bosom of a
swan, trembling on swift-rolling waves. It was Colna-dona of harps, the daughter of the
king.—Her blue eyes had rolled on Toscar, and her love arose.
It is thought proper to give a specimen of the original
Galic, for the satisfaction of those who doubt the authenticity of Ossian's poems. The
seventh book of Temora is fixed on, for that purpose, not from
any other superior merit, than the variety of its versification. To print any part of
the former collection was unnecessary, as a copy of the originals lay, for many months,
in the bookseller's hands, for the inspection of the curious. Tho' the erroneous
orthography of the bards is departed from, in many instances, in the following specimen,
yet several quiescent consonants are retained, to shew the derivation of the words. This
circumstance may give an uncouth appearance to the language, in the eyes of those who
are strangers to its harmony. They ought, however, to consider, that a language is put
to the severest test, when it is stripped of its own proper characters; especially, when
the power of one of them requires, sometimes, a combination of
two or three Roman letters to express it.