Poems of Ossian by James MacPherson

THE POEMS OF OSSIAN

by

JAMES MACPHERSON

A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE.

As Swift has, with some reason, affirmed that all sublunary

happiness consists in being well deceived, it may possibly be the

creed of many, that it had been wise, if after Dr. Blair's ingenious

and elegant dissertation on "the venerable Ossian," all doubts

respecting what we have been taught to call his works had forever

ceased: since there appears cause to believe, that numbers who

listened with delight to "the voice of Cona," would have been happy,

if, seeing their own good, they had been content with these poems

accompanied by Dr. Blair's judgment, and sought to know no more.

There are men, however, whose ardent love of truth rises, on all

occasions, paramount to every other consideration; and though the

first step in search of it should dissolve the charm, and turn a

fruitful Eden into a barren wild, they would pursue it. For those,

and for the idly curious in literary problems, added to the wish of

making this new edition of "The Poems of Ossian" as well-informed as

the hour would allow, we have here thought it proper to insert some

account of a renewal of the controversy relating to the genuineness

of this rich treasure of poetical excellence.

Nearly half a century has elapsed since the Publication of the poems

ascribed by Mr. Macpherson to Ossian, which poems he then professed

to have collected in the original Gaelic, during a tour through the

Western Highlands and Isles; but a doubt of their authenticity

nevertheless obtained, and, from their first appearance to this day,

has continued in various degrees to agitate the literary world. In

the present year, "A Report," springing from an inquiry instituted

for the purpose of leaving, with regard to this matter, "no hinge or

loop to hang a doubt on," has been laid before the public. As the

committee, in this investigation, followed, in a great measure, that

line of conduct chalked out by David Hume to Dr. Blair, we shall,

previously to stating their precise mode of proceeding, make several

large and interesting extracts from the historian's two letters on

this subject.

"I live in a place," he writes, "where I have the pleasure of

frequently hearing justice done to your dissertation, but never heard

it mentioned in a company, where some one person or other did not

express his doubts with regard to the authenticity of the poems which

are its subject; and I often hear them totally rejected with disdain

and indignation, as a palpable and most impudent forgery. This

opinion has, indeed, become very prevalent among the men of letters

in London; and I can foresee, that in a few years, the poems, if they

continue to stand on their present footing, will be thrown aside, and

will fall into final oblivion.

"The absurd pride and caprice of Macpherson himself, who scorns, as

he pretends, to satisfy anybody that doubts his veracity, has tended

much to confirm this general skepticism; and I must own, for my part,

that though I have had many particular reasons to believe these poems

genuine, more than it is possible for any Englishman of letters to

have, yet I am not entirely without my scruples on that head. You

think, that the internal proofs in favor of the poems are very

convincing; so they are; but there are also internal reasons against

them, particularly from the manners, notwithstanding all the art with

which you have endeavored to throw a vernish 1 on that circumstance;

and the preservation of such long and such connected poems, by oral

tradition alone, during a course of fourteen centuries, is so much

out of the ordinary course of human affairs, that it requires the

strongest reasons to make us believe it. My present purpose,

therefore, is to apply to you in the name of all the men of letters

of this, and, I may say, of all other countries, to establish this

capital point, and to give us proofs that these poems are, I do not

say, so ancient as the age of Severus, but that they, were not forged

within these five years by James Macpherson. These proofs must not be

arguments, but testimonies; people's ears are fortified against the

former; the latter may yet find their way, before the poems are

consigned to total oblivion. Now the testimonies may, in my opinion,

be of two kinds. Macpherson pretends there is an ancient manuscript

of part of Fingal in the family, I think, of Clanronald. Get that

fact ascertained by more than one person of credit; let these persons

be acquainted with the Gaelic; let them compare the original and the

translation; and let them testify the fidelity of the latter.

"But the chief point in which it will be necessary for you to exert

yourself, will be, to get positive testimony from many different

hands that such poems are vulgarly recited in the Highlands, and have

there long been the entertainment of the people. This testimony must

be as particular as it is positive. It will not be sufficient that a

Highland gentleman or clergyman say or write to you that he has heard

such poems; nobody questions that there are traditional poems of that

part of the country, where the names of Ossian and Fingal, and Oscar

and Gaul, are mentionmed in every stanza. The only doubt is, whether

these poems have any farther resemblance to the poems published by

Macpherson. I was told by Bourke, 1 a very ingenious Irish gentleman,

the author of a tract on the sublime and beautiful, that on the first

publication of Macpherson's book, all the Irish cried out, 'We know

all those poems. We have always heard them from our infancy.' But

when he asked more particular questions, he could never learn that

any one ever heard or could repeat the original of any one paragraph

of the pretended translation. This generality, then, must be

carefully guarded against, as being of no authority.

"Your connections among your brethren of the clergy may be of great

use to you. You may easily learn the names of all ministers of that

country who understand the language of it. You may write to them,

expressing the doubts that have arisen, and desiring them to send for

such of the bards as remain, and make them rehearse their ancient

poems. Let the clergymen then have the translation in their hands,

and let them write back to you, and inform you, that they heard such

a one, (naming him,) living in such a place, rehearse the original of

such a passage, from such a page to such a page of the English

translation, which appeared exact and faithful. If you give to the

public a sufficient number of such testimonials, you may prevail. But

I venture to foretel to you, that nothing less will serve the

purpose; nothing less will so much as command the attention of the

public.

"Becket tells me, that he is to give us a new edition of your

dissertation, accompanied with some-remarks on Temora. Here is a

favorable opportunity for you to execute this purpose. You have a

just and laudable zeal for the credit of these poems. They are, if

genuine, one of the greatest curiosities, in all respects, that ever

was discovered in the commonwealth of letters; and the child is, in a

manner, become yours by adoption, as Macpherson has totally abandoned

all care of it. These motives call upon you to exert yourself: and I

think it were suitable to your candor, and most satisfactory also to

the reader, to publish all the answers to all the letters you write,

even though some of those letters should make somewhat against your

own opinion in this affair. We shall always be the more assured, that

no arguments are strained beyond their proper force, and no contrary

arguments suppressed, where such an entire communication is made to

us. Becket joins me heartily in that application; and he owns to me,

that the believers in the authenticity of the poems diminish every

day among the men of sense and reflection. Nothing less than what I

propose can throw the balance on the other side."

Lisle street, Leicester Fields,

19th Sept., 1763.

The second letter contains less matter of importance; but what there

is that is relevant deserves not to be omitted.

"I am very glad," he writes on the 6th of October, 1763, "you have

undertaken the task which I used the freedom to recommend to you.

Nothing less than what you propose will serve the purpose. You must

expect no assistance from Macpherson, who flew into a passion when I

told him of the letter I had wrote to you. But you must not mind so

strange and heteroclite a mortal, than whom I have scarce ever known

a man more perverse and unamiable. He will probably depart for

Florida with Governor Johnstone, and I would advise him to travel

among the Chickasaws or Cherokees, in order to tame and civilize him.

* * * * * *

"Since writing the above, I have been in company with Mrs. Montague,

a lady of great distinction in this place, and a zealous partisan of

Ossian. I told her of your intention, and even used the freedom to

read your letter to her. She was extremely pleased with your project;

and the rather, as the Due de Nivernois, she said, had talked to her

much on that subject last winter; and desired, if possible, to get

collected some proofs of the authenticity of these poems, which he

proposed to lay before the Academie de Belles Lettres at Paris. You

see, then, that you are upon a great stage in this inquiry, and that

many people have their eyes upon you. This is a new motive for

rendering your proofs as complete as possible. I cannot conceive any

objection which a man, even of the gravest character, could have to

your publication of his letters, which will only attest a plain fact

known to him. Such scruples, if they occur, you must endeavor to

remove, for on this trial of yours will the judgment of the public

finally depend."

Without being acquainted with Hume's advice to Dr. Blair, the

committee, composed of chosen persons, and assisted by the best

Celtic scholars, adopted, as it will he seen, a very similar manner

of acting.

It conceived the purpose of its nomination to be, to employ the

influence of the society, and the extensive communication which it

possesses with every part of the Highlands, in collecting what

materials or information it was still practicable to collect,

regarding the authenticity and nature of the poems ascribed to

Ossian, and particularly of that celebrated collection published by

Mr. James Macpherson.

For the purpose above mentioned, the committee, soon after its

appointment, circulated the following set of queries, through such

parts of the Highlands and Islands, and among such persons resident

there, as seemed most likely to afford the information required.

QUERIES.

1. Have you ever heard repeated, or sung, any of the poems ascribed

to Ossian, translated and published by Mr. Macpherson? By whom have

you heard them so repeated, and at what time or times? Did you ever

commit any of them to writing? or can you remember them so well as

now to set them down? In either of these cases, be so good to send

the Gaelic original to the committee.

2. The same answer is requested concerning any other ancient poems of

the same kind, and relating to the same traditionary persons or

stories with those in Mr. Macpherson's collection.

3. Are any of the persons from whom you heard any such poems now

alive? or are there, in your part of the country, any persons who

remember and can repeat or recite such poems? If there are, be so

good as to examine them as to the manner of their getting or learning

such compositions; and set down, as accurately as possible, such as

they can now repeat or recite; and transmit such their account, and

such compositions as they repeat, to the committee.

4. If there are, in your neighborhood, any persons from whom Mr.

Macpherson received any poems, in. quire particularly what the poems

were which he so received, the manner in which he received them, and

how he wrote them down; show those persons, if you have an

opportunity, his translation of such poems, and desire them to say,

if the translation is exact and literal; or, if it differs, in what

it differs from the poems, as they repeated them to Mr. Macpherson,

and can now recollect them.

5. Be so good to procure every information you conveniently can, with

regard to the traditionary belief, in the country in which you live,

concerning, the history of Fingal and his followers, and that of

Ossian and his poems; particularly those stories and poems published

by Mr. Macpherson, and the heroes mentioned in them. Transmit any

such account, and any proverbial or traditionary expression in the

original Gaelic, relating to the subject, to the committee.

6. In all the above inquiries, or any that may occur to in

elucidation of this subject, he is requested by the committee to make

the inquiry, and to take down the answers, with as much impartiality

and precision as possible, in the same manner as if it were a legal

question, and the proof to be investigated with a legal strictness.--

See the "Report."

It is presumed as undisputed, that a traditionary history of a great

hero or chief, called Fion, Fion na Gael, or, as it is modernized,

Fingal, exists, and has immemorially existed, in the Highlands and

Islands of Scotland, and that certain poems or ballads containing the

exploits of him and his associate heroes, were the favorite lore of

the natives of those districts. The general belief of the existence

of such heroic personages, and the great poet Ossian, the son of

Fingal, by whom their exploits were sung, is as universal in the

Highlands, as the belief of any ancient fact whatsoever. It is

recorded in proverbs, which pass through all ranks and conditions of

men, Ossian dall, blind Ossian, is a person as well known as strong

Sampson, or wise Solomon. The very boys in their sports cry out for

fair play, Cothram na feine, the equal combat o the Fingalians.

Ossian, an deigh nam fiann, Ossian, the last of his race, is

proverbial, to signify a man who has had the misfortune to survive

his kindred; and servants returning from a fair or wedding, were in

use to describe the beauty of young women they had seen there, by the

words, Tha i cho boidheach reh Agandecca, nighean ant sneachda, She

is as beautiful as Agandecca, the daughter of the Snow.

All this will be readily conceded, and Mr. Macpherson's being at one

period an "indifferent proficient in the Gaelic language," may seem

an argument of some weight against his having himself composed these

Ossianic Poems. Of his inaccuracy in the Gaelic, a ludicrous instance

is related in the declaration of Mr. Evan Macpherson, at Knock, in

Sleat, Sept. 11, 1800. He declares that he, "Colonel Macleod, of

Talisker, and the late Mr. Maclean of Coll, embarked with Mr.

Macpherson for Uist on the same pursuit: that they landed at

Lochmaddy, and proceeded across the Muir to Benbecula, the seat of

the younger Clanronald: that on their way thither they fell in with a

man whom they afterwards ascertained to have been Mac Codrum, the

poet: that Mr. Macpherson asked him the question, A bheil dad agad

air an Fheinn? by which he meant to inquire, whether or not he knew

any of the poems of Ossian relative to the Fingalians: but that the

term in which the question was asked, strictly imported whether or

not the Fingalians owed him any thing; and that Mac Codrum, being a

man of humor, took advantage of the incorrectness or inelegance of

the Gaelic in which the question was put, and answered, that really

if they had owed him any thing, the bonds and obligations were lost,

and he believed any attempt to recover them at that time of day would

be unavailing. Which sally of MacCodrum's wit seemed to have hurt Mr.

Macpherson, who cut short the conversation, and proceeded on towards

Benbecula. And the declarant being asked whether or not the late Mr.

James Macpherson was capable of composing such poems as those of

Ossian, declares most explicitly and positively that he is certain

Mr. Macpherson was as unequal to such compositions as the declarant

himself, who could no more make them than take wings and fly." p. 96.

We would here observe, that the sufficiency of a man's knowledge of

such a language as the Gaelic, for all the purposes of composition,

is not to be questioned, because he does not speak it accurately or

elegantly, much less is it to be quibbled into suspicion by the

pleasantry of a double entendre. But we hold it prudent, and it shall

be our endeavor in this place, to give no decided opinion on the main

subject of dispute. For us the contention shall still remain sub

judice.

To the queries circulated through such parts of the Highlands as the

committee imagined most likely to afford information in reply to

them, they received many answers, most of which were conceived in

nearly similar terms; that the persons themselves had never doubted

of the existence of such poems as Mr. Macpherson had translated; that

they had heard many of them repeated in their youth: that listening

to them was the favorite amusement of Highlanders, in the hours of

leisure and idleness; but that since the rebellion in 1745, the

manners of the people had undergone a change so unfavorable to the

recitation of these poems, that it was now an amusement scarcely

known, and that very few persons remained alive who were able to

recite them. That many of the poems which they had formerly heard

were similar in subject and story, as well as in the names of the

heroes mentioned in them, to those translated by Mr. Macpherson: that

his translation seemed, to such as had read it, a very able one; but

that it did not by any means come up to the force or energy of the

original to such as had read it; for his book was by no means

universally possessed, or read among the Highlanders, even accustomed

to reading, who conceived that his translation could add but little

to their amusement, and not at all to their conviction, in a matter

which they had never doubted. A few of the committee's correspondents

sent them such ancient poems as they possessed in writing, from

having formerly taken them down from the oral recitation of the old

Highlanders who were in use to recite them, or as they now took them

down from some person, whom a very advanced period of life, or a

particular connection with some reciter of the old school, enabled

still to retain them in his memory; but those, the committee's

correspondents said, were generally less perfect, and more corrupted,

than the poems which they had, formerly heard, or which might have

been obtained at an earlier period.

Several collections came to them by presents, as well as by

purchase, and in these are numerous "shreds and patches," that bear a

strong resemblance to the materials of which "Ossian's Poems" are

composed. These are of various degrees of consequence. One of them we

are the more tempted to give, for the same reason as the committee

was the more solicitous to procure it, because it was one which some

of the opposers of the authenticity of Ossian had quoted as evidently

spurious, betraying the most convincing marks of its being a close

imitation of the address to the sun in Milton.

"I got," says Mr. Mac Diarmid, "the copy of these poems" (Ossian's

address to the sun in Carthon, and a similar address in Carrickthura)

"about thirty years, ago, from an old man in Glenlyon. I took it, and

several other fragments, now, I fear, irrecoverably lost, from the

man's mouth. He had learnt them in his youth from people in the same

glen, which must have been long before Macpherson was born."

LITERAL TRANSLATION OF OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN IN CARTHON.

"O! thou who travellest above, round as the full-orbed hard shield

of the mighty! whence is thy brightness without frown, thy light that

is lasting, O sun? Thou comest forth in thy powerful beauty, and the

stars bide their course; the moon, without strength, goes from the

sky, hiding herself under a wave in the west. Thou art in thy journey

alone; who is so bold as to come nigh thee? The oak falleth from the

high mountain; the rock and the precipice fall under old age; the

ocean ebbeth and floweth, the moon is lost above in the sky; but thou

alone forever in victory, in the rejoicing of thy own light. When the

storm darkeneth around the world, with fierce thunder, and piercing

lightnings, thou lookest in thy beauty from the noise, smiling in the

troubled sky! To me is thy light in vain, as I can never see thy

countenance; though thy yellow golden locks are spread on the face of

the clouds in the east; or when thou tremblest in the west, at thy

dusky doors in the ocean. Perhaps thou and myself are at one time

mighty, at another feeble, our years sliding down from the skies,

quickly travelling together to their end. Rejoice then, O sun! while

thou art strong, O king! in thy youth. Dark and unpleasant is old

age, like the vain and feeble light of the moon, while she looks

through a cloud on the field, and her gray mist on the sides of the

rocks; a blast from the north on the plain, a traveller in distress,

and he slow."

The comparison may be made, by turning to the end of Mr.

Macpherson's version of "Carthon," beginning "O thou that rollest

above."

But it must not be concealed, that after all the exertions of the

committee, it has not been able to obtain any one poem, the same in

title and tenor with the poems published by him. We therefore feel

that the reader of "Ossian's Poems," until grounds more relative be

produced, will often, in the perusal of Mr. Macpherson's

translations, be induced, with some show of justice. to exclaim with

him, when he looked over the manuscript copies found in Clanronald's

family, "D--n the scoundrel, it is he himself that now speaks, and

not Ossian!'

To this sentiment the committee has the candor to incline, us it

will appear by their summing up. After producing or pointing to a

large body of mixed evidence, and taking for granted the existence,

at some period, of an abundance of Ossianic poetry, it comes to the

question, "How far that collection of such poetry, published by Mr.

James Macpherson, is genuine?" To answer this query decisively, is,

as they confess, difficult. This, however, is the ingenious manner in

which they treat it.

"The committee is possessed of no documents, to show how much of his

collection Mr. Macpherson obtained in the form in which he has given

it to the world. The poems and fragments of poems which the committee

has been able to procure, contain, as will appear from the article in

the Appendix (No. 15) already mentioned, often the substance, and

sometimes almost the literal expression (the ipsissima verba) of

passages given by Mr. Macpherson, in the poems of which he has

published the translations. But the committee has not been able to

obtain any one poem the same in title or tenor with the poems

published by him. It is inclined to believe, that he was in use to

supply chasms, and to give connection, by inserting passages which he

did not find, and to add what he conceived to be dignity and delicacy

to the original Composition, by striking out passages, by softening

incidents, by refining the language -- in short, by changing what he

considered as too simple or too rude for modern ear, and elevating

what, in his opinion, was below the standard of good poetry. To what

degree, however, he exercised these liberties, it is impossible for

the committee to determine. The advantages he possessed, which the

committee began its inquiries too late to enjoy, of collecting from

the oral recitation of a number of persons, now no more, a very great

number of the same poems on the same subjects, and then collating

those different copies, or editions, if they may be so called,

rejecting what was spurious or corrupted in one copy, and adopting

from another, something more genuine and excellent in its place,

afforded him an opportunity of putting together what might fairly

enough be called an original whole, of much more beauty, and with

much fewer blemishes, than the committee believe it now possible for

any person, or combination of persons, to obtain." P. 152-3.

Some Scotch critics, who should not be ignorant of the strongholds

and fastnesses of the advocates for the authenticity of these poems,

appear so convinced of their insufficiency, that they pronounce the

question put to rest forever. But we greatly distrust that any

literary question, possessing a single inch of debateable ground to

stand upon, will be suffered to enjoy much rest in an age like the

present. There are as many minds as men, and of wranglers there is no

end. Behold another and "another yet," and in our imagination, he

"bears a glass,

Which shows us many more."

The first of these is Mr. Laing, who has recently published the

"Poems of Ossian, &c., containing Poetical Works of James Macpherson,

Esq., in Prose and Rhyme: with, notes and illustrations. In 2 vols. 8

vo. Edinburgh, 1805." In these "notes and illustrations," we foresee,

that Ossian is likely to share the fate of Shakspeare, that is,

ultimately to be loaded and oppressed by heavy commentators, until

his immortal spirit groan beneath vast heaps of perishable matter.

The object of Mr. Laing's commentary, after having elsewhere

endeavored to show that the poems are spurious, and of no historical

authority, "is," says he, it not merely to exhibit parallel passages,

much less instances of a fortuitous resemblance of ideas, but to

produce the precise originals from which the similes and images arc

indisputably derived." And these he pretends to find in Holy Writ,

and in the classical poets, both of ancient and modern times. Mr.

Laing, however, is one of those detectors of plagiarisms, and

discoverers of coincidences, whose exquisite penetration and

acuteness can find any thing anywhere. Dr. Johnson, who was shut

against conviction with respect to Ossian, even when he affected to

seek the truth in the heart of the Hebrides, may yet be made useful

to the Ossianites in canvassing the merits of this redoubted stickler

on the side of opposition. "Among the innumerable practices," says

the Rambler, "by which interest or envy have taught those who live

upon literary fame to disturb each other at their airy banquets, one

of the most common is the charge of plagiarism. When the excellence

of a now composition can no longer be contested, and malice is

compelled to give way to the unanimity of applause, there is yet this

one expedient to be tried, by which the author may be degraded,

though his work be reverenced; and the excellence which we cannot

obscure, may be set at such a distance as not to overpower our

fainter lustre. This accusation is dangerous, because, even when it

is false, it may be sometimes urged with probability."

How far this just sentence applies to Mr. Laing, it does not become

us, nor is it our business, now to declare: but we must say, that

nothing can be more disingenuous or groundless than his frequent

charges of plagiarism of the following description; because, in the

War of Caros, we meet with these words, "It is like the field, when

darkness covers the hills around, and the shadow grows slowly on the

plain of the sun," we are to believe, according to Mr. Laing, that

the idea was stolen from Virgil's

Majoresque cadunt altis de montibus umbra.

For see, yon sunny hills the shade extend.--Dryden.

As well might we credit that no one ever beheld a natural phenomenon

except the Mantuan bard. The book of nature is open to all, and in

her pages there are no new readings. "Many subjects," it is were said

by Johnson, "fall under the consideration of an author, which, being

limited by nature, can admit only of slight and accidental

diversities. And definitions of the same thing must be nearly the

same; and descriptions, which are definitions of a more lax and

fanciful kind, must always have, in some degree, that resemblance to

each other, which they all have to their object." It is true,

however, if we were fully able to admit that Macpherson could not

have obtained these-ideas where he professes to have found them, Mr.

Laing has produced many instances of such remarkable coincidence as

would make it probable that Macpherson frequently translates, not the

Gaelic, but the poetical lore of antiquity. Still this is a battery

that can only be brought to play on particular points; and then with

great uncertainty. The mode of attack used by Mr. Knight, could it

have been carried on to any extent, 'would have proved much more

effectual. We shall give the instance alluded to. In his "Analytical

Enquiry into the Principles of Taste, 1805," he makes these remarks:

"The untutored, but uncorrupted feelings of all unpolished nations,

have regulated their fictions upon the same principles, even when

most rudely exhibited. In relating the actions of their gods and

deceased heroes, they are licentiously extravagant: for their

falsehood could amuse, because it could not be detected; but in

describing the common appearances of nature, and all those objects

and effects which are exposed to habitual observation, their bards

are scrupulously exact; so that an extravagant hyperbole, in a matter

of this kind, is sufficient to mark, as counterfeit any composition

attributed to them. In the early stages of society, men are as acute

and accurate in practical observation as they are limited and

deficient in speculative science; and in proportion as, they, are

ready to give up their imaginations to delusion, they are jealously

tenacious of the evidence of their senses. James Macpherson, in the

person of his blind bard, could say, with applause in the eighteenth

century, 'Thus have I seen in Cona; but Cona I behold no more; thus

have I seen two dark hills removed from their place by the strength

of the mountain stream. They turn from side to side, and their tall

oaks meet one another on high. Then they fall together with all their

rocks and trees.'

"But had a blind bard, or any other bard, presumed to utter such a

rhapsody of bombast in the hall of shells, amid the savage warriors

to whom Ossian is supposed to have sung, he would have needed all the

influence of royal birth, attributed to that fabulous personage, to

restrain the audience from throwing their shells at his head, and

hooting him out of their company as an impudent liar. They must have

been sufficiently acquainted with the rivulets of Cona or Glen-Coe to

know that he had seen nothing of the kind; and have known enough of

mountain torrents in general to know that no such effects are ever

produced by them, and would, therefore, have indignantly rejected

such a barefaced attempt to impose on their credulity."

The best defence that can be set up in this case will, perhaps, be to

repeat, "It is he himself that now speaks, and not Ossian."

Mr. Laing had scarcely thrown down the gauntlet, when Mr. Archibald

M'Donald appeared

"Ready, aye, ready, for the field.

The opinion of the color of his opposition, whether it be that of

truth or error, will depend on the eye that contemplates it. Those

who delight to feast with Mr. Laing on the limbs of a mangled poet,

will think the latter unanswered; while those who continue to indulge

the animating thought, "that Fingal lived, and that Ossian sung,"

will entertain a different sentiment. After successfully combating

several old positions, Mr. M'Donald terminates his discussion of the

point at issue with these words:

"He (Mr. Laing) declares, 'if a single poem of Ossian in MS. of an

older date than the present century (1700,) be procured and lodged in

a public library, I (Laing) shall return among the first to our

national creed.'

"This is reducing the point at issue to a narrow compass. Had the

proposal been made at the outset, it would have saved both him and me

a good deal of trouble: not that in regard to ancient Gaelic

manuscripts I could give any more satisfactory account than has been

done in the course of this discourse. There the reader will see, that

though some of the poems are confessedly procured from oral

tradition, yet several gentlemen of veracity attest to have seen,

among Macpherson's papers, several MSS. of a much older date than Mr.

Laing requires to be convinced. Though not more credulous than my

neighbors, I cannot resist facts so well attested; there are no

stronger for believing the best-established human transactions.

"I understand the originals are in the press, and expected daily to

make their appearance. When they do, the public will not be carried

away by conjectures, but be able to judge on solid grounds. Till

then, let the discussion be at rest." P. 193-4. It is curious to

remark, and, in this place, not unworthy of our notice, that whilst

the controversy is imminent in the decision, whether these poems are

to be ascribed to a Highland bard long since gone "to the halls of

his fathers," or to a Lowland muse of the last century, it is in the

serious meditation of some controversialist to step in and place the

disputed wreath on the brows of Hibernia. There is no doubt that

Ireland was, in ancient times, so much connected with the adjacent

coast of Scotland, that they might almost be considered as one

country, having a community of manners and of language, as well as

the closest political connection. Their poetical language is nearly,

or rather altogether the same. These coinciding circumstances,

therefore, independent of all other ground, afford to ingenuity, in

the present state of the question, a sufficient basis for the

erection of an hypothetical superstructure of a very imposing nature.

In a small volume published at Dusseldorf in 1787, by Edmond, Baron

de Harold, an Irishman, of endless titles, we are presented with what

are called, "Poems of Ossian lately discovered."

"I am interested," says the baron in his preface, in no polemical

dispute or party, and give these poems such as they are found in the

mouths of the people; and do not pretend to ascertain what was the

native country of Ossian. I honor and revere equally a bard of his

exalted talents, were he born in Ireland or in Scotland. It is

certain that the Scotch and Irish were united at some early period.

That they proceed from the same origin is indisputable; nay, I

believe that it is proved beyond any possibility of negating it, that

the Scotch derive their origin from the Irish. This truth has been

brought in question but of late days; and all ancient tradition, and

the general con. sent of the Scotch nation, and of their oldest

historians, agree to confirm the certitude of this assertion. If any

man still doubts of it, he will find, in Macgeogehan's History of

Ireland, an entire conviction, established by elaborate discussion,

and most incontrovertible proofs:" pp. v. vi.

We shall not stay to quarrel about "Sir Archy's great grandmother,"

or to contend that Fingal, the Irish giant, did not one day go "over

from Carrickfergus, and people all Scotland with his own hands," and

make these sons of the north "illegitimate;" but we may observe, that

from the inclination of the baron's opinion, added to the internal

evidence of his poems, there appears at least as much reason to

believe their author to have been a native of Ireland as of Scotland.

The success with which Macpherson's endeavors had been rewarded,

induced the baron to inquire whether any more of this kind of poetry

could be obtained. His search, he confessed, would have proved

fruitless, had he expected to find complete pieces; "for, certainly,"

says he, "none such exist. But," he adds, "in seeking with assiduity

and care, I found, by the help of my friends, several fragments of

old traditionary songs, which were very sublime, and particularly

remarkable for their simplicity and elegance." P. iv.

"From these fragments," continues Baron de Harold, "I have composed

the following poems. They are all founded on tradition; but the dress

they now appear in is mine. It will appear singular to some, that

Ossian, at times, especially in the songs of Comfort, seems rather to

be an Hibernian than a Scotchman, and that some of these poems

formally contradict passages of great importance in those handed to

the public by Mr. Macpherson, especially that very remarkable one of

Evir-allen, where the description of her marriage with Ossian, is

essentially different in all its parts front that given in former

poems." P. v.

We refer the reader to the opening of the fourth book of Fingal,

which treats of Ossian's courtship of Evir-allen. The Evir-allen of

Baron de Harold is in these words:

EVIR-ALLEN:

A POEM.

THOU fairest of the maids of Morven, young beam of streamy Lutha,

come to the help of the aged, come to the help of the distressed. Thy

soul is open to pity. Friendship glows in thy tender breast. Ah come

and sooth away my wo. Thy words are music to my soul.

Bring me my once-loved harp. It hangs long neglected in my hall. The

stream of years has borne me away in its course, and rolled away all

my bliss. Dim and faded are my eyes; thin-strewed with hairs my head.

Weak is that nervous arm, once the terror of foes. Scarce can I grasp

my staff, the prop of my trembling limbs.

Lead me to yonder craggy steep. The murmur of the falling streams;

the whistling winds rushing through the woods of my hills; the

welcome rays of the bounteous sun, will soon awake the voice of song

in my breast. The thoughts of former years glide over my soul like

swift-shooting meteors o'er Ardven's gloomy vales.

Come, ye friends of my youth, ye soft-sounding voices of Cona, bend

from your gold-tinged clouds, and join me in my song. A mighty blaze

is kindled in my soul. I hear a powerful voice. It says, "Seize thy

beam of glory, O bard! for thou shalt soon depart. Soon shall the

light of song be faded. Soon thy tuneful voice forgotten."--"Yes, I

obey, O Powerful voice, for thou art pleasing to mine ear."

O Evir-allen! thou boast of Erin's maids, thy thoughts come

streaming on my soul. Hear, O Malvina! a tale of my youth, the

actions of my former days.

Peace reigned over Morven's hills. The shell of joy resounded in our

halls. Round the blaze of the oak sported in festive dance the maids

of Morven. They shone like the radiant bow of heaven, when the fiery

rays, of the setting sun brightens its varied sides. They wooed me to

their love, but my heart was silent, cold. Indifference, like a

brazen shield, covered my frozen heart.

Fingal saw, he smiled, and mildly spoke: My son, the down of youth

grows on thy check. Thy arm has wielded the spear of war. Foes have

felt thy force. Morven's maids are fair, but fairer are the daughters

of Erin. Go to that happy isle; to Branno's grass-covered fields. The

daughter of my friend deserves thy love. Majestic beauty flows around

her as a robe, and innocence, as a precious veil, heightens her

youthful charms. Go, take thy arms, and win the lovely fair.

Straight I obeyed. A chosen band followed my steps. O We mounted the

dark-bosomed ship of the king, spread its white sails to the winds,

and ploughed through the foam of ocean. Pleasant shone the fine-eyed

Ull-Erin. 1 With joyal songs we cut the liquid way. The moon, regent

of the silent night, gleamed majestic in the blue vault of heaven,

and seemed pleased to bathe her side in the trembling wave. My soul

was full of my father's words. A thousand thoughts divided my

wavering mind,

Soon as the early beam of morn appeared we saw the green-skirted

sides of Erin advancing in the bosom of the sea. White broke the

tumbling surges on the Coast.

Deep in Larmor's woody bay we drove our keel to the shore, and

gained the lofty beach. I inquired after the generous Branno. A son

of Erin led us to his halls, to the banks of the Sounding Lego. He

said, "Many warlike youths are assembled to gain the dark-haired

maid, the beauteous Evir-allen. Branno will give her to the brave.

The conqueror shall bear away the fair. Erin's chiefs dispute the

maid, for she is destined for the strong in arms."

These words inflamed my breast, and roused courage in my heart. I

clad my limbs in steel. I grasped a shining spear in my hand. Branno

saw our approach. He sent the gray-haired Snivan to invite us to his

feast, and know the intent of our course. He came with the solemn

steps of age, and gravely spoke the words of the Chief.

"Whence are these arms of steel? If friends ye come, Branno invites

you to his halls; for this day the lovely Evir-allen shall bless the

warrior's arms whose lance shall shine victorious in the combat of

valor."

"O venerable bard!" I said, "peace guides my steps to Branno. My arm

is young, and few are my deeds in war, but valor inflames my soul; I

am of the race of the brave."

The bard departed. We followed the steps of age, and soon arrived to

Branno's halls.

The hero came to meet us. Manly serenity adorned his brow. His open

front showed the kindness of his heart. "Welcome," he said, "ye sons

of strangers; welcome to Branno's friendly halls; partake his shell

of joy. Share, in the combat of spears. Not unworthy is the prize of

valor, the lovely dark-haired maid of Erin; but strong must be that

warrior's hand that conquers Erin's chiefs; matchless his strength in

fight."

"Chief," I replied, "the light of my father's deeds blazes in my

soul. Though young, I seek my beam of glory foremost in the ranks of

foes. Warrior, I can fair, but I shall fill with renown."

"Happy is thy father, O generous youth! more happy the maid of thy

love. Thy glory shall surround her with praise; thy valor raise her

charms. O were my Evir-allen thy spouse, my years would pass away in

. joy. Pleased I would descend into the grave: contented see the end

of my days."

The feast was spread; stately and slow camp Evir-allen. A snow-white

veil. covered her blushing face. Her large blue eyes were bent on

earth. Dignity flowed round her graceful steps. A shining tear fell

glittering on her cheek. She appeared lovely as the mountain flower

when the ruddy beams of the rising sun gleam on its dew-covered

aides. Decent she sate. High beat my fluttering heart. Swift through

my veins flew my thrilling blood. An unusual weight oppressed my

breast. I stood, darkened in my place. The image of the maid wandered

over my troubled soul.

The sprightly harp's melodious voice arose from the string of the

bards. My soul melted away in the sounds, for my heart, like a

stream, flowed gently away in song. Murmurs soon broke upon our joy.

Half-unsheathed daggers gleamed. Many a voice was heard abrupt.

"Shall the son of the strangers be preferred? Soon shall he be rolled

away, like mist by rushing breath of the tempest." Sedate I rose, for

I despised the boaster's threats. The fair one's eye followed my

departure. I heard a smothered sigh from her breast.

The horn's harsh sound summoned us to the doubtful strife of spears.

Lothmar, fierce hunter of the woody Galmal, first opposed his might.

He vainly insulted my youth, but my sword cleft his brazen shield,

and cut his ashen lance in twain. Straight I withheld my descending

blade. Lothmar retired confused.

Then rose the red-haired strength of Sulin. Fierce rolled his deep-

sunk eye. His shaggy brows stood erect. His face was contracted with

scorn. Thrice his spear pierced my buckler. Thrice his sword struck

on my helm. Swift flashes gleamed from our circling blades. The pride

of my rage arose. Furious I rushed on the chief, and stretched his

bulk on the plain. Groaning he fell to earth. Lego's shores re-echoed

from his fall.

Then advanced Cormac, graceful in glittering arms. No fairer youth

was seen on Erin's grassy hills. His age was equal to mine; his port

majestic; his stature tall and slender, like the young shooting

poplar in Lutha's streamy vales; but sorrow sate upon his brow;

languor reigned on his cheek. My heart inclined to the youth. My

sword oft avoided to wound; often sought to save his days: but he

rushed eager on death. He fell. Blood gushed from his panting breast.

Tears flowed streaming from mine eyes. I stretched forth my hand to

the chief. I proffered gentle words of peace. Faintly he seized my

hand. "Stranger," he said, "I willingly die, for my days were

oppressed with wo. Evir-allen rejected my love. She slighted my

tender suit. Thou alone deservest the maid, for pity reigns in thy

soul, and thou art generous and brave. Tell her, I forgive her scorn.

Tell her, I descend with joy into the grave; but raise the stone of

my praise. Let the maid throw a flower on my tomb, and mingle one

tear with my dust; this is my sole request. This she can grant to my

shade."

I would have spoken, but broken sighs issuing from my breast,

interrupted my faltering words. I threw my spear aside. I clasped the

youth in my arms: but, alas! his soul was already departed to the

cloudy mansions of his; fathers.

Then thrice I raised my voice, and called the chiefs to combat.

Thrice I brandished my spear, and wielded my glittering sword. No

warrior appeared. They dreaded the force of my arm, and yielded the

blue-eyed maid.

Three days I remained in Branno's halls. On the fourth he led me to

the chambers of the fair. She came forth attended by her maids,

graceful in lovely majesty, like the moon, when all the stars confess

her sway, and retire respectful and abashed. I laid my sword at her

feet. Words of love flowed faltering from my tongue. Gently she gave

her hand. Joy seized my enraptured soul. Branno was touched at the

sight. He closed me in his aged arms.

"O wert thou," said he, "the son of my friend, the son of the mighty

Fingal, then were my happiness complete!"

"I am, I am the son of thy friend," I replied, "Ossian, the son of

Fingal;" then sunk upon his aged breast. Our flowing tears mingled

together. We remained long clasped in each other's arms.

Such was my youth, O Malvina! but alas! I am now forlorn. Darkness

covers my soul. Yet the light of song beams at times on my mind. It

solaces awhile my we. Bards, prepare my tomb. Lay me by the fair

Evir-allen. When the revolving years bring back the mild season of

spring to our hills, sing the praise of Cona's bard, of Ossian, the

friend of the distressed.

The difference, in many material circumstances, between these two

descriptions of, as it would seem, the same thing, must be very

apparent. "I will submit," says the baron, "the solution of this

problem to the public." We shall follow his example.

The Honorable Henry Grattan, to whom the baron dedicates his work,

has said, that the poems: which it contains are calculated to inspire

"valor, wisdom, and virtue." It is true, that they are adorned with

numerous beauties both of poetry and morality. They are still farther

distinguished and illumined by noble allusions to the Omnipotent,

which cannot fail to strike the reader as a particular in which they

remarkably vary from those of Mr. Macpherson. "In his," says our

author," there is no mention of the Divinity. In these, the chief

characteristic is the many solemn descriptions of the Almighty Being,

which give a degree of elevation to them unattainable by any other

method. It is worthy of observation how the bard gains in sublimity

by his magnificent, display of the power, bounty, eternity, and

justice of God: and every reader must rejoice to find the venerable

old warrior occupied in descriptions so worthy his great and

comprehensive genius, and to see him freed from the imputation of

atheism, with which he had been branded by many sagacious and

impartial men." P. vi.

We could willingly transcribe more of these. poems, but we have

already quoted enough to show the style of them, and can spare space

for no additions. "Lamor, a poem," is, the baron thinks, of a more

ancient date than that of Ossian, and "the model, perhaps, of his

compositions." Another, called "Sitric," king of Dublin, which throws

some light on the history of those times, he places in the ninth

century. What faith, however, is to be put in the genuineness of the

"Fragments," which Baron de Harold assures us furnished him with the

ground-work of these poems, we leave it to others to ascertain. Our

investigation is confined within far narrower limits.

It has, without doubt, been observed that in noticing what has

transpired on this subject since our last edition, we have carefully

avoided any dogmatism on the question collectedly; and having simply

displayed a torch to show the paths which lead to the labyrinth,

those who wish to venture more deeply into its intricacies, may, when

they please, pursue them.

We must acknowledge, before we depart, that we cannot see without

indignation, or rather pity, the belief of some persons that these

poems are the offspring of Macpherson's genius, so operating on their

minds as to turn their admiration of the ancient poet into contempt

of the modern. We ourselves love antiquity, not merely however, on

account of its antiquity, but because it deserves to be loved. No: we

honestly own with Quintilian, in quibusdam antiquorum, vix risum, in

quibusdam autem vix somnum tenere. The songs of other times, when

they are, as they frequently are, supremely beautiful, merit every

praise, but we must not therefore despise all novelty. In the days of

the Theban bard, it would seem to have been otherwise, for he appears

to give the preference to old wine, but new songs--

a??e? de pa?a???

µe? o????, a??ea d' ?µ???

?e?te???.-- Pind. Ol. Od. ix

(ainei de palaion

men oinon, anthea d'ymnon

With respect to age in wine we are tolerably agreed, but we differ

widely in regard to novelty in verse. Though warranted in some

measure, yet all inordinate prepossessions should be moderated, and

it would be well if we were occasionally to reflect on this question,

if the ancients had been so inimicable to novelty as we are, what

would now be old?

We shall not presume to affirm that these poems were originally

produced by Macpherson, but admitting it, for the sake of argument,

it would then, perhaps, be just to ascribe all the mystery that has

hung about them to the often ungenerous dislike of novelty, or, it

may be more truly, the efforts of contemporaries, which influences

the present day. This might have stimulated him to seek in the garb

of "th' olden time," that respect which is sometimes despitefully

denied to drapery of a later date. Such a motive doubtlessly swayed

the designs both of Chatterton and Ireland, whose names we cannot

mention together without Dryden's comment on Spenser and Flecknoe,

"that is, from the top to the bottom of all poetry." In ushering into

the world the hapless, but beautiful muse of Chatterton, as well as

the contemptible compositions of Ireland, it was alike thought

necessary, to secure public attention, to have recourse to "quaint

Inglis," or an antique dress. And to the eternal disgrace, of

prejudice, the latter, merely in consequence of their disguise, found

men blind enough to advocate their claims to that admiration which,

on their eyes being opened, they could no longer see, and from the

support of which they shrunk abashed.

But we desist. It is useless to draw conclusions, as it is vain to

reason with certain people who act unreasonably, since, if they were,

in these particular cases, capable of reason, they would need no

reasoning with. By some, the poems here published will be esteemed in

proportion as the argument for their antiquity prevails, but with

regard to the general reader, and the unaffected lovers of "heaven-

descended poesy," let the question take either way, still

The harp in Selma was not idly

And long shall last the themes our poet

Berrathon.

PREFACE.

WITHOUT increasing his genius, the author may have improved his

language, in the eleven years that the following poems have been in

the hands of the public. Errors in diction might have been committed

at twenty-four, which the experience of a riper age may remove; and

some exuberances in imagery may be restrained with advantage, by a

degree of judgment acquired in the progress of time. Impressed with

this opinion, he ran over the whole with attention and accuracy; and

he hopes he has brought the work to a state of correctness which will

preclude all future improvements.

The eagerness with which these poems have been received abroad, is a

recompense for the coldness with which a few have affected to treat

them at home. All the polite nations of Europe have transferred them

into their respective languages; and they speak of him who brought

them to light, in terms that might flatter the vanity of one fond of

flame. In a convenient indifference for a literary reputation, the

author hears praise without being elevated, and ribaldry without

being depressed. He has frequently seen the first bestowed too

precipitately; and the latter is so faithless to its purpose, that it

is often the only index to merit in the present age.

Though the taste which defines genius by the points of the compass,

is a subject fit for mirth in itself, it is often a serious matter in

the sale of the work. When rivers define the limits of abilities, as

well as the boundaries of countries, a writer may measure his success

by the latitude under which he was born. It was to avoid a part of

this inconvenience, that the author is said by some, who speak

without any authority, to nave ascribed his own productions to

another name. If this was the case, he was but young in the art of

deception. When he placed the poet in antiquity, the translator

should have been born on this side of the Tweed.

These observations regard only the frivolous in matters of

literature; these, however, form a majority of every age and nation.

In this countrymen of genuine taste abound; but their still voice is

drowned in the clamors of a multitude, who judge by fashion of

poetry, as of dress. The truth is, to judge aright, requires almost

as much genius as to write well; and good critics are as rare as

great poets. Though two hundred thousand Romans stood up when Virgil

came into the theatre, Varius only could correct the Æneid. He that

obtains fame must receive it through mere fashion; and gratify his

vanity with the applause of men, of whose judgment he cannot approve.

The following poems, it must be confessed, are more calculated to

please persons of exquisite feelings of heart, than those who receive

all their impressions by the car. The novelty of cadence, in what is

called a prose version, thou h not destitute of harmony, will not, to

common readers, supply the absence of the frequent returns of rhyme.

This was the opinion of the writer himself, though he yielded to the

judgment of others, in a mode, which presented freedom and dignity of

expression, instead of fetters, which cramp the thought, whilst the

harmony of language is preserved. His attention was to publish

inverse.--The making of poetry, like any other handicraft, may be

learned by industry; and he had served his apprenticeship, though in

secret, to the Muses.

It is, however, doubtful, whether the harmony which these poems

might derive from rhyme, even in much better hands than those of the

translator, could atone for the simplicity and energy which they

would lose. The determination of this point shall be left to the

readers of this preface. The following is the beginning of a poem,

translated from the Norse to the Gaelic language; and, from the

latter, transferred into English. The verse took little more time to

the writer than the prose; and he himself is doubtful (if he has

succeeded in either) which of them is the most literal version.

FRAGMENT OF A NORTHERN TALE.

WHERE Harold, with golden hair, spread o'er Lochlinn his high

commands; where, with justice, he ruled the tribes, who sunk,

subdued, beneath his sword; abrupt rises Gormal in snow! the tempests

roll dark on his sides, but calm, above, his vast forehead appears.

White-issuing from the skirt of his storms, the troubled torrents

pour down his sides. Joining, as they roar along, they bear the

Torno, in foam, to the main.

Gray on the bank, and far from men, half-covered, by ancient pines,

from the wind, a lonely pile exalts its head, long shaken by the

storms of the north. To this fled Sigurd, fierce in fight, from

Harold the leader of armies, when fate had brightened his spear with

renown: when he conquered in that rude field, where Lulan's warriors

fell in blood, or rose in terror on the waves of the main. Darkly sat

the gray-haired chief; yet sorrow dwelt not in his soul. But when the

warrior thought on the past, his proud heart heaved against his side:

forth flew his sword from its place: he wounded Harold in all the

winds.

One daughter, and only one, but bright in form and mild of soul, the

last beam of the setting line, remained to Sigurd of all his race.

His son, in Lulan's battle slain, beheld not his father's flight from

his foes. Nor finished seemed the ancient line! The splendid beauty

of bright-eyed Fithon covered still the fallen king with renown. Her

arm was white like Gormal's snow; her bosom whiter than the foam of

the main, when roll the waves beneath the wrath of the winds. Like

two stars were her radiant eyes, like two stars that rise on the

deep, when dark tumult embroils the night. Pleasant are their beams

aloft, as stately they ascend the skies.

Nor Odin forgot, in aught, the maid. Her form scarce equalled her

lofty mind. Awe moved around her stately steps. Heroes loved-but

shrunk away in their fears. Yet, midst the pride of all her charms,

her heart was soft and her soul was kind. She saw the mournful with

tearful eyes. Transient darkness arose in her breast. Her joy was in

the chase. Each morning, when doubtful light wandered dimly on

Lulan's waves, she roused the resounding woods to Gormal's head of

snow. Nor moved the maid alone, &c.

The same versified.

Where fair-hair'd Harold, o'er Scandinia reign'd,

And held with justice what his valor gain'd ,

Sevo, in snow, his rugged forehead rears,

A o'er the warfare of his storms, appears

Abrupt and vast.--White wandering down his side

A thousand torrents, gleaming as they glide,

Unite below, and, pouring through the plain,

flurry the troubled Torno to the main.

Gray, on the bank, remote from human kind,

By aged pines half-shelter'd from the wind,

A homely mansion rose, of antique form,

For ages batter'd by the polar storm.

To this, fierce Sigurd fled from Norway's lord,

When fortune settled on the warrior's sword,

In that rude field, where Suecia's chiefs were slain,

Or forc'd to wander o'er the Bothnic main.

Dark was his life, yet undisturb'd with woes,

But when the memory of defeat arose,

His proud heart struck his side; he grasp'd the spear,

And wounded Harold in the vacant air.

One daughter only, but of form divine,

The last fair beam of the departing line,

Remain'd of Sigurd's race. His warlike son

Fell in the shock which overturn'd the throne.

Nor desolate the house! Fionia's charms

Sustain'd the glory which they lost in arms.

White was her arm as Sevo's lofty snow,

Her bosom fairer than the waves below

When heaving to the winds. Her radiant eyes

Like two bright stars, exulting as they rise,

O'er the dark tumult of a stormy night,

And gladd'ning heaven with their majestic light.

In nought is Odin to the maid unkind,

Her form scarce equals her exalted mind;

Awe leads her sacred steps where'er they move,

And mankind worship where they dare not love.

But mix'd with softness was the virgin's pride,

Her heart bad feeling, which her eyes denied;

Her bright tears started at another's woes,

While transient darkness on her soul arose.

The chase she lov'd; when morn with doubtful beam

Came dimly wand'ring o'er the Bothnic stream.

On Sevo's sounding sides she bent the bow,

And rous'd his forests to his head of snow.

Nor moved the maid alone, &c.

One of the chief improvements, in this edition, is the care taken in

arranging the poems in the order of time; so as to form a kind of

regular history of the age to which they relate. The writer has now

resigned them forever to their fate. That they have been well

received by the public appears from an extensive sale; that they

shall continue to be well received, he may venture to prophesy,

without the gift of that inspiration to which poets lay claim.

Through the medium of version upon version, they retain, in foreign

languages, their native character of simplicity and energy. Genuine

poetry, like gold, loses little, when properly transfused; but when a

composition cannot bear the test of a literal version, it is a

counterfeit which ought not to pass current. The operation must,

however, be performed with skilful hands. A translator who cannot

equal his original, is incapable of expressing its beauties.

London,

Aug. 15,1773.

A DISSERTATION CONCERNING THE ÆRA OF OSSIAN.

INQUIRIES into the antiquities of nations afford more pleasure than

any real advantage to mankind. The ingenious may form systems of

history on probabilities and a few facts; but, at a great distance of

time, their accounts must be vague and uncertain. The infancy of

states and kingdoms is as destitute of great events, as of the means

of transmitting them to posterity. The arts of polished life, by

which alone facts can be preserved with certainty, are the production

of a well. formed community. It is then historians begin to write,

and public transactions to be worthy remembrance. The actions of

former times are left in obscurity, or magnified by uncertain

traditions. Hence it is that we find so much of the marvellous in the

origin of every nation; posterity being always ready to believe any

thing, however fabulous, that reflects honor on their ancestors.

The Greeks and Romans were remarkable for this weakness. They

swallowed the most absurd fables concerning the high antiquities of

their respective nations. Good historians, however, rose very early

amongst them, and transmitted, with lustre, their great actions to

posterity. It is to them that they owe that unrivalled fame they now

enjoy; while the great actions of other nations are involved in

fables, or lost in obscurity. The Celtic nations afford a striking

instance of this kind. They, though once the masters of Europe, from

the mouth of the river Oby, in Russia, to Cape Finisterre, the

western point of Gallicia, in Spain, are very little mentioned in

history. They trusted their fame to tradition and the songs of their

bards, which, by the vicissitude of human affairs, are long since

lost. Their ancient language is the only monument that remains of

them; and the traces of it being found in places so widely distant

from each other, serves only to show the extent of their ancient

power, but throws very little light on their history.

Of all the Celtic nations, that which possessed old Gaul is the most

renowned: not perhaps on account of worth superior to the rest, but

for their wars with a people who had historians to transmit the fame

of their enemies, as well as their own, to posterity. Britain was

first peopled by them, according to the testimony of the best

authors; its situation in respect to Gaul makes the opinion probable;

but what puts it beyond all dispute, is, that the same customs and

language prevailed among the inhabitants of both in the days of

Julius Cæsar.

The colony from Gaul possessed themselves, at first, of that part of

Britain which was next to their own country; and spreading northward

by degrees, as they increased in numbers, peopled the whole island.

Some adventurers passing over from those parts of Britain that are

within sight of Ireland, were the founders of the Irish nation: which

is a more probable story than the idle fables of Milesian and

Gallician colonies. Diodorus Siculus mentions it as a thing well k-

town in his time, that the inhabitants of Ireland were originally

Britons; and his testimony is unquestionable, when we consider that,

for many ages, the language and customs of both nations were the

same.

Tacitus was of opinion that the ancient Caledonians were of German

extract; but even the ancient Ger. mans themselves were Gauls. The

present Germans, properly so called, were not the same with the

ancient Celtæ. The manners and customs of the two nations were

similar; but their language different. The Germans are the genuine

descendants of the ancient Scandinavians, who crossed, at an early

period, the Baltic. The Celtæ, anciently, sent many colonies into

Germany, all of whom retained their own laws, language, and customs,

till they were dissipated, in the Roman empire; and it is of them, if

any colonies came from Germany into Scotland, that the ancient

Caledonians were descended.

But whether the ancient Caledonians were a colony of the Celtic

Germans,, or the same with the Gauls that first possessed themselves

of Britain, is a matter of no moment at this distance of time.

Whatever their origin was, we find them very numerous in the time of

Julius Agricola, which is a presumption that they were long before

settled in the country. The form of their government was a mixture of

aristocracy and monarchy, as it was in all the countries where the

Druids bore the chief sway. This order of men seems to have been

formed on the same principles with the Dactyli, Idæ, and Curetes of

the ancients. Their pretended intercourse with heaven, their magic

and divination, were the same. The knowledge of the Druids in natural

causes, and the properties of certain things, the fruits of the

experiments of ages, gained them a mighty reputation among the

people. The esteem of the populace soon increased into a veneration

for the order; which these cunning and ambitious priests took care to

improve, to such a degree, that they, in a manner, engrossed the

management of civil, as well as religious matters. It is generally

allowed, that they did not abuse this extraordinary power; the

preserving the character of sanctity was so essential to their

influence, that they never broke out into violence or oppression. The

chiefs were allowed to execute the laws, but the legislative power

was entirely in the hands of the Druids. It Was by their authority

that the tribes were united, in times of the greatest danger, under

one head. This temporary king, or Vergobretus, was chosen by them,

and generally laid down his office at the end of the war. These

priests enjoyed long this extraordinary privilege among the Celtic

nations who lay beyond the pale of the Roman empire. It was in the

beginning of the second century that their power among the

Caledonians began to decline. The traditions concerning Trathal and

Cormac, ancestors to Fingal, are full of the particulars of the fall

of the Druids: a singular fate it must be owned, of priests who had

once established their superstition.

The continual wars of the Caledonians against the Romans, hindered

the bettor sort from initiating themselves, as the custom formerly

was, into the order of the Druids. The precepts of their religion

were con. fined to a few, and were not much attended to by a people

inured to war. He Vergobretus, or chief magistrate, was chosen

without the concurrence of the hierarchy, or continued in his office

against their will. Continual power strengthened his interest among

the tribes, and enabled him to send down, as hereditary to his

posterity, the office he had only received himself by election.

On occasion of a new war against the "king of the world," as

tradition emphatically calls the Roman emperor, the Druids, to

vindicate the honor of the order, began to resume their ancient

privilege of choosing the Vergobretus. Garmal, the son of Tarno,

being deputed by them, came to the grandfather of the celebrated

Fingal, who was then Vergobretus, and commanded him, in the name of

the whole order, to lay down his office. Upon his refusal, a civil

war commenced, which soon ended in almost the total extinction of the

religious order of the Druids. A few that remained, retired to the

dark recesses of their groves, and the caves they had formerly used

for their meditations. It is then we find them in the circle of

stones, and unheeded by the world. A total disregard for the order,

and utter abhorrence of the Druidical rites ensued. Under this cloud

of public hate, all that had any knowledge of the religion of the

Druids became extinct, and the nation fell into the last degree of

ignorance of their rites and ceremonies.

It is no matter of wonder, then, that Fingal and his son Ossian

disliked the Druids, who were the declared enemies to their

succession in the supreme magistracy. It is a singular case, it must

be allowed, that there are no traces of religion in the poems

ascribed to Ossian, as the poetical compositions of other nations are

so closely connected with their mythology. But gods are not

necessary, when the poet has genius. It is hard to account for it to

those who are not made acquainted with the manner of the old Scottish

bards. That race of men carried their notions of martial honor to an

extravagant pitch. Any aid given their heroes in battle, was thought

to derogate from their fame; and the bards immediately transferred

the glory of the action to him who had given that aid.

Had the poet brought down gods, as often as Homer has done, to

assist his heroes, his work had not consisted of eulogiums on men,

but of hymns to superior beings. Those who write in the Gaelic

language seldom mention religion in their profane poetry; and when

they professedly write of religion, they never mix, with their

compositions, the actions of their heroes. This custom alone, even

though the religion of the Druids had not been previously

extinguished, may, in some measure, excuse the author's silence

concerning the religion of ancient times.

To allege that a nation is void of all religion, betrays ignorance

of the history of mankind. The traditions of their fathers, and their

own observations on the works of nature, together with that

superstition which is inherent in the human frame, have, in all ages,

raised in the minds of men some idea of a superior being. Hence it

is, that in the darkest times, and amongst the most barbarous

nations, the very populace themselves hid some faint notion, at

least, of a divinity. The Indians, who worship no God, believe that

he exists. It would be doing injustice to the author of these poems,

to think that he had not opened his conceptions to that primitive and

greatest of all truths. But let his religion be what it will, it is

certain that he has not alluded to Christianity or any of its rites,

in his poems; which ought to fix his opinions, at least; to an era

prior to that religion. Conjectures, on this subject, must supply the

place of proof. The persecution begun by Dioclesian, in the year 303,

is the most probable time in which the first dawning of Christianity

in the north of Britain can be fixed. The humane and mild character

of Constantius Chlorus, who commanded then in Britain, induced the

persecuted Christians to take refuge under him. Some of them, through

a zeal to propagate their tenets, or through fear, went beyond the

pale of the Roman empire, and settled among the Caledonians; who

were, ready to hearken to their doctrines, if the religion of the

Druids was exploded long before. These missionaries, either through

choice or to give more weight to the doctrine they advanced, took

possession of the cells and groves of the Druids; and it was from

this retired life they had the name of Culdees, which, in the

language of the country, signified "the sequestered persons." It was

with one of the Culdees that Ossian, in his extreme old age, is said

to have disputed concerning the Christian religion. This dispute they

say, is extant, and is couched in verse, according to the custom of

the times. The extreme ignorance on the part of Ossian of the

Christian tenets, shows that that religion had only lately been

introduced, as it is not easy to conceive how one of the first rank

could be totally unacquainted with a religion that had been known for

any time in the country. The dispute bears the genuine marks of

antiquity. The obsolete phrases and expressions, peculiar to the

time, prove it to be no forgery. If Ossian, then, lived at the

introduction of Christianity, as by all appearance he did, his epoch

will be the, latter end of the third, and beginning of the fourth

century. Tradition here steps in with a kind of proof.

The exploits of Fingal against Caracul, the son of the "king of the

world," are among the first brave actions of his youth. A complete:

poem, which relates to this subject, is printed in this collection.

In the year 210, the Emperor Severus, after returning from his

expedition against the Caledonians at York, fell into the tedious

illness of which he afterward died. The Caledonians and Maiatæ,

resuming courage from his indisposition, took arms in order to

recover the possessions they had lost. The enraged emperor commanded

his army to march into their country, and to destroy it with fire and

sword. His orders were but ill executed; for his son Caracalla was at

the head of the army, and his thoughts were entirely taken up with

the hopes of his father's death, and with schemes to supplant his

brother Geta. He scarcely had entered into the enemy's country, when

news was brought him that Severus was dead, A sudden peace is patched

up with the Caledonians, and, as it appears from Dion Cassius, the

country they had lost to Severus was restored to them.

The Caracul of Fingal is no other than Caracalla, who as the son of

Severus, the emperor of Rome, whose dominions were extended almost

over the known world, was not without reason called the "son of the

king of the world." The space, of time between 211, the year Severus

, died, and the beginning of the fourth century is not so great, but

Ossian, the son of Fingal, might have seen the Christians whom the

persecution under Dioclesian had driven beyond the pale of the Roman

empire.

In one of the many lamentations of the death of Oscar, a battle

which he fought, against Caros, king of ships, on the banks of the

winding Carun, is mentioned among his great actions. It is more than

probable, that the Caros mentioned here, is the same with the noted

usurper Carausius, who assumed the purple in the year 287, and

seizing on Britain, defeated the Emperor Maximinian Herculius in

several naval engagements, which gives propriety to his being called

the "king of ships." "The winding Carun," is that small river

retaining still the name of Carron, and runs in the neighborhood of

Agricola's wall, which Carausius repaired, to obstruct the incursions

of the Caledonians. Several other passages in traditions allude to

the wars of the Romans; but the two just mentioned clearly fix the

epocha of Fingal to the third century; and this account agrees

exactly with the Irish histories, which place the death of Fingal,

the son of Comhal, in the year 283, and that of Oscar and their own

celebrated Cairbre, in the year 296.

Some people may imagine, that the allusions to the Roman history

might have been derived by tradition, from learned men, more than

from ancient poems. This must then have happened at least three

hundred years ago, as these allusions are mentioned often in the

compositions of those times.

Every one knows what a cloud of ignorance and barbarism overspread

the north of Europe three hundred years ago. The minds of men,

addicted to superstition, contracted a narrowness that destroyed

genius. Accordingly we find the compositions of those times trivial

and puerile to the last degree. But, let it be allowed; that, amidst

all the untoward circumstances of the age, a genius might arise; it

is not easy to determine what could induce him to allude to the Roman

times. We find no fact to favor any designs which could be

entertained by any man who lived in the fifteenth century.

The strongest objection to the antiquity of the poems now given to

the public under the name of Ossian, is the improbability of their

being handed down by tradition through so many centuries. Ages of

barbarism some will say, could not produce poems abounding with the

disinterested and generous sentiments so conspicuous in the

compositions of Ossian; and could these ages produce them, it is

impossible but they must be lost, or altogether corrupted, in a long

succession of barbarous generations.

Those objections naturally suggest themselves to men unacquainted

with the ancient state of the northern parts of Britain. The bards,

who were an inferior order of the Druids, did not share their bad

fortune. They were spared by the victorious king, as it was through

their means only he could hope for immortality to his fame. They

attended him in the camp, and contributed to establish his power by

their songs. His great actions were magnified, and the populace, who

had no ability to examine into his character narrowly, were dazzled

with his fame in the rhymes of the bards. In the mean time, men

assumed sentiments that are rarely to be met with in an age of

barbarism. The bards, who were originally the disciples of the

Druids, hid their minds opened, and their ideas enlarged, by being

initiated into the learning of that celebrated order. They could form

a perfect hero in their own minds, and ascribe that character to

their prince. The inferior chiefs made this ideal character the model

of their conduct; and, by degrees, brought their minds to that

generous spirit which breathes in all the poetry of the times. The

prince, flattered by his bards, and rivalled by his own heroes, who

imitated his character as described in the eulogies of his poets,

endeavored to excel his people in merit, as he was above them in

station. This emulation continuing, formed at last the general

character of the nation, happily compounded of what is noble in

barbarity, and virtuous and generous in a polished people.

When virtue in peace, and bravery in war, are the characteristics of

a nation, their actions become interesting, and their fame worthy of

immortality. A generous spirit is warmed with noble actions, and

becomes ambitious of perpetuating them. This is the true source of

that divine inspiration, to which the poets of all ages pretended.

When they found their themes inadequate to the warmth of their

imaginations, they varnished them over with fables supplied with

their own fancy, or furnished by absurd traditions. These fables,

however ridiculous, had their abettors; posterity either implicitly

believed them, or through a vanity natural to mankind, pretended that

they did. They loved to place the founders of their families in the

days of fable, when poetry, without the fear of contradiction, could

give what character she pleased of her heroes. It is to this vanity

that we owe the preservation of what remain of the more ancient

poems. Their poetical merit made their heroes famous in a country

where heroism was much esteemed and admired. The posterity of these

heroes or those who pretended to be descended from them, heard with

pleasure the eulogiums of their ancestors; bards were employed to

repeat the poems, and to record the connection of their patrons with

chiefs so renowned. Every chief, in process of time, had a bard in

his family, and the office became at last hereditary. By the

succession of these bards, the poems concerning the ancestors of the

family were handed down from generation to generation; they were

repeated to the whole clan on solemn occasions, and always alluded to

in the new compositions of the bards. The custom came down to near

our own times; and after the bards were discontinued, a great number

in a clan retained by memory, or committed to writing, their

compositions, and founded the antiquity of their families on the

authority of their poems.

The use of letters was not known in the north of Europe till long

after the institution of the bards: the records of the families of

their patrons, their own, and more ancient poems, were handed down by

tradition. Their poetical compositions were admirably contrived for

that purpose. They were adapted to music; and the most perfect

harmony was observed. Each verse was so connected with those which

preceded or followed it, that if one line, had been remembered in a

stanza, it was almost impossible to forget the rest. The cadences

followed so natural a gradation, and the words were so adapted to the

common turn of the voice, after it is raised to a certain key, that

it was almost impossible, from a similarity of sound, to substitute

one word for another. This excellence is peculiar to the Celtic

tongue, and is perhaps to be met with in no other language. Nor does

this choice of words clog the sense, or weaken the expression. The

numerous flexions of consonants, and variation in declension, make

the language very copious.

The descendants of the Celtæ, who inhabited Britain and its isles,

were not singular in this method of preserving the most precious

monuments of their nation. The ancient laws of the Greeks were

couched in verse, and handed down by tradition. The Spartans, through

a long habit, became so fond of this custom, that they would never

allow their laws to be committed to writing. The actions of great

men, and eulogiums of kings and heroes, were preserved in the same

manner. All the historical monuments of the old Germans were

comprehended in their ancient songs; which were either hymns to their

gods, or elegies in praise of their heroes, and were intended to

perpetuate the great events in their nation, which were carefully

interwoven with them. This species of composition was not committed

to writing, but delivered by oral tradition. The care they took to

have the poems taught to their children, the uninterrupted custom of

repeating them upon certain occasions, and the happy measure of the

verse, served to preserve them for a long time uncorrupted. This oral

chronicle of the Germans was not forgot in the eighth century; and it

probably would have remained to this day, had not learning, which

thinks every thing that is not committed to writing, fabulous, been

introduced. It was from poetical traditions that Garcilasso composed

his account of the Incas of Peru. The Peruvians had lost all other

monuments of their history, and it was from ancient poems, which his

mother, a princess of the blood of the Incas, taught him in his

youth, that he, collected the materials of his history. If other

nations, then, that had often been overrun by enemies, and hath sent

abroad and received colonies, could for many ages preserve, by oral

tradition, their laws and histories uncorrupted, it is much more

probable that the ancient Scots, a people so free of intermixture

with foreigners, and so strongly attached to the memory of their

ancestors, had the works of their bards handed down with great

purity.

What is advanced in s short dissertation, it must be confessed, is

mere conjecture. Beyond the reach of' records is settled a gloom

which no ingenuity can penetrate. The manners described in these

poems suit the ancient Celtic times, and no other period that is

known in history. We must, therefore, place the heroes far back in

antiquity; and it matters little, who were their contemporaries in

other parts of the world. If we have placed Fingal in his proper

period, we do honor to the manners of barbarous times. He exercised

every manly virtue in Caledonia, while Heliogabalus disgraced human

nature at Rome.

A DISSERTATION CONCERNING THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

THE history of those nations who originally possessed the north of

Europe, is less known than their manners. Destitute of the use of

letters, they them. selves had not the means of transmitting their

great actions to remote posterity. Foreign writers saw them only at a

distance, and described them as they found them. The vanity of the

Romans induced them to consider the nations beyond the pale of their

empire as barbarians; and, consequently, their history unworthy of

being investigated. Their manners and singular character were matters

of curiosity, as they committed them to record. Some men otherwise of

great merit, among ourselves, give into confined ideas on this

subject. Having early imbibed their idea of exalted manners from the

Greek and Roman writers, they scarcely ever afterward have the

fortitude to allow any dignity of character to any nation destitute

of the use of letters.

Without derogating from the fame of Greece and Rome, we may consider

antiquity beyond the pale of their empire worthy of some attention.

The nobler passions of the mind never shoot forth more free and

unrestrained than in the times we call barbarous. That irregular

manner of life, and those manly pursuits, from which barbarity takes

it name, are highly favorable to a strength of mind unknown in

polished times. In advanced society, the characters of men are more

uniform and disguised. The human passions lie in some degree

concealed behind forms and artificial manners; and the powers of the

soul, without an opportunity of exerting them, lose their vigor. The

times of regular government, and polished manners, are therefore to

be wished for by the feeble and weak in mind. An unsettled state, and

those convulsions which attend it, is the proper field for an exalted

character, and the exertion of great parts. Merit there rises always

superior; no fortuitous event can raise the timid and mean into

power. To those who look upon antiquity in this light, it is an

agreeable prospect; and they alone can have real pleasure in tracing

nations to their source. The establishment of the Celtic states, in

the north of Europe, is beyond the reach of written annals. The

traditions and songs to which they trusted their history, 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 knowledge of their own origin. If tradition could be

depended upon, it is only among a people, from all time, free from

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 and more fertile parts of,

the kingdom. Their language is pure and original, and their manners

are those of an ancient and unmixed race of men. Conscious of their

own antiquity, they long despised others, as a new and mixed people.

As they lived in a country only fit for pasture, they were free from

that toil and business which engross the attention of a commercial

people. Their amusement consisted in hearing or repeating their songs

and traditions, and these entirely turned on the antiquity of their

nation, and the exploits of their forefathers. It is no wonder,

therefore, that there are more remains among them, than among any

other people in Europe. Traditions, however, concerning remote

periods are only to be regarded, in so far as they coincide with

contemporary writers of undoubted credit and veracity.

No writers began their accounts for a more early period than the

historians of the Scots nation. Without records, or even tradition

itself, they gave a long list of ancient 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 ancient language of their nation, they contented themselves

with copying from one another, and retailing the same fictions in a

new color and dress.

John Fordun was the first who collected those fragments of the Scots

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. Sometime 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 error 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,

though they sometimes varied from him in their relations of

particular transactions and the order of succession of their kings.

As they had no new lights, and were equally with him unacquainted

with the traditions of their country, their histories contain little

information concerning the origin of the Scots. Even Buchanan

himself, except the elegance and vigor of his style, has very little

to recommend him. Blinded with political prejudices, he seemed more

anxious to turn the fictions of his predecessors to his own purposes,

than to detect their misrepresentations, or investigate truth amidst

the darkness which they had thrown round it. It therefore appears,

that little can be collected from their own historians concerning the

first migrations of the Scots into Britain.

That this island was peopled from Gaul admits of no doubt. Whether

colonies came afterward 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 Gauls who possessed themselves

originally of Britain. It is compounded of two Celtic words, Cael

signifying Celts, or Gauls, and Dun or Don, a hill; so that Caeldon,

or Caledonians, is as much as to say, the "Celts of the hill

country." The Highlanders, to this day, call themselves Cael, and

their language Caelic, or Galic, and their country Caeldock, which

the Romans softened into Caledonia. This, of itself, is sufficient to

demonstrate that they are the genuine descendants of the ancient

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 Cael, 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

of the Britons, and that they received their name upon that account.

This opinion, say they, is supported by Tacitus, who, from several

circumstances, concludes that the Caledonians were of German

extraction. A discussion of a point so intricate, at this distance of

time, could neither be satisfactory nor important.

Towards the later end of the third, and beginning of the fourth

century, we find the Scots in the north. Porphirius makes the first

mention of them about that time. As the 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

descendants of the ancient 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

entirely 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

uncontrolled 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 neighbors, 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 this 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." As

the Picts lived in a country so different in its nature from that

possessed by the Scots so their national character suffered a

material change. Unobstructed by mountains or lakes, their

communication with one another was free and frequent. Society,

therefore, became sooner established among them than among the Scots,

and, consequently, they were much sooner governed by civil

magistrates and laws. This, at last, produced so great a difference

in the manners of the two nations, that they began to forget their

common origin, and almost continual quarrels and animosities

subsisted between them. These animosities, after some ages, ended in

the subversion of the Pictish kingdom, but not in the total

extirpation of the nation according to most of the Scots writers, who

seem to think it more for the honor of their countrymen to annihilate

than reduce a rival people under their obedience. It is certain,

however, that the very name of the Picts was lost, and that those

that remained were so completely incorporated with their conquerors,

that they soon lost all memory of their own origin.

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 favors

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 is said to have been given by the Romans to the

Caledonians who possessed the east coast of Scotland from their

painting their bodies. The story is silly, and the argument absurd.

But let us revere antiquity in her very follies. 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, affirm

some antiquaries, 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, at length, a matter that admits of no doubt. The vicinity of the

two islands; the exact correspondence of the ancient inhabitants of

both, in point of manners and language, are sufficient proofs, even

if we had not the testimonies of authors of undoubted veracity to

confirm it. The abettors of the most romantic systems of Irish

antiquities allow it; but they place the colony from Britain in an

improbable and remote æra. I shall easily admit that the colony of

the Firbolg, confessedly the Belgæ of Britain, settled in the south

of Ireland, before the Cael, 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 Christian æra.

The poem of Temora throws considerable light on this subject. The

accounts given in it agree so well with what the ancients 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. 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 Cael, 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 Cael, who possessed

Ulster.

Conlama had been betrothed, some time before, to Turloch, a chief of

their 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 Cael 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 vigor and success; but the Firbolg appear to have

been rather repelled than subdued. In succeeding reigns, we learn,

from episodes in the same poem, that the chiefs of Atha made several

efforts to become monarchs of Ireland, and to expel the race of

Conar.

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 was then very

young, came to the aid of Cormac, totally defeated Colculla, chief of

Atha, and re-established Cormac in the sole possession of all

Ireland. It was then he fell in love with, and took to wife,

Roscrana, the daughter of Cormac, who was the mother of Ossian.

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,

defeated his adherents, and murdered him in the palace of Ternora.

Cairbar, lord of of Atha, upon this mounted the throne. His

usurpation soon ended with his life; for Fingal made an expedition

into Ireland, and restored, after various vicissitudes of fortune,

the family of Conar to the possession of the kingdom. This war is the

subject of Temora; the events, though certainly heightened and

embellished by poetry, seem, notwithstanding, to have their

foundation in true history.

Temora contains not only the history of the first migration of the

Caledonians into Ireland; it also preserves some important facts

concerning the first settlement of the Firbolg, 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 Fonar, the bard;

towards the latter end of the seventh book of Temora. As the

generations from Larthon to Cathmor, to whom the episode is

addressed, are not marked, as are those of the family of Conar, the

first king of Ireland, we can form no judgment of the time of the

settlement of the Firbolg. It is, however, probable it was some time

before the Cael, or Caledonians, settled in Ulster. One important

fact may, be gathered from this history, that the Irish had no king

before the latter end of the first century. Fingal lived, it is

supposed, 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, To establish this fact, is to lay, at once,

aside the pretended antiquities of the Scots and Irish, and to get

quit of the long list of kings which the latter give us for a

millenium 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 later than

that period. Sir James Ware, who was indefatigable in his researches

after the antiquities of his country, rejects, as mere fiction and

idle romance, all that is related of the ancient Irish before the

time of St. Patrick, and the reign of Leogaire. It is from this

consideration that he begins his history at the introduction of

Christianity, remarking, that all that is delivered down concerning

the times of paganism were tales of late invention, strangely mixed

with anachronisms and inconsistencies. Such being the opinion of

Ware, who had collected, with uncommon industry and zeal, all the

real and pretundedly ancient manuscripts concerning the history of

his country, we may, on his authority, reject the improbable and

self-condemned tales of Keating and O'Flaherty. Credulous and puerile

to the last degree, they have disgraced the antiquities they meant to

establish. It is to be wished that some able Irishman, who

understands the language and records of his country, may redeem, ere

too late, the genuine and antiquities of Ireland from the hands of

these idle fabulists.

By comparing the history in these poems with the legends of the

Scots and Irish writers, and by afterward 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 favors the

hypothesis laid down by contemporary writers of undoubted veracity,

and, as it were, finishes which they only drew the outlines, it

ought, in the judgment of sober reason, to be preferred to accounts

framed in dark and distant periods, with little judgement, and upon

no authority.

Concerning the period of more than a century which intervenes

between Fingal and the reign of Fergus, the sons 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, whose son was Arcath,

the father of Fergus, properly called the first king of Scots, as it

was in his time the Cael, who possessed the western coast of

Scotland, began to be distinguished by foreigners by the name of

Scots. From thenceforward, 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 Fingal. 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 neighbors. 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 primeval dignity of sentiment. The middle state is

the region of complete 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 favorable opportunity,

made incursions into the deserted province. The Britons, enervated by

the slavery of several centuries, and those vices which are

inseparable from an advanced state of civility, were not able to

withstand the impetuous, though irregular, attacks of a barbarous

enemy. In the utmost distress, they applied to their old masters, the

Romans, and (after the unfortunate state of the empire could not

spare aid) to the Saxons, a nation equally barbarous and brave with

the enemies of whom they were so much afraid. Though the bravery of

the Saxons repelled the Caledonian nations for a time, yet the latter

found means to extend themselves considerably towards the south. It

is in this period we must place the origin of the arts of civil life

among the Scots. The seat of government was removed from the

mountains to the plain and more fertile provinces of the south, to be

near the common enemy in case of sudden incursions. Instead of roving

through unfrequented wilds in search of subsistence by means of

hunting, men applied to agriculture, and raising of corn. This manner

of life was the first means of changing the national character. The

next thing which contributed to it was their mixture with strangers.

In the countries which the Scots had conquered from the Britons, it

is probable that 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 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 Scots were as similar as the different

natures of the countries they possessed permitted.

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; insomuch, 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 ancient Caledonians, till, at last, the

latter were entirely relegated to the 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. The small number, as well as the presence of

their prince, prevented those divisions which, afterward, 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

regulus, who either was, or, in the succession of a few generations,

was regarded as chief of their blood. The nature of the country

favored an institution of this sort. A few valleys, divided from one

another by extensive heaths and impassable mountains, form the face

of the Highlands. In those valleys the chiefs fixed their residence.

Round them, and almost within sight of their dwellings, were the

habitations of their relations and dependants.

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

lawgiver 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, though absolute and decisive, partook more of

the authority of a father than of the rigor of a judge. Though the

whole territory of the tribe was considered as the property of the

thief, 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 expense. 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 by

the inaccessibleness of their country, they were free and

independent. As they had little communication with strangers, the

customs of their ancestors remained among them, and their language

retained its original purity, Naturally fond of military fame, and

remarkably attached to the memory of their ancestors, they delighted

in traditions and songs concerning the exploits of their nation, and

especially of their own particular families. A succession of bards

was retained in every clan to hand down the memorable actions of

their forefathers. As Fingal and his chiefs were the most renowned

names in tradition, the bards took care to place them in the

genealogy of every great family. They became famous among the people,

and an object of fiction and poetry to the bard.

The bards 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 inaccuracy would disgust in a

translation. It was chiefly for this reason that I have rejected

wholly the works of the bards in my publications. Ossian acted in a

more extensive sphere, and his ideas ought to be more noble and

universal; neither gives he, I presume, so many of their

peculiarities, which are only understood in a certain period or

country. The other bards have their beauties, but not in this species

of composition. Their rhymes, only calculated to kindle a martial

spirit among the vulgar, afford very little pleasure to genuine

taste. This observation only regards their poems of the heroic kind;

in every inferior species of poetry they are more successful. They

express the tender melancholy of desponding love with simplicity and

nature. So well adapted are the sounds of the words to the

sentiments, that, even without any knowledge of the language, they

pierce and dissolve the heart. Successful love is expressed with

peculiar tenderness and elegance. In all their compositions, except

the heroic, which was solely calculated to animate the vulgar, they

gave us the genuine language of the heart, without any of those

affected ornaments of phraseology, which, though intended to beautify

sentiments, divest them of their natural force. The ideas, it is

confessed, are too local to be admired in another language; to those

who are acquainted with the manners they represent, and the scenes

they describe, they must afford pleasure and satisfaction.

It was the locality of their description and sentiment that,

probably, has kept them in the obscurity of an almost lost language.

The ideas of an unpolished period are so contrary to the present

advanced state of society, that more than a common mediocrity of

taste is required to relish them as they deserve. Those who alone are

capable of transferring ancient poetry into a modern language, might

be better employed in giving originals of their own, were it not for

that wretched envy and meanness which affects to despise contemporary

genius. My first publication was merely accidental; had I then met

with less approbation my after pursuits would have been more

profitable; at least, I might have continued to be stupid without

being branded with dulness.

These poems may furnish light to antiquaries, as well as some

pleasure to the lovers of poetry. The first population of Ireland,

its first kings, and several circumstances, which regard its

connection of old with the south and north of Britain, am presented

in several episodes. The subject and catastrophe of the poem are

founded upon facts which regarded the first peopling of that country,

and the contests between the two British nations, who originally

inhabited that island. In a preceding part of this dissertation I

have shown how superior the probability of this system is to the

undigested fictions of the Irish bards, and the more recent and

regular legends of both Irish and Scottish historians. I mean not to

give offence to the abettors of the high antiquities of the two

nations, though I have all along expressed my doubts concerning the

veracity and abilities of those who deliver down their ancient

history. For my own part, I prefer the national fame arising from a

few certain facts, to the legendary and uncertain annals of ages of

remote and obscure antiquity. No kingdom now established in Europe

can pretend to equal antiquity with that of the Scots, inconsiderable

as it may appear in other respects, even according to my system; so

that it is altogether needless to fix its origin a fictitious

millenium before.

Since the first publication of these poems, many insinuations have

been made, and doubts arisen, concerning their authenticity. Whether

these suspicions are suggested by prejudice, or are only the effects

of malice, I neither know nor care. Those who have doubted my

veracity have paid a compliment to my genius; and were even the

allegation true, my self-denial might have atoned for my fault.

Without vanity I say it, I think I could write tolerable poetry, and

I assume my antagonists, that I should not translate what I could not

imitate.

As prejudice is the effect of ignorance, I am not surprised at its

being general. An age that produces few marks of genius ought to be

sparing of admiration. The truth is, the bulk of mankind have ever

been led by reputation more than taste, in articles of literature. If

all the Romans who admired Virgil understood his beauties, he would

have scarce deserved to have come down to us through so many

centuries. Unless genius were in fashion, Homer himself might have

written in vain. He that wishes to come with weight on the

superficial, must skim the surface, in their own shallow way. Were my

aim to gain the many, I would write a madrigal sooner than an heroic

poem. Laberius himself would be always sure of more followers than

Sophocles.

Some who doubt the authenticity of this work, with peculiar

acuteness appropriate them to the Irish nation. Though it is not easy

to conceive how these poems can belong to Ireland and to me at once,

I shall examine the subject without farther animadversion on the

blunder.

Of all the nations descended from the ancient 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

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, I

have in another work amply discussed. The first circumstance that

induced me to disregard the vulgarly. received opinion of the

Hibernian extraction of the Scottish nation was my observations on

their ancient language. The 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 written 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 Gaelic

of North Britain. An Irishman, on the other hand, without the aid of

study, can never understand a composition in the Gaelic tongue. This

affords a proof that the Scotch Gaelic is the most original, and,

consequently, the language of a more ancient 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 Caelic Eirinarch, i. e. Caledonian Irish,

when, on the contrary, they call the dialect of North Britain a

Chaelic, or the Caledonian tongue, emphatically. As circumstance of

this nature tends more to decide which is the most ancient nation

than the united testimonies of a whole legion of ignorant bards and

senachies, who, perhaps, never dreamed of bringing the Scots from

Spain to Ireland, till some one of them, more learned than the rest,

discovered that the Romans called the first Iberia, and the latter

Hibernia. On such a slight foundation were probably built the

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

favorite chimera, that Ireland is the mother-country of the Scots, is

totally subverted and ruined. The fictions concerning the antiquities

of that country, which were formed 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 Scottish 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 Mae 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 so easy for me

to determine. Their information certainly did not come from the Irish

poems concerning Fion. 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 a 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, passed a disagreeable life. 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 mainmast of a first-rate. It must be owned, however, that Fion

was not inferior to them in height.

A chos air Cromleach, draim-ard,

Chos eile air Crom-meal dubh,

Thoga Fion le lamh mhoir

An d'uisge o Lubhair na fruth.

With one foot on Cromleach his brow,

The other on Crommal the dark

Fion took with his large hand

The water from Lubar of the streams.

Cromleach and Crommal were two mountains in the neighborhood of one

another, in Ulster, and the river of Lubar ran through the

intermediate valley. The property of such a monster as this Fion I

should never have disputed with any nation; but the bard himself, in

the poem from which the above quotation is taken, cedes him to

Scotland:

Fion o Albin, siol nan laoich!

Fion from Albion, race of heroes!

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 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. As

for the poetry, I leave it to the reader.

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 Toniosal; 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 Cuthullin 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 Mae Comnal. A translation of these pieces, if well

executed, might afford satisfaction, in an uncommon way, 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 wasted all the

time I had allotted for the Muses; 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 my own country, and that before any

translation of mine appeared. How the gentleman came to see my

blunders before I committed them, is not easy to determine, if he did

not conclude that, as a Scotsman, and, of course, descended of the

Milesian race, I might have committed some of those oversights,

which, perhaps very unjustly, are said to be peculiar to them.

From the whole tenor of the Irish poems concerning the Fiona, it

appears that Fion Mae 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 268, yet his

son Ossian is made contemporary with St. Patrick, who preached the

gospel in Ireland about the middle of the fifth age. Ossian, though

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 great actions of

his family. The saint sometimes threw off the austerity of his

profession, drank freely, and had his soul properly warmed with wine,

to receive with becoming enthusiasm the poems of his father-in-law.

One of the poems begins with this useful piece of information:

Lo don rabh Padric us mhúr,

Gun Sailm air uidh, ach a gol,

Ghluais è thigh Ossian mhic Fhion,

O san leis bhinn a ghloir.

The title of this poem is "Teantach mor na Fiona." It appears to

have been founded on the same story with the "Battle of Lora." The

circumstances and catastrophe in both are much the same: but the

Irish Ossian discovers the age in which he lived by an unlucky

anachronism. After describing the total rout of Erragon, he very

gravely concludes with this remarkable anecdote, that none of the foe

escaped, but a few, who were permitted 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 ancient, that he

confounds it with the age of Fingal. Erragon, in the course of this

poem, is often called,

Rhoigh Lochlin an do shloigh,

King of Denmark of two nations--

which alludes to the union of the kingdom of Norway and Denmark, a

circumstance which happened under Margaret de Waldemar, in the close

of the fourteenth age. Modern, however, as this pretended Ossian was,

it is certain he lived before the Irish had dreamed of appropriating

Fion, or Fingal, to themselves. He concludes the poem with this

reflection:

Na fagha se comhthróm nan n arm,

Erragon Mac Annir nan lann glas

'San n'Albin ni n' abairtair Triath

Agus ghlaoite an n'Fhiona as.

"Had Erragon, son of Annir of gleaming swords, avoided the equal

contest of arms, (single combat,) no chief should have afterward been

numbered in 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'arch.--

Albion, where I was born and bred.

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 neighboring hill which commanded a prospect of the sea. A

fleet appeared at a distance, and the hero exclaims with joy,

Loingeas mo shean-athair at' an

'S iad a tiächd le cabhair chugain,

O Albin na n'ioma stuagh.

"It is the fleet of my grandfather coming with aid to our field, from

Albion of many waves!" The testimony of this bard is sufficient to

confute the idle fictions of Keating and O'Flaherty, for, though he

is far from being ancient, 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, though 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 great repute.

The grandeur of its images, and its propriety of sentiment, might

have induced me to give a translation of it, had I not some

expectations, which are now over, of seeing it in the collection of

the Irish Ossian's Poems, promised twelve years 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 Cuthullin 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 Cuthullin, 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. Caribh 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. Cuthullin,

afford matter for two hundred lines of tolerable poetry. Cribh's

progress in search of Cuthullin, 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 Cuthullin 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

Cuthullin.

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 threatened 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 to 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 very often falling asleep on his post, nor

was it possible to awake him, without cutting off one of his fingers,

or dashing a large stone against his head. When the enemy appeared,

Oscar, very unfortunately, was asleep. Ossian and Ca-olt consulted

about the method of wakening him, and they at last fixed on the stone

as the less dangerous expedient--

Gun thog Caoilte a chlach, nach gan,

Agus a n' aighai' chiean gun bhuail;

Tri mil an tulloch gun chri', &c.

"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. Toniosal, though

brave, was so heavy and unwieldy, that when he sat down it took the

whole force of a 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 amount 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, were

Siol Erin na gorm lánn.

The sons of Erin of blue steel.

Neither shall I much dispute the matter with him; he has my consent

also to appropriate to Ireland the celebrated Ton-iosal. I shall only

say that they are different persons from those of the same name in

the Scots Poems; and that, though the stupendous valor of the first

is so remarkable, they have not been equally lucky with the latter,

in their poet. It is somewhat extraordinary that 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 honor 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 complete idea of the

Irish compositions concerning the Fiona. The greatest part of them

make the heroes of Fion,

Siol Albin a n'nioma caoile.

The race of Albion of many firths.

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 very modern

period. The pious ejaculations they contain, their allusions to the

manners of the times, fix them to the fifteenth century. Had even the

authors of these pieces avoided all allusions to their own times, it

is impossible that the poems could pass for ancient in the eyes of

any person tolerably conversant with the Irish tongue. The idiom is

so corrupted, and so many words borrowed from the English, that the

language must have made considerable progress in Ireland before the

poems were written.

It remains now to show how the Irish bards began to appropriate the

Scottish Ossian and his heroes, to their own country. After the

English conquest, many of the natives of Ireland, averse to a foreign

yoke, either actually were in a state of hostility with the

conquerors, or, at least, paid little regard to 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 traditions concerning their common origin, and, above all, their

having to do with the same enemy, created a free and friendly

intercourse between the Scottish 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

fabulous, 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 falling, from several concurring

circumstances, into the last degree of ignorance and barbarism. The

Irish, who, for some ages before the conquest, had possessed a

competent share of that kind of learning which then prevailed in

Europe, found it no difficult matter to impose their own fictions on

the ignorant Highland senachies. By flattering the vanity of the

Highlanders with their long list of Hermonian kings and heroes, they,

without contradiction, assumed to themselves the character of being

the mother-nation of the Scots of Britain. At this time, certainly,

was established that Hibernian system of the original of the Scots,

which afterward, for want of any other, was universally received. The

Scots of the low country, who, by losing, the language of their

ancestors, lost, together with it, their national traditions..

received implicitly the history of their country from Irish refugees,

or from Highland senachies, persuaded over into the Hibernian system.

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

ancient traditional accounts of the genuine origin of the Scots, have

been handed down without interruption. Though 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 afterward so much prevailed, that the Highlanders continue

totally unacquainted with the pretended Hibernian extract of the

Scotch nation. Ignorant chronicle writers, strangers to the ancient

language of their country, preserved only from failing to the ground

so improbable a story.

This subject, perhaps, is pursued farther than it deserves; but a

discussion of the pretensions of Ireland 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 for poetry. 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 simplicity, and a wild harmony of numbers.

They became more than an atonement for their errors in every other

species of poetry. But the beauty of these species depends so much on

a certain curiosa filicitas of expression m the original, that they

must appear much to disadvantage in another language.

"We have fought with our swords. I was young. when, towards the

east, in the bay of Oreon, we made torrents of blood flow, to gorge

the ravenous beast of prey, and the yellow-footed bird. There

resounded the hard steel upon the lofty helmets of men. The whole

ocean was one wound. The crow waded in the blood of the slain. When

we had numbered twenty years, we lifted our spears on high, and

everywhere spread our renown. Eight barons we overcame in the east,

before the port of Diminum; and plentifully we feasted the eagle in

that slaughter. The warm stream of wounds ran into the ocean. The

army fell before us. When we steered our ships into the mouth of the

Vistula, we sent the Helsingians to the hall of Odin. Then did the

sword bite. The waters were all one wound. The earth was dyed red

with the warm stream. The sword rung upon the coats of mail, and

clove the bucklers in twain. None fled on that day, till among his

ships Heraudus fell. Than him no braver baron cleaves the sea with

ships; a cheerful heart did he ever bring to the combat. Then the

host threw away. their shields, when the uplifted spear flew at the

breast of heroes. The sword bit the Scarflan rocks; bloody was the

shield in battle, until Rafno the king was slain. From the heads of

warriors the warm sweat streamed down their armor. The crows around

the Indirian islands had an ample prey. It were difficult to single

out one among so many deaths. At the rising of the sun I beheld the

spears piercing the bodies of foes, and the bows throwing forth their

steel-pointed arrows. Loud roared the swords in the plains of Lano.--

The virgin long bewailed the slaughter of that morning."--In this

strain the poet continues to describe several other military

exploits. The images are not much varied: the noise of arms, the

streaming of blood, and the feasting the birds of prey often

recurring. He mentions the death of two of his sons in battle; and

the lamentation he describes as made for one of them is very

singular. A Grecian or a Roman poet would have introduced the virgins

or nymphs of the wood bewailing the untimely fall of a young hero.

But, says our Gothic poet, "When Rogvaldus was slain, for him mourned

all the hawks of heaven," as lamenting a benefactor who had so

liberally supplied them with prey; "for boldly," as he adds, "in the

strife of swords did the breaker of helmets throw the spear of

blood."

The poem concludes with sentiments of the highest bravery and

contempt of death. "What is more certain to the brave man than death,

though amidst the storm of swords he stands always ready to oppose

it? He only regrets this life who hath never known distress. The

timorous man allures the, devouring eagle to the field of battle. The

coward, wherever he comes, is useless to himself. This I esteem

honorable, that the youth should advance to the combat fairly matched

one against another; nor man retreat from man. Long was this the

warrior's highest glory. He who aspires to the love of virgins, ought

always to be foremost in the roar of arms. It appears to me, of

truth, that we are led by the Fates. Seldom can any overcome the

appointment of destiny. Little did I foresee that Ella was to have my

life in his hands, in that day when fainting I concealed my blood,

and pushed forth my ships into the waves; after we had spread a

repast for the beasts of prey throughout the Scottish bays. But this

makes me always rejoice, that in the halls of our father Balder [or

Odin] I know there are seats prepared, where, in a short time, we

shall be drinking ale out of the hollow skulls of our enemies. In the

house of the mighty Odin, no brave man laments death. I come not with

the voice of despair to Odin's hall. How eagerly would all the sons

of Aslauga now rush to war, did they know the distress of their

father, whom a multitude of venomous serpents tear! I have given to

my children a mother who hath filled their hearts with valor. I am

fast approaching to my end. A cruel death awaits me from the viper's

bite. A snake dwells in the midst of my heart. I hope that the sword

of some of my sons shall yet be stained with the blood of Ella. The

valiant youths will wax red with anger, and will not sit in peace.

Fifty and one times have I reared the standard in battle. In my youth

I learned to dye the sword in blood: my hope was then that no king

among men would be more renowned than me. The goddesses of death will

now soon call me; I must not mourn my death. Now I end my song. The

goddesses invite me away; they whom Odin has sent to me from his

hall. I will sit upon a lofty seat, and drink ale joyfully with the

goddesses of death. The hours of my life are run out. I will smile

when I die."

This is such poetry as we might expect from a barbarous nation. It

breathes a most ferocious spirit. It is wild, harsh, and irregular;

but at the same time animated and strong; the style in the original,

full of inversions, and, as we learn from some of Olaus's notes,

highly metaphorical and figured.

But when we open the works of Ossian, a very different scene

presents itself. There we find the fire and enthusiasm of the most

early times, combined with an amazing, degree of regularity and art.

We find tenderness, and even delicacy of sentiment, greatly

predominant over fierceness and barbarity. Our hearts are melted with

the softest feelings, and at the same time elevated with the highest

ideas of magnanimity, generosity, and true heroism. When we turn from

the poetry of Lodbrog to that of Ossian, it is like passing from a

savage desert into a fertile and cultivated country. How is this to

be accounted for? or by what means to be reconciled with the remote

antiquity attributed to these poems? This is a curious point, and

requires to be illustrated.

That the ancient Scots were of Celtic original, is past all doubt.

Their conformity with the Celtic nations in language, manners, and

religion, proves it to a full demonstration. The Celtæ, a great and

mighty people, altogether distinct from the Goths and Teutones, once

extended their dominion over all the west of Europe; but seem to have

had their most full and complete establishment in Gaul, Wherever the

Celtæ or Gauls are mentioned by ancient writers, we seldom fall to

hear of their Druids and their Bards; the institution of which two

orders was the capital distinction of their manners and policy. The

druids were their philosophers and priests; the bards their poets and

recorders of heroic actions; and, both these orders of men seem to

have subsisted among them, as chief members of the state, from time

immemorial. We must not therefore imagine' the Celtæ to have been

altogether a gross and rude nation. They possessed from very remote

ages a formed system of discipline and manners, which appears to have

had a deep and lasting influence Ammianus Marcellinus gives them this

express testimony, that there flourished among them the study of the

most laudable arts, introduced by the bards, whose office it was to

sing in heroic verse the gallant actions of illustrious men; and by

the druids, who lived together in colleges, or societies, after the

Pythagorean manner, and, philosophizing upon the highest subjects,

asserted the immortality of the human soul. Though Julius Cæsar, in

his account of Gaul, does not expressly mention the bards, yet it is

plain that, under the title of Druids, he comprehends that whole

college or order; of which the bards, who, it is probable, were the

disciples of the druids, undoubtedly made a part. It deserves remark,

that, according to his account, the druidical institution first took

rise in Britain, and passed from thence into Gaul; so that they who

aspires to be thorough masters of that learning, were wont to resort

to Britain. He adds, too, that such as were to be initiated among the

druids, were obliged to commit to their memory a great number of

verses, insomuch that some employed twenty years in this course of

education; and that they did not think it lawful to record those

poems in writing, but sacredly handed them down by tradition from

race to race.

So strong was the attachment of the Celtic nations to their poetry

and bards, that, amidst all the changes of their government and

manners, even long after the order of the druids was extinct, and the

national religion altered, the bards continued to flourish; not as a

set of strolling songsters, like the Greek ???d?? ['Aoidoi], or Rhapsodists, in

Homer's time, but as an order of men highly respected in the state,

and supported by a public establishment. We find them, according to

the testimonies of Strabo and Diodorus, before the age of Augustus

Cæsar; and we find them remaining under the same name, and exercising

the same functions as of old, in Ireland, and in the north of

Scotland, almost down to our own times. It is well known, that in

both these countries every regulus or chief had his own bard, who was

considered as an officer of rank in his court; and had lands assigned

him, which descended to his family. Of the honor in which the bards

were held, many instances occur in Ossian's Poems. On all important

occasions they were the ambassadors between contending chiefs; and

their persons were held sacred. "Cairbar feared to stretch his sword

to the bards, though his soul was dark. 'Loose the bards,' said his

brother Cathmor, 'they are the sons of other times. Their voice shall

be heard in other ages, when the kings of Temora have failed.'"

From all this, the Celtic tribes clearly appear to have been

addicted in so high a degree to poetry, and to have made it so much

their study from the earliest times, as may remove our wonder at

meeting with a vein of higher poetical refinement among them, than

was at first to have been expected among nations whom we are

accustomed to call barbarous. Barbarity, I must observe, is a very

equivocal term; it admits of many different forms and degrees; and

though, in all of them, it excludes polished manners, it is, however,

not inconsistent with generous sentiments and tender affections. What

degrees of friendship, love, and heroism may possibly be found to

prevail in a rude state of society, no one can say. Astonishing

instances of them we know, from history, have sometimes appeared; and

a few characters, distinguished by those high qualities, might lay a

foundation for a set of manners being introduced into the songs of

the bards, more refined, it is probable, and exalted, according to

the usual poetical license, than the real manners of the country.

In particular, with respect to heroism; the great employment of the

Celtic bards was to delineate the characters, and sing the praises of

heroes. So Lucan--

Vos quoque qui fortes animos, belloque peremptos,

Laudibus in longum vates diffunditis ævum

Plurima securi fudistis carmina bardi.--Phars. l. 1.

Now when we consider a college or order of men, who, cultivating

poetry throughout a long series of ages, had their imaginations

continually employed on the ideas of heroism; who had all the poems

and panegyrics, which were composed by their predecessors, handed

down to them with care; who rivalled and endeavored to outstrip those

who had gone before them, each in the celebration of his particular

hero; is it not natural to think, that at length the character of a

hero would appear in their songs with the highest lustre, and be

adorned with qualities truly noble? Some of the qualities indeed

which distinguish a Fingal, moderation, humanity, and clemency, would

not probably be the first ideas of heroism occurring to a barbarous

people: but no sooner had such ideas begun to dawn on the minds of

poets, than, as the human mind easily opens to the native

representations of human perfection, they would be seized and

embraced; they would enter into their panegyrics; they would afford

materials for succeeding bards to work upon and improve; they would

contribute not a little to exalt the public manners. For such songs

as these, familiar to the Celtic warriors from their childhood, and,

throughout their whole life, both in war and in peace, their

principal entertainment, must have had a very considerable influence

in propagating among them real manners, nearly approaching to the

poetical; and in forming even such a hero as Fingal. Especially when

we consider, that among their limited objects of ambition, among the

few advantages which, in a savage state, man could obtain over man,

the chief was fame, and that immortality which they expected to

receive from their virtues and exploits, in songs of bards.

Having made these remarks on the Celtic poetry and bards in general,

I shall next consider the particular advantages which Ossian

possessed. He appears clearly to have lived in a period which enjoyed

all the benefit I just now mentioned of traditionary poetry. The

exploits of Trathal, Trenmor, and the other ancestors of Fingal, are

spoken of as familiarly known. Ancient bards are frequently alluded

to. In one remarkable passage Ossian describes himself as living in a

sort of classical age, enlightened by the memorials of former times,

which were conveyed in the songs of bards; and points at a period of

darkness and ignorance which lay beyond the reach of tradition. "His

words," says he, "Came only by halves to our ears; they were dark as

the tales of other times, before the light of the song arose." Ossian

himself appears to have been endowed by nature with an exquisite

sensibility of heart; prone to that tender melancholy which is so

often an attendant on great genius: and susceptible equally of strong

and of soft emotion. He was not only a professed bard, educated with

care, as we may easily believe, to all the poetical art then known,

and connected, as he shows us himself, in intimate friendship with

the other contemporary bards, but a warrior also; and the son of the

most renowned hero and prince of his age. This formed a conjunction

of circumstances uncommonly favorable towards exalting the

imagination of a poet. He relates expeditions in which he had been

engaged; he sings of battles in which he had fought and overcome; he

had beheld the most illustrious scenes which that age could exhibit,

both of heroism in war and magnificence in peace. For however rude

the magnificence of those times may seem to us, we must remember,

that all ideas of magnificence are comparative; and that the age of

Fingal was an æra of distinguished splendor in that part of the

world. Fingal reigned over a considerable territory; he was enriched

with the spoils of the Roman province; he was ennobled by his

victories and great actions; and was in all respects a personage of

much higher dignity than any of the chieftains, or heads of clans,

who lived in the same country, after a more extensive monarchy was

established,

The manners of Ossian's age, so far as we can gather them from his

writings, were abundantly favorable to a poetical genius. The two

dispiriting vices, to which Longinus imputes the decline of poetry,

covetousness and effeminacy, were as yet unknown. The cares of men

were few. They lived a roving indolent life; hunting and war their

principal employments; and their chief amusements, the music of

bards, and the feast of shells." The great objects pursued by heroic

spirits, was "to receive their fame;" that is, to become worthy of

being celebrated in the songs of bards; and "to have their name on

the four gray stones." To die unlamented by a bard, was deemed so

great a misfortune as even to disturb their ghosts in another state.

They wander in thick mists beside the reedy lake but never shall they

rise, without the song, to the dwelling of winds." After death, they

expected to follow employments of the same nature with those which

had amused them on earth; to fly with their friends on clouds, to

pursue airy deer, and to listen to their praise in the mouths of

bards. In such times as these, in a country where poetry had been so

long cultivated, and so highly honored, is it any wonder that, among

the race and succession of bards, one Homer should arise: a man, who,

endowed with a natural happy genius, favored with peculiar advantages

of birth and condition, and meeting, in the course of his life, with

a variety of incidents proper to fire his imagination, and to touch

his heart, should attain a degree of eminence in poetry, worthy to

draw the admiration of more refined ages?

The compositions of Ossian are so strongly marked with characters of

antiquity, that although there were no external proof to support that

antiquity, hardly any reader of judgment and taste could hesitate in

referring them to a very remote æra. There are four great stages

through which men successively pass in the progress of society. The

first and earliest is the life of hunters; pasturage succeeds to

this, as the ideas of property begin to take root; next agriculture;

and, lastly, commerce. Throughout Ossian's Poems we plainly find

ourselves in the first of these periods of society; during which

hunting was the chief employment of men, and the principal method of

their procuring subsistence. Pasturage was not indeed wholly unknown;

for we hear of dividing the herd in the case of a divorce; but the

allusions to herds and to cattle are not many; and of agriculture we

find no traces. No cities appear to have been built in the

territories of Fingal. No arts are mentioned, except that of

navigation and of working in iron. Everything presents to us the most

simple and unimproved manners. At their feasts, the heroes prepared

their own repast; they sat round the light of the burning oak; the

wind lifted their locks, and whistled through their open halls.

Whatever was beyond the necessaries of life was known to them only as

the spoil of the Roman province; "the gold of the stranger; the

lights of the stranger; the steeds of the stranger; the children of

the rein."

The representation of Ossian's times must strike us the more, as

genuine and authentic, when it is compared with a poem of later date,

which Mr. Macpherson has preserved in one of his notes. It is that in

which five bards are represented as passing the evening in the house

of a chief, and each of them separately giving his description of the

night. The night scenery is beautiful; and the author has plainly

imitated the style and manner of Ossian; but he has allowed some

images to appear which betray a later period of society. For we meet

with windows clapping, the herds of goats and cows seeking shelter,

the shepherd wandering, corn on the plain, and the wakeful hind

rebuilding the shocks of corn which had been overturned by the

tempest. Whereas, in Ossian's works, from beginning to end, all is

consistent; no modern allusion drops from him; but everywhere the

same face of rude nature appears; a country wholly uncultivated,

thinly inhabited, and recently peopled. The grass of the rock, the

flower of the heath, the thistle with its beard, are the chief

ornaments of his landscapes. "The desert," says Fingal, "is enough

for me, with all its woods and deer."

The circle of ideas and transactions is no wider than suits such an

age; nor any greater diversity introduced into characters, than the

events of that period would naturally display. Valor and bodily

strength are the admired qualities. Contentions arise, as is usual

among savage nations, from the slightest causes. To be affronted at a

tournament, or to be omitted in the invitation to a feast, kindles a

war. Women are often carried away by force; and the whole tribe, as

in the Homeric times, rise to avenge the wrong. The heroes show

refinement of sentiment indeed on several occasions, but none of

manners. They speak of their past actions with freedom, boast of

their exploits, and sing their own praise. In their battles, it is

evident, that drums, trumpets, or bagpipes, were not known or used.

They had no expedient for giving the military alarms but striking a

shield, or raising a loud cry: and hence the loud and terrible voice

of Fingal is often mentioned as a necessary qualification of a great

general; like the ß??? a?a??? ?e?e?a?? [Bone agathos Menelaos] of Homer. Of military

discipline or skill they appear to have been entirely destitute.

Their armies seem not to have been numerous; their battles were

disorderly; and terminated, for the most part, by a personal combat,

or wrestling of the two chiefs; after which, "the bard sung the song

of peace, and the battle ceased along the field."

The manner of composition bears all the marks of the greatest

antiquity. No artful transitions, nor full and extended connexion of

parts; such as we find among the poets of later times, when order and

regularity of composition were more studied and known: but a style

always rapid and vehement; narration concise, even to abruptness, and

leaving several circumstances to be supplied by the reader's

imagination. The language has all that figurative cast, which, as I

before showed, partly a glowing and undisciplined imagination partly

the sterility of language and the want of proper terms, have always

introduced into the early speech of nations; and in several respects,

it carries a remarkable resemblance to the style of the Old

Testament. It deserves particular notice, as one of the most genuine

and decisive characters of antiquity, that very few general terms, or

abstract ideas, are to be met with in the whole collection of

Ossian's works. The ideas of men, at first, were all particular. They

had not words to express general conceptions. These were the

consequences of more profound reflection, and longer acquaintance

with the arts of thought and of speech. Ossian, accordingly, almost

never expresses himself in the abstract. His ideas extended little

further than to the objects he saw around him. A public, a community,

the universe, were conceptions beyond his sphere. Even a mountain, a

sea, or a lake, which he has occasion to mention, though only in a

simile, are for the most part particularized; it is the hill of

Cromla, the storm of the sea of Malmor, or the reeds of the lake of

Lego. A mode of expression which, while it is characteristical of

ancient ages, is at the same time highly favorable to descriptive

poetry. For the same reasons, personification is a poetical figure

not very common with Ossian. Inanimate objects, such as winds, trees,

flowers, he sometimes personifies with great beauty. But the

personifications which are so familiar to later poets, of Fame, Time,

Terror, Virtue, and the rest of that class, were unknown to our

Celtic bard. These were modes of conception too abstract for his age.

All these are marks so undoubted, and some of them, too so nice and

delicate, of the most early times, as put the high antiquity of these

poems out of question. Especially when we consider, that if there had

been any imposture in this case, it must have been contrived and

executed in the Highlands of Scotland, two or three centuries ago; as

up to this period, both by manuscripts, and by the testimony of a

multitude of living witnesses, concerning the uncontrovertible

tradition of these poems, they can clearly be traced. Now, this is a

period when that country enjoyed no advantages for a composition of

this kind, which it may not be supposed to have enjoyed in as great,

if not in a greater degree, a thousand years before. To suppose that

two or three hundred years ago, when we well know the Highlands to

have been in a state of gross ignorance and barbarity, there should

have arisen in that country a poet, of such exquisite genius, and of

such deep knowledge of mankind, and of history, as to divest himself

of the ideas and manners of his own age, and to give us a just and

natural picture of a state of society ancienter by a thousand years;

one who could support this counterfeited antiquity through such a

large collection of poems, without the least inconsistency; and who,

possessed of all this genius and art, had, at the same time, the

self-denial of concealing himself, and of ascribing his own works to

an antiquated bard, without the imposture being detected; is a

supposition that transcends all bounds of credibility.

There are, besides, two other circumstances to be attended to, still

of greater weight, if possible, against this hypothesis. One is, the

total absence of religious ideas from this work; for which the

translator has, in his preface, given a very probable account, on the

footing of its being the work of Ossian. The druidical superstition

was, in the days of Ossian, on the point of its final extinction;

and, for particular reasons, odious to the family of Fingal; whilst

the Christian faith was not yet established. But had it been the work

of one to whom the ideas of Christianity were familiar from his

infancy, and who had superadded to them also the bigoted superstition

of a dark age and country, it is impossible. but in some passage or

other, the traces of them would have appeared. The other circumstance

is, the entire silence which reigns with respect to all the great

clans or families which are now established in the Highlands. The

origin of these several clans is known to be very ancient; and it is

well known that there is no passion by which a native Highlander is

more distinguished than by attachment to his clan, and jealousy for

its honor. That a Highland bard, in forging a work relating to the

antiquities of his country, should have inserted no circumstance

which pointed out the rise of his own clan, which ascertained its

antiquity, or increased its glory, is, of all suppositions that can

be formed, the most improbable; and the silence on this head amounts

to a demonstration that the author lived before any of the present

great clans were formed or known.

Assuming it then, as well we may, for certainty, that the poems, now

under consideration, are genuine venerable monuments of a very remote

antiquity, I proceed to make some remarks upon their general spirit

and strain. The two great characteristics of Ossian's poetry are,

tenderness and sublimity. It breathes nothing of the gay and cheerful

kind; an air of solemnity and seriousness is diffused over the whole.

Ossian is, perhaps, the only poet who never relaxes, or lets himself

down into the light and amusing strain which I readily admit to be no

small disadvantage to him, with the bulk of readers. He moves

perpetually in the high region of the grand and the pathetic. One

keynote is struck at the beginning, and supported to the end; nor is

any ornament introduced, but what is perfectly concordant with the

general tone of melody. The events recorded, are all serious and

grave; the scenery throughout, wild and romantic. The extended heath

by the seashore; the mountains shaded with mist; the torrent rushing

through a solitary valley; the scattered oaks, and the tombs of

warriors overgrown with moss; all produce a solemn attention in the

mind, and prepare it for great and extraordinary events. We find not

in Ossian an imagination that sports itself, and dresses out gay

trifles to please the fancy. His poetry, more perhaps than that of

any other writer, deserves to be styled, The poetry of the heart. It

is a heart penetrated with noble sentiments and with sublime and

tender passions; a heart that glows, and kindles the fancy; a heart

that is full, and pours itself forth. Ossian did not write,, like

modern poets, to please readers and critics. He sung from the love of

poetry and song. His delight was to think of the heroes among whom he

had flourished; to recall the affecting incidents of his life; to

dwell upon his past wars, and loves, and friendships: till, as he

expresses it himself, "there 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;" and under this true poetic inspiration, giving

vent to his genius, no wonder we should so often hear, and

acknowledge, in his strains, the powerful and ever-pleasing voice of

nature.

--Arte, natura potentior omni--

Est Deus in nobis, agitante calescimus illo.

It is necessary here to observe, that the beauties of Ossian's

writings cannot be felt by those who have given them only a single or

hasty perusal. His manner is so different from that of the poets to

whom we are most accustomed; his style is so concise, and so much

crowned with imagery; the mind is kept at such a stretch in

accompanying the author; that an ordinary reader is at first apt to

be dazzled and fatigued, rather than pleased. His poems require to he

taken up at intervals, and to be frequently reviewed; and then it is

impossible but his beauties must open to every reader who is capable

of sensibility. Those who have the highest degree of it will relish

them the most.

As Homer is, of all the great poets, the one whose manner, and whose

times, come the nearest to Ossian's, we are naturally led to run a

parallel in some instances between the Greek and Celtic bard. For

though Homer lived more than a thousand years before Ossian, it is

not from the age of the world, but from the state of society that we

are to judge of resembling times. The Greek has, in several points, a

manifest superiority. He introduces a greater variety of incidents;

he possesses a larger compass of ideas; has more diversity in his

characters; and a much deeper knowledge of human nature. It was not

to be expected, that in any of these particulars Ossian could equal

Homer. For Homer lived in a country where society was much farther

advanced; he had beheld many more objects; cities built and

flourishing; laws instituted; order, discipline, and arts, begun. His

field of observation was much larger and more splendid: his

knowledge, of course, more extensive; his mind also, it shall be

granted, more penetrating. But if Ossian's ideas and objects be less

diversified than those of Homer, they are all, however, of the kind

fittest for poetry: the bravery and generosity of heroes, the

tenderness of lovers, the attachment of friends, parents, and

children. In a rude age and country, though the events that happen be

few, the undissipated mind broods over them more; they strike the

imagination, and fire the passions, in a higher degree; and, of

consequence, become happier materials to a poetical genius, than the

same events when scattered through the wide circle of more varied

action and cultivated life.

Homer is a more cheerful and sprightly poet than Ossian. You discern

in him all the Greek vivacity; whereas Ossian uniformly maintains the

gravity and solemnity of a Celtic hero. This, too, is in a great

measure to be accounted for from the different situations in which

they lived--partly personal, and partly national. Ossian had survived

all his friends, and was disposed to melancholy by the incidents of

his life. But, besides this, cheerfulness is one of the many

blessings which we owe to formed society. The solitary, wild state,

is always a serious one. Bating the sudden and violent bursts of

mirth, which sometimes break forth at their dances and feasts, the

savage American tribes have been noted by all travellers for their

gravity and taciturnity. Somewhat of this taciturnity may be also be

remarked in Ossian. On all occasions he is frugal of his words; and

never gives you more of an image, or a description, than is just

sufficient to place it before you in one clear point of view. It is a

blaze of lightning, which flashes and vanishes. Homer is more

extended in his descriptions, and fills them up with a greater

variety of circumstances. Both the poets are dramatic; that is, they

introduce their personages frequently speaking before us. But Ossian

is concise and rapid in his speeches, as he is in every other thing.

Homer, with the Greek vivacity, had also some portion of the Greek

loquacity. His speeches, indeed, are highly characteristical; and to

them we are much indebted for that admirable display he has given of

human nature. Yet, if he be tedious any where, it is in these: some

of them are trifling, and some of them plainly unseasonable. Both

poets are eminently sublime; but a difference may be remarked in the

species of their sublimity. Homer's sublimity is accompanied with

more impetuosity and fire; Ossian's with more of a solemn and awful

grandeur. Homer hurries you along; Ossian elevates, and fixes you in

astonishment. Homer is most sublime in actions and battles; Ossian in

description and sentiment. In the pathetic, Homer, when he chooses to

exert it, has great power; but Ossian exerts that power much oftener,

and has the character of tenderness far more deeply imprinted on his

works. No t knew better how to seize and melt the heart. With regard

to dignity of sentiment, the pre-eminence must clearly he given to

Ossian. This is, indeed, a surprising circumstance, that in point of

humanity, magnanimity, virtuous feelings of every kind, our rude

Celtic bard should be distinguished to such a degree, that not only

the heroes of Homer, but even those of the polite and refined Virgil,

are left far behind by those of Ossian.

After these general observations on the genius and spirit of our

author, I now proceed to a nearer view and more accurate examination

of his works; and as Fingal is the first great poem in this

collection, it is proper to begin with it. To refuse the title of an

epic poem to Fingal, because it is not, in every little particular,

exactly conformable to the practice of Homer and Virgil, were the

mere squeamishness and pedantry of criticism. Examined even according

to Aristotle's rules, it will be found to have all the essential

requisites of a true and regular epic; and to have several of them in

so high a degree, as at first view to raise our astonishment on

finding Ossian's composition so agreeable to rules of which he was

entirely ignorant. But our astonishment will cease, when we consider

from what source Aristotle drew those rules. Homer knew no more of

the laws of criticism than Ossian. But, guided by nature, he composed

in verse a regular story, founded on heroic actions, which all

posterity admired. Aristotle, with great sagacity and penetration,

traced the causes of this general admiration. He observed what it was

in Homer's composition, and in the conduct of his story, which gave

it such power to please; from. this observation he deduced the rules

which poets ought to follow, who would write and please like Homer;

and to a composition formed according to such rules, he gave the name

of an epic poem. Hence his whole system arose. Aristotle studied

nature in Homer. Homer and Ossian both wrote from nature. No wonder

that among all the three, there should be such agreement and

conformity.

The fundamental rules delivered by Aristotle concerning an epic

poem, are these: that the action, which is the groundwork of the

poem, should be one, complete, and great; that it should be feigned,

not merely historical; that it should be enlivened with characters

and manners, and heightened by the marvellous.

But, before entering on any of these, it may perhaps be asked, what

is the moral of Fingal? For, according to M. Bossu, an epic poem is

no other than an allegory contrived to illustrate some, moral truth.

The poet, says this critic, must begin with fixing on some maxim or

instruction, which he intends to inculcate on mankind. He next forms

a fable, like one of Æsop's, wholly with a view to the moral; and

having thus settled and arranged his plan, he then looks into

traditionary history for names and incidents, to give his fable some

air of probability. Never did a more frigid, pedantic notion enter

into the mind of a critic. We may safely pronounce, that he who

should compose an epic poem after this manner, who should first lay

down a moral and contrive a plan, before he had thought of his

personages and actors, might deliver, indeed, very sound instruction,

but would find very few readers. There cannot be the least doubt that

the first object which strikes an epic poet, which fires his genius,

and gives him any idea of his work, is the action or subject he is to

celebrate. Hardly is there any tale, any subject, a poet can choose

for such a work, but will afford some general moral instruction. An

epic poem is, by its nature, one of the most moral of all poetical

compositions: but its moral tendency is by no means to be limited to

some commonplace maxim, which may be gathered from the story. It

arises from the admiration of heroic actions which such a composition

is peculiarly calculated to produce; from the virtuous emotions which

the characters and incidents raise, whilst we read it; from the happy

impressions which all the parts separately, as well as the whole

together, leave upon the mind. However, if a general moral be still

insisted on, Fingal obviously furnishes one, not inferior to that of

any other poet, viz: that wisdom and bravery always triumph over

brutal force: or another, nobler still: that the most complete

victory over an enemy is obtained by that moderation and generosity

which convert him into a friend.

The unity of the epic action, which of all Aristotle's rules, is the

chief and most material, is so strictly preserved in Fingal, that it

must be perceived by every reader. It is a more complete unity than

what arises from relating the actions of one man, which the Greek

critic justly censures as imperfect: it is the unity of one

enterprise--the deliverance of Ireland from the invasion of Swaran;

an enterprise which has surely the full heroic dignity. All the

incidents recorded bear a constant reference to one end; no double

plot is carried on; but the pa unite into a regular whole; and as the

action is one and great, so it is an entire or complete action. For

we find, as the critic, farther requires, a beginning, a middle, and

an end; a nodus, or intrigue, in the poem; difficulties occurring

through Cuthullin's rashness and bad success; those difficulties

gradually surmounted; and at last, the work conducted to that happy

conclusion which is held essential to epic poetry. Unity is, indeed,

observed with greater exactness in Fingal, than in almost any other

epic composition. For not only is unity of subject maintained, but

that of time and place also. The autumn is clearly pointed out as the

season of the action; and from beginning to end the scene is never

shifted from the heath of Lena, along the seashore. The duration of

the action in Fingal, is much shorter than in the Iliad or Æneid; but

sure there may be shorter as well longer heroic poems; and if the

authority of Aristotle be also required for this, he says expressly,

that the epic composition is indefinite as to the time of its

duration. Accordingly, the action of the Iliad lasts only forty-seven

days, whilst that of the Æneid is continued for more than a year.

Throughout the whole of Fingal, there reigns that grandeur of

sentiment, style, and imagery, which ought ever to distinguish this

high species of poetry. The story is conducted with no small art. The

poet goes not back to a tedious recital of the beginning of the war

with Swaran; but hastening to the main action, he falls in exactly,

by a most happy coincidence of thought, with the rule of Horace:

Semper ad eventum festinat, et in medias res,

Non secus ac notas, auditorem rapit--

Nec gemino bellum Trojanum orditur ab ovo.

De Arte Poet.

He invokes no muse, for he acknowledged none. but his occasional

addresses to Malvina have a finer effect than the invocation of any

muse. He sets out with no formal proposition of his subject; but the

subject naturally and easily unfolds itself; the poem opening in an

animated manner, with the situation of Cuthullin, and the arrival of

a scout, who informs him of Swaran's landing. Mention is presently

made of Fingal, and of the expected assistance from the ships of the

lonely isle, in order to give farther light to the subject. For the

poet often shows his address in gradually preparing us for the events

he is to introduce; and, in particular, the preparation for the

appearance of Fingal, the previous expectations that are raised, and

the extreme magnificence, fully answering these expectations, with

which the hero is at length presented to us, are all worked up with

such skilful conduct as would do honor to any poet of the most

refined times. Homer's art in magnifying the character of Achilles,

has been universally admired. Ossian certainly shows no less aft in

aggrandizing Fingal. Nothing could be more happily imagined for this

purpose than the whole management of the last battle, wherein Gaul,

the son of Morni, had besought Fingal to retire, and to leave him and

his other chiefs the honor of the day. The generosity of the king in

agreeing to this proposal; the majesty with which he retreats to the

hill, from whence he was to behold the engagement, attended by his

bards, and waving the lightning of his sword; his perceiving the

chiefs overpowered by numbers, but, from unwillingness to deprive

them of the glory of victory by coming in person to their assistance,

first sending Ullin, the bard, to animate their courage, and at last,

when the danger becomes more pressing, his rising in his might, and

interposing, like a divinity, to decide the doubtful fate of the day;

are all circumstances contrived with so much art, as plainly discover

the Celtic bards to have been not unpractised in heroic poetry.

The story which is the foundation of the Iliad, is in itself as

simple as that of Fingal. A quarrel arises between Achilles and

Agamemnon concerning a female slave; on which Achilles, apprehending

himself to be injured, withdraws his assistance from the rest of the

Greeks. The Greeks fall into great distress, and beseech him to be

reconciled to them. He refuses to fight for them in person, but sends

his friend Patroclus; and upon his being slain, goes forth to revenge

his death, and kills Hector. The subject of Fingal is this: Swaran

comes to invade Ireland; Cuthullin, the guardian of the young king,

had applied for his assistance to Fingal, who reigned in the opposite

coast of Scotland. But before Fingal's arrival, he is hurried by rash

counsel to encounter Swaran. He is defeated; he retreats, and

desponds. Fingal arrives in this conjuncture. The battle is for some

time dubious; but in the end he conquers Swaran; and the remembrance

of Swaran's being the brother of Agandecca, who, had once saved his

life, makes him dismiss him honorably. Homer, it is true, has filled

up his story with a much greater variety of particulars than Ossian;

and in this has shown a compass of invention superior to that of the

other poet. But it must not be forgotten that though Homer be more

circumstantial, his incidents, however, are less diversified in kind

than those of Ossian. War and bloodshed reign throughout the Iliad;

and, notwithstanding all the fertility of Homer's invention, there is

so much uniformity in his subjects, that there are few readers, who,

before the close, are not tired with perpetual fighting. Whereas in

Ossian, the mind is relieved by a more agreeable diversity. There is

a finer mixture of war and heroism, with love and friendship--of

martial, with tender scones, than is to be met with, perhaps, in any

other poet. The episodes, too, have great propriety--as natural, and

proper to that age and country: consisting of the songs of bards,

which are known to have been the great entertainment of the Celtic

heroes in war, as well as in peace. These songs are not introduced at

random; if you except the episode of Duchommar and Morna, in the

first book, which, though beautiful, is more unartful than any of the

rest, they have always some particular relation to the actor who is

interested, or to the events which are going on; and, whilst they

vary the scene, they preserve a sufficient connection with the main

subject by the fitness and propriety of their introduction.

As Fingal's love to Agandecca influences some circumstances of the

poem, particularly the honorable dismission of Swaran at the end; it

was necessary that we should be let into this part of the hero's

story. But as it lay without the compass of the present action, it

could be regularly introduced nowhere except in an episode.

Accordingly, the poet, with as much propriety as if Aristotle himself

had directed the plan, has contrived an episode for this purpose in

the song of Carril, at the beginning of the third book.

The conclusion of the poem is strictly according to rule, and is

every way noble and pleasing. Th reconciliation of the contending

heroes, the consolation of Cuthullin, and the general felicity that

crowns the action, soothe the mind in a very agreeable manner, and

form that passage from agitation and trouble, to perfect quiet and

repose, which critics require as the proper termination of the epic

work. "Thus they passed the night in song, and brought back the

morning with joy. Fingal arose on the heath; and shook his glittering

spear in his hand. He moved first towards the plains of Lena; and we

followed like a ridge of fire. Spread the sail, said the king of

Morven, and catch the winds that pour from Lena. We rose on the waves

with songs; and rushed with joy through the foam of the ocean." So

much for the unity and general conduct of the epic action in Fingal.

With regard to that property of the subject which Aristotle

requires, that it should be feigned, not historical, he must not be

understood so strictly is if he meant to exclude all subjects which

have any foundation in truth. For such exclusion would both be

unreasonable in itself, and what is more, would be contrary to the

practice of Homer, who is known to have founded his Iliad on

historical facts concerning the war of Troy, which was famous

throughout all Greece. Aristotle means no more than that it is the

business of a poet not to be a more annalist of facts, but to

embellish truth with beautiful, probable, and useful fictions; to

copy nature as he himself explains it, like painters, who preserve a

likeness, but exhibit their objects more grand and beautiful than

they are in reality. That Ossian has followed this course, and

building upon true history, has sufficiently adorned it with poetical

fiction for aggrandizing his characters and facts, will not, I

believe, be questioned by most readers. At the same time, the

foundation which those facts and characters had in truth, and the

share which the poet had himself in the transactions which he

records, must be considered as no small advantage to his work. For

truth makes an impression on the mind far beyond any fiction; and no

man, let his imagination be ever so strong, relates any events so

feelingly as those in which he has been interested; paints any scene

so naturally as one which he has seen; or draws any characters in

such strong colors as those which he has personally known. It is

considered as an advantage of the epic subject to be taken from a

period so distant, as, by being involved in the darkness of

tradition, may give license to fable. Though Ossian's subject may at

first view appear unfavorable in this respect, as being taken from

his own times, yet, when we reflect that he lived to an extreme old

age; that he relates what had been transacted in another country, at

the distance of many years, and after all that race of men who had

been the actors were gone off the stage; we shall find the objection

in a great measure obviated. In so rude an age, when no written

records were known, when tradition was loose, and accuracy of any

kind little attended to, what was great and heroic in one generation,

easily ripened into the marvellous in the next.

The natural representation of human character in an epic poem is

highly essential to its merit; and, in respect of this, there can be

no doubt of Homer's excelling all the heroic poets who have ever

wrote. But though Ossian be much inferior to Homer in this article,

he will be found to be equal at least, if not superior to Virgil; and

has, indeed, given all the display of human nature, which the simple

occurrences of his times could be expected to furnish. No dead

uniformity of character prevails in Fingal; but, on the contrary, the

principal characters are not only clearly distinguished, but

sometimes artfully contrasted, so as to illustrate each other.

Ossian's heroes are like Homer's, all brave; but their bravery, like

those of Homer's too, is of different kinds. For instance: the

prudent, the sedate, the modest and circumspect Connal, is finely

opposed to the presumptuous, rash, overbearing, but gallant and

generous Calmar. Calmar hurries Cuthullin into action by his

temerity; and when he sees the bad effects of his counsels, he will

not survive the disgrace. Connal, like another Ulysses, attends

Cuthullin to his retreat, counsels and comforts him under his

misfortune. The fierce, the proud, and the high-spirited Swaran, is

admirably contrasted with the calm, the moderate, and generous

Fingal. The character of Oscar is a favorite one throughout the whole

poems. The amiable warmth of the young warrior; his eager impetuosity

in the day of action; his passion for fame; his submission to his

father; his tenderness for Malvina; are the strokes of a masterly

pencil: the strokes are few; but it is the hand of nature, and

attracts the heart. Ossian's own character, the old man, the hero,

and the bard, all in one, presents to us, through the whole work, a

most respectable and venerable figure, which we always contemplate

with pleasure. Cuthullin is a hero of the highest class: daring,

magnanimous, and exquisitely sensible to honor. We become attached to

his interest, and are deeply touched with his distress; and after the

admiration raised for him in the first part of the poem, it is a

strong proof of Ossian's masterly genius, that he durst adventure to

produce to us another hero, compared with whom, even the great

Cuthullin should be only an inferior personage; and who should rise

as far above him, as Cuthullin rises above the rest.

Here, indeed, in the character and description of Fingal, Ossian

triumphs almost unrivalled; for we may boldly defy all antiquity to

show us any hero equal to Fingal. Homer's Hector possesses several

great and amiable qualities; but Hector is a secondary personage in

the Iliad, not the hero of the work. We see him only occasionally; we

know much less of him than we do of Fingal; who, not only in this,

epic poem, but in Temora, and throughout the rest of Ossian's works,

is presented in all that variety of lights, which give the full

display of a character. And though Hector faithfully discharges his

duty to his country, his friends, and his family, he is tinctured,

however, with a degree of the same savage ferocity which prevails

among all the Homeric heroes: for we find him insulting over the

fallen Patroclus with the most cruel taunts, and telling him, when he

lies in the agonies of death, that Achilles cannot help him now; and

that in a short time his body, stripped naked, and deprived of

funeral honors, shall be devoured by the vultures. Whereas, in the

character of Fingal, concur almost all the qualities that can ennoble

human nature; that can either make us admire the hero, or love the

man. He is not only unconquerable in war, but he makes his people

happy by his wisdom in the days of peace. He is truly too father of

his people. He is known by the epithet or "Fingal of the mildest

look;" and distinguished on every occasion by humanity and

generosity. He is merciful to his foes; full of affection to his

children; full of concern about his friends; and never mentions

Agandecca, his first love, without the utmost tenderness. He is the

universal Protector of the distressed; "None ever went sad from

Fingal."--"O, Oscar! bend the strong in arms; but spare the feeble

hand. Be thou a stream of mighty tides against the foes of thy

people; but like the gale that moves the grass to those who ask thine

aid. So Trenmor lived; such Trathal was; and such has Fingal been. My

arm was the support of the injured; the weak rested behind the

lightning of my steel." These were the maxims of true heroism, to

which he formed his grandson. His fame is represented as everywhere

spread; the greatest heroes acknowledge his superiority; his enemies

tremble at his name; and the highest encomium that can be bestowed on

one whom the poets would most exalt, is to say, that his soul was

like the soul of Fingal.

To do justice to the poet's merit, in supporting such a character as

this, I must observe, what is not commonly attended to, that there is

no part of poetical execution more difficult, than to draw a perfect

character in such a manner as to render it distinct, and affecting to

the mind. Some strokes of human imperfection and frailty, are what

usually give us the most clear view, and the most sensible impression

of a character; because they present to us a man, such as we have

seen; they recall known features of human nature. When poets attempt

to go beyond this range, and describe a faultless hero, they for the

most part set before us a sort of vague, undistinguishable character,

such as the imagination cannot lay hold of, or realize to itself as

the object of affection. We know how much Virgil has failed in this

particular. His perfect hero, Æneas, is an unanimated, insipid

personage, whom we may pretend to admire, but whom no one can

heartily love. But what Virgil has failed in, Ossian, to our

astonishment, has successfully executed. His Fingal, though exhibited

without any of the common human failings, is, nevertheless, a real

man; a character which touches and interests every reader. To this it

has much contributed that the poet has represented him as an old man;

and by this has gained the advantage of throwing around him a great

many circumstances, peculiar to that age, which paint him to the

fancy in a more distinct light. He is surrounded with his family; he

instructs his children in the principles of virtue; he is narrative

of his past exploits he is venerable with the gray locks of age; he

is frequently disposed to moralize, like an old man, on human vanity,

and the prospect of death. There is more art, at least more felicity,

in this, than may at first be imagined. For youth and old are the two

states of human life, capable of being placed in the most picturesque

lights. Middle age is more general and vague; and has fewer

circumstances peculiar to the idea of it. And when any object is in a

situation that admits it to be rendered particular, and to be clothed

with a variety of circumstances, it always stands out more clear and

full of poetical description.

Besides human personages, divine or supernatural agents are often

introduced into epic poetry, forming what is called the machinery of

it; which most critics hold to be an essential part. The marvellous,

it must he admitted, has always a great charm for the bulk of

readers. It gratifies the imagination, and affords room for striking

and sublime description. No wonder, therefore, that all poets should

have a strong propensity towards it. But I must observe, that nothing

is more difficult than to adjust properly the marvellous with the

probable. If a poet sacrifice probability, and fill his work with

extravagant supernatural scenes, he spreads over it an appearance of

romance and childish fiction; he transports his readers from this

world into a fantastic visionary region; and loses that weight and

dignity which should reign in epic poetry. No work from which

probability is altogether banished, can make a lasting or deep

impression. Human actions and manners are always, the most

interesting objects which can be presented to a human mind. All

machinery, therefore, is faulty, which withdraws these too much from

view, or obscures them under a cloud of incredible fictions. Besides

being temperately employed, machinery ought always to have some

foundation in popular belief. A poet is by no means at liberty to

invent what system of the marvellous he pleases; he must avail

himself either of the religious faith, or the superstitious credulity

of the country wherein he lives; so as to give an air of probability

to events which are most contrary to the common course of nature.

In these respects, Ossian appears to me to have been remarkably

happy. He has, indeed, followed the same course with Homer. For it is

perfectly absurd to imagine, as some critics have done, that Homer's

mythology was invented by him "in consequence of profound reflection

on the benefits it would yield to poetry." Homer was no such refining

genius. He found the traditionary stories, on which he built his

Iliad, mingled with popular legends concerning the intervention of

the gods; and he adopted these because they amused the fancy. Ossian,

in like manner, found the tales of his country full of ghosts and

spirits; it is likely he believed them himself; and he introduced

them, because they gave his poems that solemn and marvellous cast

which suited his genius. This was the only machinery he could employ

with propriety; because it was the only intervention of supernatural

beings which agreed with the common belief of the country. It was

happy; because it did not interfere in the least with the proper

display of human characters and actions; because it had less of the

incredible than most other kinds of poetical machinery; and because

it served to diversify the scene, and to heighten the subject by an

awful grandeur, which is the great design of machinery.

As Ossian's mythology is peculiar to himself, and makes a

considerable figure in his other poems, as well as in Fingal, it may

be proper to make some observations on it, independent of its

subserviency to epic composition. It turns, for the most part, on the

appearances of departed spirits. These, consonantly to the notions of

every rude age, are represented not as purely immaterial, but as thin

airy forms, which can be visible or invisible at pleasure; their

voice is feeble, their arm is weak; but they are endowed with

knowledge more than human. In a separate state, they retain the same

dispositions which animated them in this life. They ride on the wind;

they bend their airy bows; and pursue deer formed of clouds. The

ghosts of departed bards continue to sing. The ghosts of departed

heroes frequent the fields of their former fame. "They rest together

in their caves, and talk of mortal men. Their songs are of other

worlds. They come sometimes to the ear of rest, and raise their

feeble voice." All this presents to us much the same set of ideas

concerning spirits, as we find in the eleventh book of the Odyssey,

where Ulysses visits the regions of the dead; and in the twenty-third

book of the Iliad, the ghost of Patroclus, after appearing to

Achilles, vanishes precisely like one of Ossian's, emitting a shrill,

feeble cry, and melting away like smoke.

But though Homer's and Ossian's ideas concerning ghosts were of the

same nature, we cannot but observe, that Ossian's ghosts are drawn

with much stronger and livelier colors than those of Homer. Ossian

describes ghosts with all the particularity of one who had seen and

conversed with them, and whose imagination was full of the impression

they had left upon it. He calls up those awful and tremendous ideas

which the

--Simulacra modis pallentia miris

are fitted to raise in the human mind; and which, in Shakspeare's

style, "harrow up the soul." Crugal's ghost, in particular, in the

beginning of the second book of Fingal, may vie with any appearance

of this kind, described by any epic or tragic poet whatever. Most

poets would have contented themselves, with telling us, that he

resembled, in every particular, the living Crugal; that his form and

dress were the same, only his face more pale and sad; and that he

bore the mark of the wound by which he fell. But Ossian sets before

our eyes a spirit from the invisible world, distinguished by all

those features which a strong, astonished imagination would give to a

ghost. "A dark red stream of fire comes down from the hill. Crugal

sat upon the beam; he that lately fell by the band of Swaran,

striving in the battle of heroes. His face is like the beam of the

setting moon. His robes are of the cloud of the hill. His eyes are

like two decaying flames. Dark is the wound of his breast.--The stars

dim twinkled through his form; and his voice was like the sound of a

distant stream." The circumstance of the stars being beheld "dim

twinkling through his form," is wonderfully picturesque, and convoys

the most lively impression of his thin and shadowy substance. The

attitude in which he is afterward placed, and the speech put into his

mouth, are full of that solemn and awful sublimity, which suits the

subject. "Dim, and in tears he stood, and he stretched his pale hand

over the hero. Faintly he raised his feeble voice, like the gale of

the reedy Lego.--My ghost, O Connal! is on my native hills; but my

corse is on the sands of Ulla. Thou shalt never talk with Crugal, or

find his lone steps in the heath. I am light as the blast of Cromla;

and I move like the shadow of mist. Connal, son of Colgar! I see the

dark cloud of death; it hovers over the plains of Lena. The sons of

green Erin Shall fall. Remove from the field of ghosts.--Like the

darkened moon, he retired in the midst of the whistling blast."

Several other appearances of spirits might be pointed out, as among

the most sublime passages of Ossian's poetry. The circumstances of

them are considerably diversified, and the scenery always suited to

the occasion. "Oscar slowly ascends the hill. The meteors of night

set on the heath before him. A distant torrent faintly roars.

Unfrequent blasts rush through aged oaks. The half enlightened moon

sinks dim and red behind her hill. Feeble voices are heard on the

heath. Oscar drew his sword--."Nothing can prepare the fancy more

happily for the awful scene that is to follow. "Trenmor came from his

hill at the voice of his mighty son. A cloud, like the steed of the

stranger, supported his airy limbs. His robe is of the mist of Lano,

that brings death to the people. His sword is a green meteor, half

extinguished. His face is without form, and dark. He sighed thrice

over the hero; and thrice the winds of the night roared around. Many

were his words to Oscar.--He slowly vanished, like a mist that melts

on the sunny hill." To appearances of this kind, we can find no

parallel among the Greek or Roman poets. They bring to mind that

noble description in the book of Job: "In thoughts from the vision of

the night, when deep sleep falleth on men, fear came upon me, and

trembling, which made all my bones to shake. Then a spirit passed

before my face: the hair of my flesh stood up It stood still: but I

could not discern the form thereof. An image was before mine eyes.

There was silence; and I heard a voice--Shall mortal man be more just

than God?"

As Ossian's supernatural beings are described with a surprising

force of imagination, so they are introduced with propriety. We have

only three ghosts in Fingal: that of Crugal, which comes to warn the

host of impending destruction, and to advise them to save themselves

by retreat; that of Evir-allen, the spouse of Ossian, which calls on

him to rise and rescue their son from danger; and that of Agandecca,

which, just before the last engagement with Swaran, moves Fingal to

pity, by mourning for the approaching destruction of her kinsman and

people. In the other poems, ghosts sometimes appear, when invoked, to

foretell futurity; frequently, according to the notions of these

times, they come as forerunners of misfortune or death, to those whom

they visit; sometimes they inform their friends at a distance of

their own death; and sometimes they are introduced to heighten the

scenery on some great and solemn occasion. "A hundred oaks burn to

the wind; and faint light gleams over the heath. The ghosts of Ardven

pass through the beam, and show their dim and distant forms. Comala

is half unseen on her meteor; and Hidallan is sullen and dim."--"The

awful faces of other times looked from the clouds of Crona."--

"Fercuth! I saw the ghost of night. Silent he stood on that bank; his

robe of mist flew on the wind. I could behold his tears. An aged man

he seemed, and full of thought."

The ghosts of strangers mingle not with those of the natives. "She

is seen: but not like the daughters of the hill. Her robes are from

the strangers' land; and she is still alone." When the ghost of one

whom we had formerly known is introduced, the propriety of the living

character is still preserved. This is remarkable in the appearance of

Calmar's ghost, in the poem entitled, The death of Cuthullin. He

seems to forebode Cuthullin's death, and to beckon him to his cave.

Cuthullin reproaches him for supposing that he could be intimidated

by such prognostics. "Why dost thou bend thy dark eyes on me, ghost

of the car-borne Calmar? Wouldst thou frighten me, O Matha's son!

from the battles of Cormac? Thy hand was not feeble in war; neither

was thy voice for peace. How art thou changed, chief of Lara! if thou

now dost advise to fly! Retire thou to thy cave thou art not Calmar's

ghost; lie delighted in battle and his arm was like the thunder of

heaven." Calmar makes no return to this seeming reproach: but "he

retired in his blast with joy; for he had heard the voice of his

praise." This is precisely the ghost of Achilles in Homer; who,

notwithstanding all the dissatisfaction he expresses with his state

in the region of the dead, as soon as he had heard his son

Neoptolemus praised for his gallant behavior, strode away with silent

joy to rejoin the rest of the shades.

It is a great advantage of Ossian's mythology, that it is not local

and temporary, like that of most other ancient poets; which of course

is apt to seem ridiculous, after the superstitions have passed away

on which it is founded. Ossian's mythology is, to speak so, the

mythology of human nature; for it is founded on what has been the

popular belief, in all ages and countries, and under all forms of

religion, concerning the appearances of departed spirits. Homer's

machinery is always lively and amusing; but far from being always

supported with proper dignity. The indecent squabbles among his gods

surely do no honor to epic poetry. Whereas Ossian's machinery has

dignity upon all occasions. It is indeed a dignity of the dark and

awful kind; but this is proper; because coincident with the strain

and spirit of the poetry. A light and gay mythology, like Homer's,

would have been perfectly unsuitable to the subjects on which

Ossian's genius was employed. But though his machinery be always

solemn, it is not, however, always dreary or dismal; it as enlivened,

as much as the subject would permit, by those pleasant and beautiful

appearances, which he sometimes introduces, of the spirits of the

hill. These are gentle spirits: descending on sunbeams, fair moving

on the plain; their forms white and bright; their voices sweet; and

their visits to men propitious. The greatest praise that can be given

to the beauty of a living woman, is to say, "She is fair as the ghost

of the hill, when it moves in a sunbeam at noon, over the silence of

Morven." "The hunter shall hear my voice from his booth. He shall

fear, but love my voice. For sweet shall my voice be for my friends;

for pleasant were they to me."

Besides ghosts, or the spirits of departed men, we find in Ossian

some instances of other kinds of machinery. Spirits of a superior

nature to ghosts are sometimes alluded to, which have power to

embroil the deep; to call forth winds and storms, and pour them on

the land of the stranger; to overturn forests, and to send death

among the people. We have prodigies too; a shower of blood; and when

some disaster is befalling at a distance, the sound of death is heard

on the strings of Ossian's harp: all perfectly consonant, not only to

the peculiar ideas of northern nations, but to the general current of

a superstitious mention in all countries. The description of Fingal's

airy hall, in the poem called Errathon, and of the ascent of Malvina

into it, deserves particular notice, as remarkably noble and

magnificent. But, above all, the engagement of Fingal with the spirit

of Loda, in Carric-thura, cannot be mentioned without admiration. I

forbear transcribing the passage, as it must have drawn the attention

of every one who has read the works of Ossian. The undaunted courage

of Fingal, opposed to all the terrors of the Scandinavian god; the

appearance and the speech of that awful spirit; the wound which he

receives, and the shriek which he sends forth, "as, rolled into

himself, he rose upon the wind;" are full of the most amazing and

terrible majesty. I know no passage more sublime in the writings of

any uninspired author. The fiction is calculated to aggrandize the

hero; which it does to a high degree: nor is it so unnatural or wild

a fiction as might at first be thought. According to the notions of

those times, supernatural beings were material, and, consequently,

vulnerable. The spirit of Loda was not acknowledged as a deity by

Fingal; he did not worship at the stone of his power; he plainly

considered him as the god of his enemies only; as a local deity,

whose dominion extended no farther than to the regions where he was

worshipped; who had, therefore, no title to threaten him, and no

claim to his submission. We know there are poetical precedents of

great authority, for fictions fully as extravagant; and if Homer be

forgiven for making Diomed attack and wound in battle the gods whom

that chief himself worshipped, Ossian surely is pardonable for making

his hero superior to the god of a foreign territory.

Notwithstanding the poetical advantages which I have ascribed to

Ossian's machinery, I acknowledge it would have been much more

beautiful and perfect had the author discovered some knowledge of a

Supreme Being. Although his silence on this head has been accounted

for by the learned and ingenious translator in a very probable,

manner, yet still it must be held a considerable disadvantage to the

poetry. For the most august and lofty ideas that can embellish poetry

are derived from the belief of a divine administration of the

universe; and hence the invocation of a Supreme Being, or at least of

some superior powers, who are conceived as presiding over human

affairs, the solemnities of religious worship, prayers preferred, and

assistance implored on critical occasions, appear with great dignity

in the works of almost all poets, as chief ornaments of their

compositions. The absence of all such religious ideas from Ossian's

poetry is a sensible blank in it; the more to be regretted, as we can

easily imagine what an illustrious figure they would have made under

the management of such a genius as his; and how finely they would

have been adapted to many situations which occur in his works.

After so particular an examination of Fingal, it were needless to

enter into as full a discussion of the conduct of Temora, the other

epic poem. Many of the same observations, especially with regard to

the great characteristics of heroic poetry, apply to both. The high

merit, however, of Temora, requires that we should not pass it by

without some remarks.

The scene of Temora, as of Fingal, is laid in Ireland; and the

action is of a posterior date. The subject is, an expedition of the

hero to dethrone and punish a bloody usurper, and to restore the

possession of the kingdom to the posterity of the lawful prince: an

undertaking worthy of the justice and heroism of the great Fingal.

The action is one, and complete. The Poem opens with the descent of

Fingal on the coast, and the consultation held among the chiefs of

the enemy. The murder of the young prince Cormac, which was the cause

of the war, being antecedent to the epic action, is introduced with

great propriety as an episode in the first book. In the progress of

the poem, three battles are described, which rise in their importance

above, one another; the success is various, and the issue for some

time doubtful; till at last, Fingal, brought into distress, by the

wound of his great general Gaul, and the death of his son Fillan,

assumes the command himself; and, having slain the Irish king in

single combat, restores the rightful heir to his throne.

Temora has perhaps less fire than the other epic poem; but in return

it has more variety, more tenderness, and more magnificence. The

reigning idea, so often resented to us, of "Fingal, in the last of

his fields, is venerable and affecting; nor could any more noble

conclusion be thought of, than the aged hero, after so many

successful achievements, taking his leave of battles, and, with all

the solemnities of those times, resigning his spear to his son. The

events are less crowded in Temora than in Fingal; actions and

characters are more particularly displayed: we are let into the

transactions of both hosts, and informed of the adventures of the

night as well as of the day. The still, pathetic, and the romantic

scenery of several of the night adventures, so remarkably suited to

Ossian's genius, occasion a fine diversity in the poem; and are

happily contrasted with the military operations of the day.

In most of our author's poems, the horrors of war are softened by

intermixed scenes of love and friendship. In Fingal these are

introduced as episodes: in Temora we have an incident of this nature

wrought into the body of the piece, in the adventure of Cathmor and

Sulmalla. This forms one of the most conspicuous beauties of that

poem. The distress of Sulmalla, disguised and unknown amongst

strangers, her tender and anxious concern for the safety of Cathmor,

her dream, and her melting remembrance of the land of her fathers;

Cathmor's emotion when he first discovers her, his struggles to

conceal and suppress his passion, lest it should unman him in the

midst of war, though "his soul poured forth in secret, when he beheld

her fearful eye," and the last interview between them, when, overcome

by her tenderness, he lets her know he had discovered her, and

confesses his passion; are all wrought up with the most exquisite

sensibility and delicacy.

Besides the characters which appeared in Fingal, several new ones

are here introduced; and though, as they are all the characters of

warriors, bravery is the predominant feature, they are nevertheless

diversified in a sensible and striking manner. Foldath, for instance,

the general of Cathmor, exhibits the perfect picture of a savage

chieftain; bold and daring, but presumptuous, cruel, and overbearing.

He is distinguished, on his first appearance, as the friend of the

tyrant Cairbar, "His stride is haughty; his red eye rolls in wrath."

In his person and whole deportment he is contrasted with the mild and

wise Hidalla, another leader of the same army, on whose humanity and

gentleness he looks with great contempt. He professedly delights in

strife and blood. He insults over the fallen. He is imperious in his

counsels, and factious when they are not followed. He is unrelenting

in all his schemes of revenge, even to the length of denying the

funeral song to the dead; which, from the injury thereby done to

their ghosts, was in those days considered as the greatest barbarity.

Fierce to the last, he comforts himself in his dying moments with

thinking that his ghost shall often leave its blast to rejoice over

the graves of those he had slain. Yet Ossian, ever prone to the

pathetic, has contrived to throw into his account of the death, even

of this man, some tender circumstances, by the moving description of

his daughter Dardulena, the last of his race.

The character of Foldath tends much to exalt that of Cathmor, the

chief commander, which is distinguished by the most humane virtues.

He all fraud and cruelty, is famous for his hospitality to strangers;

open to every generous sentiment, and to every soft and compassionate

feeling. he is so amiable as to divide the reader's attachment

between him and the hero of the poem; though our author has artfully

managed it so as to make Cathmor himself indirectly acknowledge

Fingal's superiority, and to appear somewhat apprehensive of the

event, after the death of Fillan, which he knew would call forth

Fingal in all his might. It is very remarkable, that although Ossian

has introduced into his poems three complete heroes, Cuthullin,

Cathmor, and Fingal, he has, however, sensibly distinguished each of

their characters; Cuthullin is particularly honorable; Cathmor

particularly amiable; Fingal wise and great, retaining an ascendant

peculiar to himself in whatever light he is viewed.

But the favorite figure in Temora, and the one most highly finished,

is Fillan. His character is of that sort for which Ossian shows a

particular fondness; an eager, fervent, young warrior, fired with all

the impatient enthusiasm for military glory peculiar to that time of

life. He had sketched this in the description of his own son Oscar;

but as he has extended it more fully in Fillan, and as the character

is so consonant to the epic strain, though, as far as I remember, not

placed in such a conspicuous light by any other epic poet, it may be

worth while to attend a little to Ossian's management of it in this

instance.

Fillan was the youngest of all the sons of Fingal younger, it is

plain, than his nephew Oscar, by whose fame and great deeds in war we

may naturally suppose his ambition to have been highly stimulated.

Withal, as lie is younger, he is described as more rash and fiery.

His first appearance is soon after Oscar's death, when he was

employed to watch the motions of the foe by night. In a conversation

with his brother Ossian, on that occasion, we learn that it was not

long since he began to lift the spear. "Few are the marks of my sword

in battle; but my soul is fire." He is with some difficulty

restrained by Ossian from going to attack the enemy; and complains to

him, that his father had never allowed him any opportunity of

signalizing his valor. "The king hath not remarked my sword; I go

forth with the crowd; I return without my fame." Soon after, when

Fingal, according to custom, was to appoint one of his chiefs to

command the army, and each was standing forth, and putting in his

claim to this honor, Fillan is presented in the following most

picturesque and natural attitude: "On his spear stood the Son of

Clatho, in the wandering of his locks. Thrice he raised his eyes to

Fingal; his voice thrice failed him as he spoke. Fillan could not

boast of battles; at once he strode away. Bent over a distant stream

he stood; the tear hung in his eye. He struck, at times, the

thistle's head with his inverted spear." No less natural and

beautiful is the description of Fingal's paternal emotion on this

occasion. "Nor is he unseen of Fingal. Sidelong he beheld his son. He

beheld him with bursting joy. He hid the big tear with his locks, and

turned amidst his crowded soul." The command, for that day, being

given to Gaul, Fillan rushes amidst the thickest of the foe, saves

Gaul's life, who is wounded by a random arrow, and distinguishes

himself so in battle, that "the days of old return on Fingal's mind,

as he beholds the renown of his son. As the sun rejoices from the

cloud, over the tree his beams have raised, whilst it shakes its

lonely head on the heath, so joyful is the king over Fillan." Sedate,

however, and wise, he mixes the praise which he bestows on him with

some reprehension of his rashness. "My son, I saw thy deeds, and my

soul was glad. Thou art brave, son of Clatho, but headlong in the

strife. So did not Fingal advance, though he never feared a foe. Let

thy people be a ridge behind thee; they are thy strength in the

field. Then shalt thou be long renowned, and behold the tombs of thy

fathers."

On the next day, the, greatest and the last of Fillan's life, the

charge is committed to him of leading on the host to battle. Fingal's

speech to his troops on this occasion is full of noble sentiment;

and, where he recommends his son to their care, extremely touching.

"A young beam is before you: few are his steps to war. They are few,

but he is valiant; defend my dark-haired son. Bring him back with

joy; hereafter he may stand alone. His form is like his fathers; his

soul is a flame of their fire." When the battle begins, the poet puts

forth his strength to describe the exploits of the young hero; who,

at last encountering and killing with his own hand Foldath, the

opposite general, attains the pinnacle of glory. In what follows,

when the fate of Fillan is drawn near, Ossian, if anywhere, excels

himself. Foldath being slain, and a general rout begun, there was no

resource left to the enemy but in the great Cathmore himself, who in

this extremity descends from the hill, where, according to the custom

of those princes, he surveyed the battle. Observe how this critical

event is wrought up by the poet. "Wide-spreading over echoing Lubar,

the flight of Bolga is rolled along. Fillan hung forward on their

steps, and strewed the heath with dead. Fingal rejoiced over his

son.--Blue-shielded Cathmor rose.--Son of Alpin, bring the harp! Give

Fillan's praise to the wind: raise high his praise in my hall, while

yet he shines in war. Leave, blue-eyed Clatho! leave thy hall; behold

that early beam of thine! The host is withered in its course. No

farther look--it is dark--light trembling from the harp, strike,

virgins! strike the sound." The sudden interruption and suspense of

the narration on Cathmor's rising from his hill, the abrupt bursting

into the praise of Fillan, and the passionate apostrophe to his

mother Clatho, are admirable efforts of poetical art, in order to

interest us in Fillan's danger; and the whole is heightened by the

immediate following simile, one of the most magnificent and sublime

that is to be met with in any poet, and which, if it had been found

in Homer, would have been the frequent subject of admiration to

critics: "Fillan is like a spirit of heaven, that descends from the

skirt of big 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."

But the poet's art is not yet exhausted. The fall of this noble

young, warrior, or, in Ossian's style, the extinction of this beam of

heaven, could not be rendered too interesting and affecting. Our

attention is naturally drawn towards Fingal. He beholds front his

hill the rising of Cathmor, and the danger of his son. But what shall

he do? "Shall Fingal rise to his aid, and take the sword of Luno?

What then shall become of thy fame, son of white-bosomed Clatho? Turn

not thine eves from Fingal, daughter of Inistore! I shall not quench

thy early beam. No cloud of mine shall rise, my son, upon thy soul of

fire." Struggling between concern for the fame, and fear for the

safety of his son, be withdraws from the sight of the engagement, and

despatches Ossian in haste to the field, with this affectionate and

delicate injunction: "Father of Oscar!" addressing him by a title

which on this occasion has the highest propriety: "Father of Oscar!

lift the spear, defend the young in arms. But conceal thy steps from

Fillan's eyes. He must not know that I doubt his steel." Ossian

arrived too late. But unwilling to describe Fillan vanquished, the

poet suppresses all the circumstances of the combat with Cathmor; and

only shows us the dying hero. We see him animated to the end with the

same martial and ardent spirit; breathing his last in bitter regret

for-being so early cut off from the field of glory. "Ossian, lay me

in that hollow rock. Raise no stone above me, 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 Fillan?" He who, after

tracing the circumstances of this story, shall deny that our bard is

possessed of high sentiment and high art, must be strangely

prejudiced indeed. Let him read the story of Pallas in Virgil, which

is of a similar kind; and after all the praise he may justly bestow

on the elegant and finished description of that amiable author, let

him say which of the two poets unfolds most of the human soul. I

waive insisting on any more of the particulars in Temora; as my aim

is rather to lead the reader into the genius and spirit of Ossian's

poetry, than to dwell on all his beauties.

The judgment and art discovered in conducting works of such length

as Fingal and Temora, distinguish them from the other poems in this

collection. The smaller pieces, however, contain particular beauties,

no less eminent. They are historical poems, generally of the elegiac

kind; and plainly discover themselves to be the work of the same

author. One consistent face of manners is everywhere presented to us;

one spirit of poetry reigns; the masterly hand of Ossian appears

throughout; the same rapid and animated style; the same strong

coloring of imagination, and the same glowing sensibility of heart.

Besides the unity which belongs to the compositions of one man, there

is moreover a certain unity of subject, which very happily connects

all these poems. They form the poetical history of the age, of

Fingal, The same race of heroes whom we had met with in the greater

poems, Cuthullin, Oscar, Connar, and Gaul, return again upon the

stage; and Fingal himself is always the principal figure, presented

on every occasion, with equal magnificence, nay, rising upon us to

the last. The circumstances of Ossian's old age and blindness, his

surviving all his friends, and his relating their great exploits to

Malvina, the spouse or mistress of his beloved son Oscar, furnish the

finest poetical situations that fancy could devise for that tender

pathetic which reigns in Ossian's poetry.

On each of these poems there might be room for separate

observations, with regard to he conduct and dispositions of the

incidents, as well as to the beauty of the descriptions and

sentiments. Carthon is a regular and highly finished piece. The main

story is very properly introduced by Clessamore's relation of the

adventure of his youth; and this introduction is finely heightened by

Fingal's song of mourning over Moina; in which Ossian, ever fond of

doing honor to his father, has contrived to distinguish him for being

an eminent poet, as well as warrior. Fingal's song upon this

occasion, when "his thousand bards leaned forwards from their seats,

to hear the voice of the king," is inferior to no passage in the

whole book; and with great judgement put in his mouth, as the

seriousness, no less than the sublimity of the strain, is peculiarly

suited to the hero's character. In Darthula are assembled almost all

the tender images that can touch the heart of man, friendship, love,

the affections of parents, sons, and brothers, the distress of the

aged, and the unavailing bravery of the young. The beautiful address

to the moon, with which the poem opens, and the transition from

thence to the subject, most happily prepare the mind for that train

of affecting events that is to follow. The story is regular,

dramatic, interesting to the last. He who can read it without emotion

may congratulate himself, if he pleases, upon being completely armed

against sympathetic sorrow. As Fingal had no occasion of appearing in

the action of this poem, Ossian makes a very artful transition from

his narration, to what was passing in the halls of Selma. The sound

heard there on the strings of his harp, the concern which Fingal

shows on bearing it, and the invocation of the ghosts of their

fathers, to receive the heroes falling in a distant land, are

introduced with great beauty of imagination to increase the

solemnity, and to diversify the scenery of the poem.

Carric-thura is full of the most sublime dignity; and has this

advantage, of being more cheerful in the subject, and more happy in

the catastrophe, than most of the other poems: though tempered at the

same time with episodes in that strain of tender melancholy which

seems to have been the great delight of Ossian and the bards of his

age. Lathmon is peculiarly distinguished by high generosity of

sentiment. This is carried so far, particularly in the refusal of

Gaul, on one side, to take the advantage of a sleeping foe; and of

Lathmon, on the other, to overpower by numbers the two young warriors

as to recall into one's mind the manners of chivalry; some

resemblance to which may perhaps be suggested by other incidents in

this collection of poems. Chivalry, however, took rise in an age and

country too remote from those of Ossian, to admit the suspicion that

the one could have borrowed any thing from the other. So far as

chivalry had any real existence, the same military enthusiasm which

gave birth to it in the feudal times, might, in the days of Ossian,

that is, in the infancy of a rising state, through the operation of

the same cause, very naturally produce effects of the same kind on

the minds and manners of men. So far as chivalry was an ideal system,

existing only in romance, it will not be thought surprising, when we

reflect on the account before given of the Celtic bards, that this

imaginary refinement of heroic manners should be found among, them,

as much, at least, as among the Troubadors, or strolling Provençal

bards, in the 10th or 11th century; whose songs, it is said, first

gave rise to those romantic ideas of heroism, which for so long a

time enchanted Europe. Ossian's heroes have all the gallantry and

generosity of those fabulous knights, without their extravagance; and

his love scenes have native tenderness, without any mixture of those

forced and unnatural conceits which abound in the old romances. The

adventures related by our poet which resemble the most those of

romance, concern women who follow their lovers to war disguised in

the armor of men; and these are so managed as to produce, in the

discovery, several of the most interesting situations; one beautiful

instance of which may be seen in Carric-thura, and another in Calthon

and Colmal.

Oithona presents a situation of a different nature. In the absence

of her lover Gaul, she had been carried off and ravished by

Dunrommath. Gaul discovers the place where she is kept concealed, and

comes to revenge her. The meeting of the two lovers, the sentiments

and the behavior of Oithona on that occasion, are described with such

tender and exquisite propriety, as does the greatest honor both to

the heart and to the delicacy of our author; and would have been

admired in any poet of the most refined age. The conduct of Cruma

must strike every reader as remarkably judicious and beautiful. We

are to be prepared for the death of Malvina, which is related in the

succeeding poem. She is therefore introduced in person; "she has

heard a voice in her dream; She feels the fluttering of her soul:"

and in a most moving lamentation addressed to her beloved Oscar, she

sings her own death-song. Nothing could be calculated with more art

to sooth and comfort her than the story which Ossian relates. In the

young and brave Fovargormo, another Oscar is introduced: his praises

are sung; and the happiness is set before her of those who die in

their youth "when their renown is around them; before the feeble

behold them in the hall, and smile at their trembling hands."

But nowhere does Ossian's genius appear to greater advantage, than

in Berrathon, which is reckoned the conclusion of his songs, 'The

last sound of the voice of Cona.'

Qualis olor noto positurus littore vitam,

Ingemit, et mœstis mulcens concentibus auras

Præsago quæritur venientia funera cantu.

The whole train of ideas is admirably suited to the subject. Every

thing is full of that invisible world, into which the aged bard

believes himself now ready to enter. The airy ball of Fingal presents

itself to his view; "he sees the cloud that shall receive his ghost;

he beholds the mist that shall form his robe when he appears on his

hill;" and all the natural objects around him seem to carry the

presages of death. "The thistle shakes its beard to the wind. The

flower hangs its heavy head; it seems to any, I am covered with the

drops of heaven; the time of my departure is near, and the blast that

shall scatter my leaves." Malvina's death is hinted to him in the

most delicate manner by the son of Alpin. His lamentation over her,

her apotheosis, or ascent to the habitation of heroes, and the

introduction to the story which follows from the mention which Ossian

supposes the father of Malvina to make of him in the ball of Fingal,

are all in the highest spirit of poetry. "And dost thou remember

Ossian, O Toscar, son of Conloch? The battles of our youth were many;

our swords went together to the field." Nothing could be more proper

than to end his songs with recording an exploit of the father of that

Malvina, of whom his heart was now so full; and who, from first to

last, had been such a favorite object throughout all his poems.

The scene of most of Ossian's poems is laid in Scotland, or in the

coast of Ireland, opposite to the territories of Fingal. When the

scene is in Ireland, we perceive no change of manners from those of

Ossian's native country. For as Ireland was undoubtedly peopled with

Celtic tribes, the language, customs, and religion of both nations

were the same. They had been separated from one another by migration,

only a few generations, as it should seem, before our poet's age; and

they still maintained a close and frequent intercourse. But when the

poet relates the expeditions of any of his heroes to the Scandinavian

coast, or to the islands of Orkney, which were then part of the

Scandinavian territory, as he does in Carric-thura, Sul-malla of

Lumon, and Cathloda, the case is quite altered. Those countries were

inhabited by nations of the Teutonic descent, who, in their manners

and religious rites, differed widely from the Celtæ; and it is

curious and remarkable, to find this difference clearly pointed out

in the poems of Ossian. His descriptions bear the native marks of one

who was present in the expeditions which he relates, and who

describes what he had seen with his own eyes. No sooner are we

carried to Lochlin, or the islands of Inistore, than we perceive we

are in a foreign region. New objects begin to appear. We meet

everywhere with the stones and circles of Loda, that is, Odin, the

great Scandinavian deity. We meet with the divinations and

enchantments for which it is well known those northern nations were

early famous. "There, mixed with the murmur of waters, rose the voice

of aged men, who called the forms of night to aid them in their war;"

whilst the Caledonian chiefs, who assisted them, are described as

standing at a distance, heedless of their rites. That ferocity of

manners which distinguished those nations, also becomes conspicuous.

In the combats of their chiefs there is a peculiar savageness; even

their women are bloody and fierce. The spirit. and the very ideas of

Regner Lodbrog, that northern scalder, whom I formerly quoted, occur

to us again. "The hawks," Ossian makes one of the Scandinavian chiefs

say, "rush from all their winds; they are wont to trace my course. We

rejoiced three days above the dead, and called the hawks of heaven,

They came from all their winds, to feast on the foes of Annir."

Dismissing now the separate consideration of any of our author's

works, I proceed to make some observations on his manner of writing,

under the general heads of Description, Imagery, and Sentiment.

A poet of original genius is always distinguished by his talent for

description. A second-rate writer discerns nothing new or peculiar in

the object he means to describe. His conceptions of it are vague and

loose; his expressions feeble; and of course the object is presented

to us indistinctly, and as through a cloud. But a true poet makes us

imagine that we see it before our eyes; he catches the distinguishing

features; he gives it the colors of life and reality; he places it in

such a light that a painter could copy after him. This happy talent

is chiefly owing to a lively imagination, which first receives a

strong impression of the object; and then, by a proper selection of

capital picturesque circumstances employed in describing it,

transmits that impression in its full force to the imaginations of

others. That Ossian possesses this descriptive power in a high

degree, we have a clear proof, from the effect which his descriptions

produce upon the imaginations of those who read him with any degree

of attention, or taste. Few poets are more interesting. We contract

an intimate acquaintance with his principal heroes. The characters,

the manners, the face of the country, become familiar; we even think

we could draw the figure of his ghost. In a word, whilst reading him

we are transported as into a new region, and dwell among his objects

as if they were all real.

It were easy to point out several instances of exquisite painting in

the works of our author. Such, for instance, is the scenery with

which Temora opens, and the attitude in which Cairbar is there

presented to us; the description of the young prince Cormac, in the

same book; and the ruins of Balclutha, in Cartho. "I have seen the

walls of Balclutha, but they were desolate. The fire had resounded in

the balls: and the voice of the people is heard no more. The stream

of Clutha was removed from its place by the fall of the walls. The

thistle shook there its lonely head; the moss whistled to the wind.

The fox looked out from the windows; the rank grass of the wall waved

round his head. Desolate is the dwelling of Moina; silence is in the

house of her fathers." Nothing also can be more natural and lively

than the manner in which Carthon afterward describes how the

conflagration of his city affected him when a child: "Have I not seen

the fallen Balclutha? And shall I feast with Comhal's son? Comhal!

who threw his fire in the midst of my father's hall! 1 was young, and

knew not the cause why the virgins wept. The columns of smoke pleased

mine eye, when they arose above my walls: I often looked back with

gladness, when my friends fled above the hill. But when the years of

my youth came on, I beheld the moss of my fallen walls. My sigh arose

with the morning; and my tears descended with night. Shall I not

fight, I said to my soul, against the children of my foes? And I will

fight, O bard! I feel the strength of my soul." In the same poem, the

assembling of the chiefs round Fingal, who had been warned of some

impending danger by the appearance of a prodigy, is described with so

many picturesque circumstances, that one imagines himself present in

the assembly. "The king alone beheld the terrible sight, and he

foresaw the death of his people. He came in silence to his hall, and

took his father's spear: the mail rattled on his breast. The heroes

rose around. They looked in silence on each other, marking the eyes

of Fingal. They saw the battle in his face. A thousand shields are

placed at once on their arms; and they drew a thousand swords. The

hall of Selma brightened around. The clang of arms ascends. The gray

dogs howl in their place. No word is among the mighty chiefs. Each

marked the eyes of the king; and half assumed his spear."

It has been objected to Ossian, that his descriptions of military

actions are imperfect, and much less diversified by the circumstances

than those of Homer. This is in some measure true. The amazing

fertility of Homer's invention, is nowhere so much displayed as in

the incidents of his battles, and in the little history pieces he

gives of the persons slain. Nor, indeed, with regard to the talent of

description, can too much be said in praise of Homer. Every thing is

alive in his writings. The colors with which he paints are those of

nature. But Ossian's genius was of a different kind from Homer's. It

led him to hurry towards grand objects, rather than to amuse himself

with particulars of less importance. He could dwell on the death of a

favorite hero; but that of a private man seldom stopped his rapid

course. Homer's genius was more comprehensive than Ossian's. It

included a wider circle of objects; and could work up any incident

into description. Ossian's was more limited; but the region within

which it chiefly exerted itself was the highest of all, the region of

the pathetic and the sublime.

We must not imagine, however, that Ossian's battles consist only of

general indistinct description. Such beautiful incidents are

sometimes introduced, and the circumstances of the persons slain so

much diversified, as show that be could have embellished his military

scenes with an abundant variety of particulars, if his genius had led

him to dwell upon them. "One man is stretched in the dust of his

native land; he fell, where often he had spread the feast, and often

raised the voice of the harp." The maid of Inistore is introduced in

a moving apostrophe, as weeping for another; and a third, "as rolled

in the dust he lifted his faint eyes to the king," is remembered and

mourned by Fingal as the friend of Agandecca. The blood pouring from

the wound of one who was slain by night, is heard "hissing on the

half-extinguished oak," which had been kindled for giving light.

Another climbing up a tree to escape from his foe, is pierced by his

spear from behind; shrieking, panting he fell; whilst moss and

withered branches pursue his fall, and strew the blue arms of Gaul.

Never was a finer picture drawn of the ardor of two youthful warriors

than the following: "I saw Gaul in his armor, and my soul was mixed

with his; for the fire of the battle was in his eyes, lie looked to

the foe with joy. We spoke the words of friendship in secret; and the

lightning of our swords poured together. We drew them behind the

wood, and tried the strength of our arms on the empty air.`

Ossian is always concise in his descriptions, which adds much to

their beauty and force. For it is a great mistake to imagine, that a

crowd of particulars, or a very fall and extended style, is of

advantage to description. On the contrary, such a diffuse manner for

the most part weakens it. Any one redundant circumstance is a

nuisance. It encumbers and loads the fancy, and renders the main

image indistinct. "Obstat," as Quintilian says with regard to style,

"quicquid non adjuvat." To be concise in description, is one thing:

and to be general, is another. No description that rests in generals

can possibly be good; it can convey no lively idea; for it is of

particulars only that we have a distinct conception. But, at the same

time, no strong imagination dwells long upon any one particular; or

heaps together a mass of trivial ones. By the happy choice of some

one, or of a few that are the most striking, it presents the image

more complete, shows us more at one glance than a feeble imagination

is able to do, by turning its object round and round into a variety

of lights. Tacitus is of all prose writers the most concise. He has

even a degree of abruptness resembling our author: yet no writer is

more eminent for lively description. When Fingal, after having

conquered the haughty Swaran, proposes to dismiss him with honor:

"Raise to-morrow thy white sails to the wind, thou brother of

Agandecca!" he conveys, by thus addressing his enemy, a stronger

impression of the emotions then passing within his mind, than if

whole paragraphs had been spent in describing the conflict between

resentment against Swaran and the tender remembrance of his ancient

love. No amplification is needed to give us the most full idea of a

hardy veteran, after the few following words: "His shield is marked

with the strokes of battle; his red eye despises danger." When Oscar

left alone, was surrounded by foes, "he stood," it is said, "growing

in his place, like the flood of the narrow vale;" a happy

representation of one, who, by daring intrepidity in the midst of

danger, seems to increase in his appearance, and becomes more

formidable every moment, like the sudden rising of the torrent hemmed

in by the valley. And a whole crowd of ideas, concerning the

circumstances of domestic sorrow, occasioned by a young warrior's

first going forth to battle, is poured upon the mind by these words:

"Calmar leaned on his father's spear; that spear which he brought

from Lara's hall, when the soul of his mother was sad."

The conciseness of Ossian's descriptions is the more proper, on

account of his subjects. Descriptions of gay and smiling scenes may,

without any disadvantage, be amplified and prolonged. Force is not

the predominant quality expected in these. The description may be

weakened by being diffuse, yet, notwithstanding, may be beautiful

still; whereas, with respect to grand, solemn, and pathetic subjects,

which are Ossian's chief field, the case is very different. In these,

energy is above all things required. The imagination must be seized

at once, or not at all; and is far more deeply impressed by one

strong and ardent image, than by the anxious minuteness of labored

illustration.

But Ossian's genius, though chiefly turned towards the sublime and

pathetic, was not confined to it. In subjects also of grace and

delicacy, he discovers the hand of a master. Take for an example the

following elegant description of Agandecca, wherein the tenderness of

Tibullus seems united with the majesty of Virgil. "The daughter of

the snow overheard, and left the hall of her secret sigh. She came in

all her beauty; like the moon from the cloud of the east. Loveliness

was around her as light. Her steps were like the music of songs. She

saw the youth and loved him. He was the stolen sigh of her soul. Her

blue eyes rolled on him in secret; and she blest the chief of

Morven." Several other instances might be produced of the feelings of

love and friendship, painted by our author with a most natural and

happy delicacy.

The simplicity of Ossian's manner adds great beauty to his

descriptions, and indeed to his whole poetry. We meet with no

affected ornaments; no forced refinement; no marks either in style or

thought of a studied endeavor to shine or sparkle. Ossian appears

everywhere to be prompted by his feelings; and to speak from the

abundance of his heart. I remember no more than one instance of what

may be called a quaint thought in this whole collection of his works.

It is in the first book of Fingal, where, from the tombs of two

lovers, two lonely yews are mentioned to have sprung, "whose branches

wished to meet on high." This sympathy of the trees with the lovers,

may be reckoned to border on an Italian conceit; and it is somewhat

curious to find this single instance of that sort of wit in our

Celtic poetry.

"The joy of grief" is one of Ossian's remarkable expressions,

several times repeated. If any one shall think that it needs to be

justified by a precedent, he may find it twice used by Homer: in the

Iliad, when Achilles is visited by the ghost of Patroclus; and in the

Odyssey, when Ulysses meets his mother in the shades. On both these

occasions, the heroes, melted with tenderness, lament their not

having it in their power to throw their arms round the ghost, "that

we might," say they, "in mutual embrace, enjoy the delight of grief. "

???e???? t?ta?p?µes?a ??a??.

[Kryeroio totarpomestha goaio]

But, in truth, the expression stands in need of no defence from

authority; for it is a natural and just expression; and conveys a

clear idea of that gratification which a virtuous heart often feels

in the indulgence of a tender melancholy. Ossian makes a very proper

distinction between this gratification and the destructive effect of

overpowering grief. "There is a joy in grief when peace dwells in the

breasts of the sad. But sorrow wastes the mournful, O daughter of

Toscar, and their days are few." To "give the joy of grief,"

generally. signifies, to raise the strain of soft and grave music;

and finely characterizes the taste of Ossian's age and country. In

those days, when the songs of bards were the great delight of heroes,

the tragic muse was hold in chief honor: gallant actions and virtuous

sufferings, were the chosen theme; preferably to that light and

trifling strain, of poetry and music, which promotes light and

trifling manners, and serves to emasculate the mind. "Strike the harp

in my hall," said the great Fingal, in the midst of youth and

victory; "strike the harp in my hall, and let Fingal hear the song.

Pleasant is the joy of grief! It is like the shower O of spring, when

it softens the branch of the oak; and the young leaf lifts its green

head. Sing on, O bards! To-morrow we lift the sail."

Personal epithets have been much used by all the poets of the most

ancient ages; and when well chosen, not general and unmeaning, they

contribute not a little to render the style descriptive and animated.

Besides epithets founded on bodily distinctions, akin to many of

Homer's, we find in Ossian several which are remarkably beautiful and

poetical. Such as Oscar of the future fights, Fingal of the mildest

look, Carril of other times, the mildly blushing Evir-allin: Bragela,

the lonely sun-beam of Dunscaich; a Culdee, the son of the secret

cell.

But of all the ornaments employed in descriptive poetry, comparisons

or similes are the most splendid. These chiefly form what is called

the imagery of a poem; and as they abound go much in the works of

Ossian, and are commonly among the favorite passages of all poets, it

may be expected that I should be somewhat particular in my remarks

upon them.

A poetical simile always supposes two objects brought together,

between which there is some near relation or connection in the fancy.

What that relation ought to be, cannot be precisely defined. For

various, almost numberless, are the analogies formed among objects,

by a sprightly imagination. The relation of actual similitude, or

likeness of appearance, is far from being the only foundation of

poetical comparison. Sometimes a resemblance in the effect produced

by two objects, is made the connecting principle: sometimes a

resemblance in one distinguishing property or circumstance. Very

often two objects are brought together in a simile, though they

resemble one another, strictly speaking, in nothing, only because

they raise in the mind a train of similar, and what may be called

concordant, ideas; so that the remembrance of the one, when recalled,

serves to quicken and heighten the impression made by the other.

Thus, to give an instance from our poet, the pleasure with which an

old man looks back on the exploits of his youth, has certainly no

direct resemblance to the beauty of a fine evening; further than that

both agree in producing a certain calm, placid joy. Yet Ossian has

founded upon this, one of the most beautiful comparisons that is to

be met with in any poet. "Wilt thou not listen, son of the rock, to

the song of Ossian? My soul is full of other times; the joy of my

youth returns. Thus the sun appears in the west, after the steps of

his brightness have moved behind a storm. The green hills lift their

dewy heads. The blue streams rejoice in the vale. The aged hero comes

forth on his staff; and his gray hair glitters in the beam." Never

was there a finer group of objects. It raises a strong conception of

the old man's joy and elation of heart, by displaying a scene which

produces in every spectator a corresponding train of pleasing

emotions; the declining sun looking forth in his brightness after a

storm; the cheerful face of all nature; and the still life finely

animated by the circumstance of the aged hero, with his staff and his

gray locks: a circumstance both extremely picturesque, in itself, and

peculiarly suited to the main object of the comparison. Such

analogies and associations of ideas as these, are highly pleasing to

the fancy. They give opportunity for introducing many a fine poetical

picture. They diversify the scene; they aggrandize the subject; they

keep the imagination awake and sprightly. For as the judgment is

principally exercised in distinguishing objects, and remarking the

differences among those which seem alike, so the highest amusement of

the imagination is to trace likenesses and agreements among those

which seem different.

The principal rules which respect poetical comparisons are, that

they be introduced on proper occasions, when the mind is disposed to

relish them; and not in the midst of some severe and agitating

passion, which cannot admit this play of fancy; that they be founded

on a resemblance neither. too near and obvious, so as to give little

amusement to the imagination in tracing it, nor too faint and remote,

so as to he apprehended with difficulty; that they serve either to

illustrate the principal object, and to render the conception of it

more clear and distinct; or, at least, to heighten and embellish it,

by a suitable association of images.

Every country has a scenery peculiar to itself; and the imagery of a

good poet will exhibit it. For as he copies after nature, his

allusions will of course be taken from those objects which he sees

around him, and which have often struck his fancy. For this reason,

In order to judge of the propriety of poetical imagery, we ought to

be in some measure acquainted with the natural history of the country

where the scene of the poem is laid. The introduction of foreign

images betrays a poet, copying not from nature, but from other

writers. Hence so many lions, and tigers, and eagles, and serpents,

which we meet, with in the similes of modern poets; as if these

animals had acquired some right to a place in poetical comparisons

for ever, because employed by ancient authors. They employed them

with propriety, as objects generally known in their, country, but

they are absurdly used for illustration by us, who know them only at

second hand, or by description. To most readers of modern poetry, it

were more to the purpose to describe lions or tigers by similes taken

from men, than to compare men to lions. Ossian is very correct in

this particular. His imagery is, without exception, copied from that

face of nature which be saw before his eyes; and by consequence may

be expected to be lively. We meet with no Grecian or Italian scenery;

but with the mists and clouds, and storms, of a northern mountainous

region.

No poet abounds more in similes than Ossian. There are in this

collection as many, at least, as in the whole Iliad and Odyssey of

Homer. I am indeed inclined to think, that the works of both poets

are too much crowded with them. Similes are sparkling ornaments; and,

like all things that sparkle, are apt to dazzle and tire us by their

lustre. But if Ossian's similes be too frequent, they have this

advantage, of being commonly shorter than Homer's; they interrupt his

narration less; he just glances aside to some resembling, object, and

instantly returns to his former track. Homer's similes include a

wider range of objects; but, in return, Ossian's, are, without

exception, taken from objects of dignity, which cannot be said for

all those which Homer employs. The sun, the moon, and the stars,

clouds and meteors, lightning and thunder, seas and whales, rivers,

torrents, winds, ice, rain, snow, dews, mist, fire and smoke, trees

and forests, heath and grass and flowers, rocks and mountains, music

and songs, light and darkness, spirits and ghosts; these form the

circle within which Ossian's comparisons generally run. Some, not

many, are taken from birds and beasts: as eagles, sea-fowl, the

horse, the deer, and the mountain bee; and a very few from such

operations of art as were then known. Homer has diversified his

imagery, by many more allusions to the animal world; to lions, bulls,

goats, herds of cattle, serpents, insects; and to various occupations

of rural and pastoral life. Ossian's defect in this article, is

plainly owing to the desert, uncultivated state of his country, which

suggested to him few images beyond natural inanimate objects, in

their rudest form. The birds and animals of the country were probably

not numerous; and his acquaintance with them was slender, as they

were little subjected to the uses of man.

The great objection made to Ossian's imagery, is its uniformity, and

the too frequent repetition of the same comparison. In a work so

thick-sown with similes one could not but expect to find images of

the same kind sometimes suggested to the poet by resembling objects;

especially to a poet like Ossian, who wrote from the immediate

impulse of poetical enthusiasm, and without much preparation of study

or labor. Fertile as Homer's imagination is acknowledged to be, who

does not know how often his lions, and bulls, and flocks of sheep,

recur with little or no variation; nay, sometimes, in the very same

words? The objection made to Ossian is, however, founded, in a great

measure, upon a mistake. It has been supposed by inattentive readers,

that wherever the moon, the cloud, or the thunder, returns in a

simile, it is the same simile, and the same moon, or cloud, or

thunder, which they had met with a few pages before. Whereas very

often the similes are widely different. The object, from whence they

are taken, is indeed in substance the same; but the image is new; for

the appearance of the object is changed; it is presented to the fancy

in another attitude: and clothed with new circumstances, to make it

suit the different illustration for which it is employed. In this

lies Ossian's great art; in so happily varying the form of the few

natural appearances with which he was acquainted, as to make them

correspond to a great many different objects.

Let us take for one instance the moon, which is very frequently

introduced in his comparisons; as in northern climates, where the

nights are long, the moon is a greater object of attention than in

the climate of Homer; and let us view how much our poet has

diversified its appearance. The shield of it warrior is like "the

darkened moon when it moves a dun circle through the heavens." The

face of a ghost, wan and ale, is like "the beam of the setting moon."

And a different appearance of a ghost, thin and indistinct, is like

"the new moon seen through the gathered mist, when the sky pours down

its flaky snow, and the world is silent and dark;" or, in a different

form still, is like "the watery beam of the moon, when it rushes from

between two clouds, and the midnight shower is on the field." A very

opposite use is made of the moon in the description of Agandecca:

"She came in all her beauty, like the moon from the cloud of the

east." Hope succeeded by disappointment, is "joy rising on her face

and sorrow returning again, like a thin cloud on the moon." But when

Swaran, after his defeat, is cheered by Fingal's generosity, "his

face brightened like the full moon of heaven, when the clouds vanish

away, and leave her calm and broad in the midst of the sky." Venvela

is "bright as the moon when it trembles o'er the western wave;" but

the soul of the guilty Uthal is "dark as the troubled face of the

moon, when it foretells the storm." And by a very fanciful and

uncommon allusion, it is said of Cormac, who was to die in his early

years, "Nor long shalt thou lift the spear, mildly-shining beam of

youth! Death stands dim behind thee, like the darkened half of the

moon behind its growing light."

Another instance of the same nature may be taken from mist, which,

as being a very familiar appearance in the country of Ossian, he

applies to a variety of purposes, and pursues through a great many

forms. Sometimes, which one would hardly expect, he employs it to

heighten the appearance of a beautiful object. The hair of Morna is

"like the mist of Cromla, when it curls on the rock, and shines to

the beam of the west." "The song comes with its music to melt and

please the ear. It is like soft mist, that rising from the lake pours

on the silent vale. The green flowers are filled with dew. The sun

returns in its strength, and, the mist is gone." But, for the most

part, mist is employed as a similitude of some disagreeable or

terrible object. "The soul of Nathos was sad, like the sun in the day

of mist, when his face is watery and dim."--"The darkness of old age

comes like the mist of the desert." The face of a ghost is "pale as

the mist of Cromla."--"The gloom of battle is rolled along as mist

that is poured on the valley, when storms invade the silent sunshine

of heaven." Fame, suddenly departing, is likened to "mist that flies

away before the rustling wind of the vale." A ghost, slowly

vanishing, to "mist that melts by degrees on the sunny hill."

Cairbar, after his treacherous assassination of Oscar, is compared to

a pestilential fog. "I love a foe like Cathmor," says Fingal, "his

soul is great; his arm is strong; his battles are full of fame. But

the little soul is like a vapor that hovers round the marshy lake. It

never rises on the green hill, lest the winds meet it there. Its

dwelling is in the cave; and it sends forth the dart of death." This

is a simile highly finished. But there is another which is still more

striking, founded also on mist, in the fourth book of Temora. Two

factious chiefs are contending: Cathmor, the king, interposes,

rebukes, and silences them. The poet intends to give us the highest

idea of Cathmor's superiority; and most effectually accomplishes his

intention by the following happy image. "They sunk from the king on

either side, like two columns of morning mist, when the sun rises

between them on his glittering rocks. Dark is their rolling on either

side; each towards its reedy pool." These instances may sufficiently

show with what richness of imagination Ossian's comparisons abound,

and, at the same time, with what propriety of judgment they are

employed. If his field was narrow, it must be admitted to have been

as well cultivated as its extent would allow.

As it is usual to judge of poets from a comparison of their similes

more than of other passages, it will, perhaps, be agreeable to the

reader, to see how Homer and Ossian have conducted some images of the

same kind. This might be shown in many instances. For as the great

objects of nature are common to the poets of all nations, and make

the general storehouse of all imagery, the groundwork of their

comparisons must, of course, be Frequently the same. I shall select

only a few of the most considerable from both poets. Mr. Pope's

translation of Homer can be of no use to us here. The parallel is

altogether unfair between prose and the imposing harmony of flowing

numbers. It is only by viewing Homer in the simplicity of a prose

translation, that we can form any comparison between the two bards.

The shock of two encountering armies, the noise and the tumult of

battle, afford one of the most grand and awful subjects of

description; on which all epic poets have exerted their strength. Let

us first hear Homer. The following description is a favorite one, for

we find it twice repeated in the same words. "When now the

conflicting hosts joined in the field of battle, then were mutually

opposed shields, and swords, and the strength of armed men. The bossy

bucklers were dashed against each other. The universal tumult rose.

There were mingled the triumphant shouts and the dying groans of the

victors and the vanquished. The earth streamed with blood. As when

winter torrents, rushing from the mountains, pour into a narrow

valley their violent waters. They issue from a thousand springs, and

mix in the hollowed channel. The distant shepherd hears on the

mountain their roar from afar. Such was the terror and the shout of

the engaging armies." In another passage, the poet, much in the

manner of Ossian, heaps simile on simile, to express the vastness of

the idea with which his imagination seems to labor. "With a mighty

shout the hosts engage. Not so loud roars the wave of ocean, when

driven against the shore by the whole force of the boisterous north;

not so loud in the woods of the mountain, the noise of the flame,

when rising in its fury to consume the forest; not so loud the wind

among the lofty oaks, when the wrath of the worm rages; as was the

clamor of the Greeks and Trojans, when, roaring terrible, they rushed

against each other." To these descriptions and similes, we may oppose

the following from Ossian, and leave the reader to judge between

them. He will find images of the same kind employed; commonly less

extended; but thrown forth with a glowing rapidity which

characterizes our poet. "As autumn's dark storms pour from two

echoing hills, towards each other approached the heroes. As two dark

streams from high rocks meet and mix, and roar on the plains; loud,

rough, and dark in battle, meet Lochlin and Inisfail. Chief mixed his

strokes with chief, and man with man. Steel clanging, sounded on

steel. Helmets are cleft on high; blood bursts and smokes around.--As

the troubled noise of the ocean, when roll the waves on high; as the

last peal of the thunder of heaven; such is the noise of battle." "As

roll a thousand waves to the rock, so Swaran's best came on; as meets

a rock a thousand waves, so Inisfail met Swaran. Death raises all his

voices around, and mixes with the sound of shields.--The field echoes

from wing to wing, as a hundred hammers that rise by turns on the red

son of the furnace."--"As a hundred winds on Morven; as the streams

of a hundred hills; as clouds fly successive over heaven or as the

dark ocean assaults the shore of the desert so roaring, so vast, so

terrible, the armies mixed on Lena's echoing heath." In several of

these images there is a remarkable similarity to Homer's: but what

follows is superior to any comparison that Homer uses on this

subject. "The groan of the people spread over the hills; it was like

the thunder of night, when the cloud bursts on Cona, and a thousand

ghosts shriek at once on the hollow wind." Never was an image of,

more awful sublimity employed to heighten the terror of battle.

Both poets compare the appearance of an army approaching, to the

gathering of dark clouds. "As when a shepherd," says Homer, "beholds

from the rock a cloud borne along the sea by the western wind; black

as pitch it appears from afar sailing over the ocean, and carrying

the dreadful storm. He shrinks at the sight, and drives his flock

into the cave: such, under the Ajaces, moved on the dark, the

thickened phalanx to the war." 1--"They came," says Ossian, "over the

desert like stormy clouds, when the winds roll them over the heath;

their edges are tinged with lightning; and the echoing groves foresee

the storm." The edges of the clouds tinged with lightning, is a

sublime idea: but the shepherd and his flock render Homer's simile

more picturesque. This is frequently the difference between the two

poets. Ossian gives no more than the main image, strong and full:

Homer adds circumstances and appendages, which amuse the fancy by

enlivening the scenery.

Homer compares the regular appearance of an army, to "clouds that

are settled on the mountain-top, in the day of calmness, when the

strength of the north wind sleeps." fn_32

Ossian, with full as much propriety, compares the appearance of a

disordered army, to "the mountain cloud, when the. blast hath entered

its womb, and scatters the curling gloom on every side." Ossian's

clouds assume a great many forms, and, as we might expect from his

climate, are a fertile source of imagery to him. "The warriors

followed their chiefs like the gathering of the rainy clouds behind

the red meteors of heaven." An army retreating without coming to

action, is likened to "clouds, that having long threatened rain,

retire slowly behind the hills." The picture of Oithona, after she

had determined to die, is lively and delicate. "Her soul was

resolved, and the tear was dried from her wildly-looking eye. A

troubled joy rose on her mind, like the red path of the lightning on

a stormy cloud." The image also of the gloomy Cairbar, meditating, in

silence, the assassination of Oscar, until the moment came when his

designs were ripe for execution, is extremely noble and complete in

all its parts. "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."

Homer's comparison of Achilles to the Dog-Star, is very sublime.

"Priam beheld him rushing along the plain, shining in his armor, like

the star of autumn bright are its beams, distinguished amidst the

multitude of stars in the dark hour of night. It rises in its

splendor; but its splendor is fatal; betokening to miserable men the

destroying heat." 1 The first appearance of Fingal is, in like

manner, compared by Ossian to a star or meteor. "Fingal, tall in his

ship, stretched his bright lance before him. Terrible was the gleam

of his steel; it was like the green meteor of death, setting in the

heath of Malmor, when the traveller is alone, and the broad moon is

darkened in heaven." The hero's appearance in Homer is more

magnificent; in Ossian, more terrible.

A tree cut down, or overthrown by a storm, is a similitude frequent

among poets for describing the fall of a warrior in battle. Homer

employs it often. But the most beautiful, by far, of his comparisons,

founded on this object, indeed one of the most beautiful in the whole

Iliad, is that on the death of Euphorbus. "As the young and verdant

olive, which a man hath reared with care in a lonely field, where the

springs of water bubble around it; it is fair and flourishing; it is

fanned by the breath of all the winds, and loaded with white

blossoms; when the sudden blast of a whirlwind descending, roots it

out from its bed, and stretches it on the dust." To this, elegant as

it is, we may oppose the following simile of Ossian's, relating to

the death of the three sons of Usnoth. "They fell, like three young

oaks which stood alone on the hill. The traveller saw the lovely

trees, and wondered how they grew so lonely. The blast of the desert

came by night, and laid their green heads low. Next day he returned;

but they were withered, and the heath was bare." Malvina's allusion

to the same object, in her lamentation over Oscar, is so exquisitely

tender, that I cannot forbear giving it a place also. "I was a lovely

tree in thy presence, Oscar! with all my branches round me. But thy

death came, like a blast from the desert, and laid my green head low.

The spring returned with its showers; but no leaf of mine arose."

Several of Ossian's similes, taken from trees, are remarkably

beautiful, and diversified with well-chosen circumstances such as

that upon the death of Ryno and Orla: They have fallen like the oak

of the desert; when it lies across a stream, and withers in the wind

of the mountains." Or that which Ossian applies to himself: "I, like

an ancient oak in Morven, moulder alone in my place; the blast hath

lopped my branches away; and I tremble at the winds of the north."

As Homer exalts his heroes by comparing them to gods, Ossian makes

the same use of comparisons taken from spirits and ghosts. "Swaran

roared in battle, like the shrill spirit of a storm, that sits dim on

the clouds of Gormal, and enjoys the death of the mariner." His

people gathered round Erragon, "like storms around the ghost of

night, when he calls them from the top of Morven, and prepares to

pour them on the land of the stranger."--"They fell before my son

like groves in the desert, when an angry ghost rushes through night,

and takes their green heads in his hand." In such images, Ossian

appears in his strength; for very seldom have supernatural beings

been painted with so much sublimity, and such force of imagination,

as by this poet. Even Homer, great as he is, must yield to him in

similes formed upon these. Take, for instance, the following, which

is the most remarkable of this kind in the Iliad. "Meriones followed

Idomeneus to battle, like Mars, the destroyer of men, when lie rushes

to war. Terror, his beloved son, strong and fierce, attends him; who

fills with dismay the most valiant hero. They come from Thrace armed

against the Ephyrians and Phlegyans; nor do they regard the prayers

of either, but dispose of success at their will." 1 The idea here is

undoubtedly noble, but observe what a figure Ossian sets before the

astonished imagination, and with what sublimely terrible

circumstances he has heightened it. "He rushed, in the sound of his

arms, like the dreadful spirit of Loda, when he comes in the roar of

a thousand storms, and scatters battles from his eyes. He sits on a

cloud over Lochlin's seas. His mighty hand is on his sword. The wind

lifts his flaming locks. So terrible was Cuthullin in the day of his

fame."

Homer's comparisons relate chiefly to martial subjects, to the

appearances and motions of armies, the engagement and death of

heroes, and the various incidents of war. In Ossian, we find a

greater variety of other subjects, illustrated by similes,

particularly the songs of bards, the beauty of women, the different

circumstances of old age, sorrow, and private distress; which give

occasion to much beautiful imagery. What, for instance, can be more

delicate and moving, than the following simile of Oithona's, in her

lamentation over the dishonor she had suffered "Chief of Strumon."

replied the sighing maid, why didst thou come over the dark blue wave

to Nuath's mournful daughter? Why did not I pass away in secret, like

the flower of the rock, that lifts its fair head unseen, and strews

its withered leaves on the blast?" The music of bards, a favorite

object with Ossian, is illustrated by a variety of the most beautiful

appearances that are to be found in nature. It is compared to the

calm shower of spring; to the dews of the morning on the hill of

roes; to the face of the blue and still lake. Two similes on this

subject I shall quote, because they would do honor to any of the most

celebrated classics. The one is: "Sit thou on the heath, O bard! and

let us hear thy voice; it is pleasant as the gale of the spring that

sighs on the hunter's ear, when he awakens from dreams of joy, and

has heard the music of the spirits of the hill." The other contains a

short but exquisitely tender image, accompanied with the finest

poetical painting. "The music of Carril was like the memory of joys

that are past, pleasant, and mournful to the soul. The ghosts of

departed bards heard it from Slimora's side. Soft sounds spread along

the wood; and the silent valleys of night rejoice." What a figure

would such imagery and such scenery have made, had they been

presented to us adorned with the sweetness and harmony of the

Virgilian numbers!

I have chosen all along to compare Ossian with Homer, rather than

Virgil, for an obvious reason. There is a much nearer correspondence

between the times and manners of the two former poets. Both wrote in

an early period of society; both are originals; both are

distinguished by simplicity, sublimity, and fire. The correct

elegances of Virgil, his artful imitation of Homer, the Roman

stateliness which he everywhere maintains, admit no parallel with the

abrupt boldness and enthusiastic warmth of the Celtic bard. In one

article, indeed, there is a resemblance. Virgil is more tender than

Homer, and thereby agrees more with Ossian; with this difference,

that the feelings of the one are more gentle and polished--those of

the other more strong: the tenderness of Virgil softens--that of

Ossian dissolves and overcomes the heart.

A resemblance may be sometimes observed between Ossian's Comparisons

and those employed by the sacred writers. They abound much in this

figure, and they use it with the utmost propriety. The imagery of

Scripture exhibits a soil and climate altogether different from those

of Ossian: a warmer country, a more smiling face of nature, the arts

of agriculture and of rural life much farther advanced. The wine-

press and the threshing-floor are often presented to us; the cedar

and the palm-tree, the fragrance of perfumes the voice of the turtle,

and the beds of lilies. The similes are, like Ossian's, generally

short, touching on one point of resemblance, rather than spread out

into little episodes. In the following example may be perceived what

inexpressible grandeur poetry receives from the intervention of the

Deity. "The nations shall rush like the rushing of many waters; but

God shall rebuke them, and they shall fly far off, and shall be

chased as the chaff of the "mountains before the wind, and like the

down of the thistle before the whirlwind." Besides formal

comparisons, the poetry of Ossian is embellished with many beautiful

metaphors; such as that remarkably fine one applied to Deugala: "She

was covered with the light of beauty; but her heart was the house of

pride." This mode of expression, which suppresses the mark of

comparison, and substitutes a figured description in room of the

object described, is a great enlivener of style. It denotes that glow

and rapidity of fancy, which, without pausing to form a regular

simile, paints the object at one stroke. "Thou art to me the beam of

the cast, rising in a land unknown."--"In peace, thou art the gale of

spring; In war, the mountain storm."--"Pleasant be thy rest, O lovely

beam! soon hast thou set on our hills! The steps of thy departure

were stately, like the moon on the blue trembling wave. But thou hast

left us in darkness, first of the maids of Lutha!--Soon hast thou

set, Malvina! but thou risest, like the beam of the east, among the

spirits of thy friends, where they sit in their stormy halls, the

chambers of the thunder." This is correct, and finely supported. But

in the following instance, the metaphor, though very beautiful at the

beginning, becomes imperfect before it closes, by being improperly

mixed with the literal sense. "Trathal went forth with the stream of

his people: but they met a rock; Fingal stood unmoved; broken, they

rolled back from his side. Nor did they roll in safety; the Spear of

the king pursued their flight."

The hyperbole is a figure which we might expect to find often

employed by Ossian; as the undisciplined imagination of early ages

generally prompts exaggeration, and carries its objects to excess;

whereas longer experience, and farther progress in the arts of life,

chasten men's ideas and expressions. Yet Ossian's hyperboles appear

not, to me, either so frequent or so harsh as might at first have

been looked for; an advantage owing, no doubt, to the more cultivated

state in which, as was before shown, poetry subsisted among the

ancient Celtæ, than among most other barbarous nations. One of the

most exaggerated descriptions in the whole work, is what meets us at

the beginning of Fingal, where the scout makes his report to

Cuthullin of the landing of the foe. But this is so far from

deserving censure, that it merits praise, as being on that occasion

natural and proper. The scout arrives, trembling and full of fears;

and it is well known that no passion disposes men to hyperbolize more

than terror. It both annihilates themselves in their own

apprehension, and magnifies every object which they view through the

medium of a troubled imagination. Hence all those indistinct images

of formidable greatness, the natural marks of a disturbed and

confused mind, which occur in Moran's description of Swaran's

appearance, and in his relation of the conference which they held

together; not unlike the report which the affrighted Jewish spies

made to their leader, of the land of Canaan. "The land through which

we have gone to search it, is a land that eateth up the inhabitants

thereof; and all the people that we saw in it are men of a great

stature: and there saw we giants, the sons of Anak, which come of the

giants; and we were in our own sight as grasshoppers, and so we were

in their sight."

With regard to personifications, I formerly observed that Ossian was

sparing, and I accounted for his being so. Allegorical personages he

has none; and their absence is not to be regretted. For the

intermixture of those shadowy beings, which have not the support even

of mythological or legendary belief, with human actors, seldom

produces a good effect. The fiction becomes too visible and

fantastic; and overthrows that impression of reality, which the

probable recital of human actions is calculated to make upon the

mind. In the serious and pathetic scenes of Ossian, especially,

allegorical characters would have been as much out of place as in

tragedy; serving only unseasonably to use the fancy, whilst they

stopped the current and weakened the force of passion.

With apostrophes, or addresses to persons absent or dead, which have

been in, all ages the language of passion, our poet abounds; and they

are among his highest beauties. Witness the apostrophe, in the first

book of Fingal, to the maid of Inistore, whose lover had fallen in

battle; and that inimitably fine one of Cuthullin to Bragela, at the

conclusion of the same book. He commands his harp to be struck in her

praise; and the mention of Bragela's name immediately suggesting to

him a crowd of tender ideas--"Dost thou raise thy fair face from the

rocks," he exclaims, "to find the sails of Cuthullin? The sea is

rolling far distant, and its white foam shall deceive thee for my

sails." And now his imagination being wrought up to conceive her as,

at that moment, really in this situation, he becomes afraid of the

harm she may receive from the inclemency of the night; and with an

enthusiasm happy and affecting, though beyond the cautious strain of

modern poetry, "Retire," he proceeds, "retire, for it is night, my

love, and the dark winds sigh in thy hair. Retire to the hall of my

feasts, and think of the times that are past: for I will not return

until the storm of war has ceased. O, Connal! speak of wars and arms,

and send her from my mind; for lovely with her raven hair is the

white-bosomed daughter of Sorglan." This breathes all the native

spirit of passion and tenderness.

The addresses to the sun, to the moon, and to the evening star, must

draw the attention of every reader of taste, as among the most

splendid ornaments of this collection. The beauties of each are too

great and too obvious to need any particular comment. In one passage

only of the address to the moon, there appears some obscurity.

"Whither dost thou retire from thy course when the darkness of they

countenance grows? Hast thou thy hall like Ossian? Dwellest thou in

the shadow of grief? Have thy sisters fallen from heaven? Are they

who rejoiced with thee, at night, no more? Yes, they have fallen,

fair light! and thou dost often retire to mourn." We may be at a loss

to comprehend, at first view, the ground of those speculations of

Ossian concerning the moon: but when all the circumstances are

attended to, they will appear to flow naturally from the present

situation of his mind. A mind under the domination of any strong

passion, tinctures with its own disposition every object which it

beholds. The old bard, with his heart bleeding for the loss of all

his friends, is meditating on the different phases of the moon. Her

waning and darkness present to his melancholy imagination the image

of sorrow; and presently the idea arises, and is indulged, that like

himself, she retires to mourn over the loss of other moons, or of

stars, whom he calls her sisters, and fancies to have once rejoiced

with her at night, now fallen from heaven. Darkness suggested the

idea of mourning, and mourning suggested nothing so naturally to

Ossian as the death of beloved friends. An instance precisely

similar, of this influence of passion, may be seen in a passage,

which has always been admired, of Shakspeare's King Lear. The old

man, on the point of distraction through the inhumanity of his

daughters, sees Edgar appear, disguised as a beggar and a madman.

Lear. Didst thou give all to thy daughters? And art thou come to

this?

Couldst thou leave nothing? Didst thou give them all?

Kent. He hath no daughters, sir.

Lear. Death, traitor! nothing could have subdued nature

To such a lowness, but his unkind daughters.

The apostrophe to the winds, in the opening of Dar-thula, is in the

highest spirit of poetry. "But the winds deceive me, O Dar-thula! and

deny the woody Etha to thy sails. These are not the mountains,

Nathos, nor is that roar of thy climbing waves. The halls of Cairbar

are near, and the towers of the foe lift their heads. Where have ye

been, ye southern winds! when the sons of thy love were deceived? But

ye have been sporting on plains, and pursuing the thistle's beard. O

that ye had been rustling in the sails of Nathos, till the hills of

Etha rose! till they rose in the clouds, and saw their coming chief."

This passage is remarkable for the resemblance it bears to an

expostulation with the wood nymphs, on their absence at a critical

time; which, as a favorite poetical idea, Virgil has copied from

Theocritus, and Milton has very happily imitated from both.

Where were ye, nymphs! when the remorseless deep

Closed o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas?

For neither were ye playing on the steep

Where your old bards, the famous Druids, he!

Nor on the shaggy top of Mona, high,

Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream.--Lycid.

Having now treated fully of Ossian's talents, with respect to

description and imagery, it only remains to make some observations on

his sentiments. No sentiments can be beautiful without being proper;

that is, suited to the character and situation of those who utter

them. In this respect Ossian is as correct as most writers. His

characters, as above described, are, in general, well supported;

which could not have been the case, had the sentiments been unnatural

or out of place. A variety of personages, of different ages, sexes,

and conditions, are introduced into his poems; and they speak and act

with a propriety of sentiment and behavior which it is surprising to

find in so rude an age. Let the poem of Dar-thula, throughout, be

taken as an example.

But it is not enough that sentiments be natural and proper. In order

to acquire any high degree of poetical merit, they must also be

sublime and pathetic.

The sublime is not confined to sentiment alone. It belongs to

description also; and whether in description or in sentiment, imports

such ideas presented to the mind, as raise it to an uncommon degree

of elevation, and fill it with admiration and astonishment. This is

the highest effect either of eloquence or poetry; and, to produce

this effect, requires a genius glowing with the strongest and warmest

conception of some object, awful, great, or magnificent. That this

character of genius belongs to Ossian, may, I think, sufficiently

appear from many of the passages I have already had occasion to

quote. To produce more instances were superfluous. If the engagement

of Fingal with the spirit of Loda, in Carric-thura; if the encounters

of the armies, in Fingal; if the address to the sun, in Carthon; if

the similes founded upon ghosts and spirits of the night, all

formerly mentioned, be not admitted as examples, and illustrious ones

too, of the true poetical sublime, I confess myself entirely ignorant

of this quality in writing.

All the circumstances, indeed, of Ossian's composition, are

favorable to the sublime, more perhaps than to any other species of

beauty. Accuracy and correct. ness, artfully connected narration,

exact method and proportion. of parts, we may look for in polished

times. The gay and the beautiful will appear to more advantage in the

midst of smiling scenery and pleasurable themes; but, amidst the rude

scenes of nature, amidst rocks and torrents, and whirlwinds and

battles, dwells the sublime. It is the thunder and the lightning of

genius. It is the offspring of nature, not of art. It is negligent of

all the lesser graces, and perfectly consistent with a certain noble

disorder. It associates naturally with that grave and solemn spirit

which distinguishes our author. For the sublime is an awful and

serious emotion; and is heightened by all the Images of trouble, and

terror, and darkness.

Ipse pater, media nimborum in nocte, coruscâ

Fulmina molitur dextra; quo maxima motu

Terra tremit; fugere feræ; et mortalia corda

Per gentes, humilis stravit pavor; ille, flagranti

Aut Atho, aut Rhodopen, aut alta Ceraunia telo

Dejicit.--

--Virg. Georg. i.

Simplicity and conciseness are never-failing characteristics of the

style of a sublime writer. He rests on the majesty of his sentiments,

not on the pomp of his expressions. The main secret of being sublime

is to say great things in few, and in plain words: for every

superfluous decoration degrades a sublime idea. The mind rises and

swells, when a lofty description or sentiment is presented to it in

its native form. But no sooner does the poet attempt to spread out

this sentiment, or description, and to deck it round and round with

glittering ornaments, than the mind begins to fall from its high

elevation; the transport is over; the beautiful may remain, but the

sublime is gone. Hence the concise and simple style of Ossian gives

great advantage to his sublime conceptions, and assists them in

seizing the imagination with full power.

Sublimity, as belonging to sentiment, coincides, in a great measure,

with magnanimity, heroism, and generosity of sentiment. Whatever

discovers human nature in its greatest elevation; whatever bespeaks a

high effort of soul, or shows a mind superior to pleasures, to

dangers, and to death, forms what may be called the moral of

sentimental sublime. For this Ossian is eminently distinguished. No

poet maintains a higher tone of virtuous and noble sentiment

throughout all his works. Particularly in all the sentiments of

Fingal there is a grandeur and loftiness, proper to swell the mind

with the highest ideas of human perfection. Wherever he appears, we

behold the hero. The objects which he pursues are always truly great:

to bend the proud; to protect the injured; to defend his friends; to

overcome his enemies by generosity more than by force. A portion of

the same spirit actuates all the other heroes. Valor reigns; but it

is a generous valor, void of cruelty, animated by honor, not by

hatred. We behold no debasing passions among Fingal's warriors; no

spirit of avarice or of insult; but a perpetual contention for fame;

a desire of being distinguished and remembered for gallant actions; a

love of justice; and a zealous attachment to their friends and their

country. Such is the strain of sentiment in the works of Ossian.

But the sublimity of moral sentiments, if they wanted the softening

of the tender, would be in hazard of giving a hard and stiff air to

poetry. It is not enough to admire. Admiration is a cold feeling, in

comparison of that deep interest which the heart takes in tender and

pathetic scenes; where, by a mysterious attachment to the objects of

compassion, we are pleased and delighted, even whilst we mourn. With

scenes of this kind Ossian abounds; and his high merit in these is

incontestible. He may be blamed for drawing tears too often from our

eyes; but that he has the power of commanding them, I believe no man,

who as the least sensibility, will question. The general character of

his poetry is the heroic mixed with the elegiac strain; admiration

tempered with pity. Ever fond of giving, as he expresses it, "the joy

of grief," it is visible that, on all moving subjects, he delights to

exert his genius; and, accordingly, never were there finer pathetic

situations than what his works present. His great art in managing

them lies in giving vent to the simple and natural emotions of the

heart. We meet with no exaggerated declamation; no subtile

refinements on sorrow; no substitution of description in place of

passion. Ossian felt strongly himself; and the heart, when uttering

its native language, never fails, by powerful sympathy, to affect the

heart. A great variety of examples might be produced. We need only

open the book to find them everywhere. What, for instance, can be

more moving than the lamentations of Oithona, after her misfortune?

Gaul, the son of Morni, her lover, ignorant of what she had suffered,

comes to her rescue. Their meeting is tender in the highest degree.

He proposes to engage her foe, in single combat, and gives her in

charge what she is to do if he himself shall fall. "And shall the

daughter of Nuath live?" she replied, with a bursting sigh. "Shall I

live in Tromathon, and the son of Morni low? My heart is not of that

rock; nor my soul careless as that sea, which lifts its blue waves to

every wind, and rolls beneath the storm. The blast, which shall lay

thee low, shall spread the branches of Oithona, on earth. We shall

wither together, son of car-borne Morni! The narrow house is pleasant

to me, and the gray stone of the dead; for never more will I leave my

rocks, sea-surrounded Tromathon!--Chief of Strumon! why comest thou

over the waves to Nuath's mournful daughter? Why did I not pass away

in secret, like the flower of the rocks that lifts its fair head

unseen, and strews its withered leaves on the blast? Why didst thou

come, O Gaul I to bear my departing sigh ?--O, had I dwelt at

Duvranna, in the bright beam of my fame! Then had my years come on

with joy: and the virgins would bless my steps. But I fall in youth,

son of Morni! and my father shall blush in his hall!"

Oithona mourns like a woman: in Cuthullin's expressions of grief

after his defeat, we behold the sentiments of a hero--generous, but

desponding. The situation is remarkably fine. Cuthullin, roused from

his cave by the noise of battle, sees Fingal victorious in the field.

He is described as kindling at the sight. "His hand is on the sword

of his fathers; his red-rolling eyes on the foe. He thrice attempted

to rush to battle; and thrice did Connal stop him;" suggesting that

Fingal was routing the foe; and that he ought not, by the show of

superfluous aid, to deprive the king of any part of the honor of a

victory, which was owing to him alone. Cuthullin yields to this

generous sentiment; but we see it stinging him to the heart with the

sense of his own disgrace. "Then, Carril, go," replied the chief,

"and greet the king of Morven. When Lochlin fails away like a stream

after rain, and the noise of the battle is over, then be thy voice

sweet in his ear, to praise the king of swords. Give him the sword of

Caithbat; for Cuthullin is worthy no more to lift the arms of his

fathers. But, O ye ghosts of the lonely Cromla! ye souls of chiefs

that are no more! be ye the companions of Cuthullin, and talk to him

in the cave of his sorrow. For never more shall I be renowned among

the mighty in the land. I am like a beam that has shone: like a mist

that has fled away; when the blast of the morning came, and

brightened the shaggy side of the hill. Connal! talk of arms no more:

departed is my fame. My sighs shall be on Cromla's wind; till my

footsteps cease to be seen. And thou, white-bosomed Bragela! mourn

over the fall of my fame: for vanquished, I will never return to

thee, thou sunbeam of Dunscaich!"

--Æstuat ingens

Uno in corde pudor, luctusque, et conscia virtus.

Besides such extended pathetic scenes, Ossian frequently pierces the

heart by a single unexpected stroke. When Oscar fell in battle, "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."

In the admirable interview of Hector with Andromache, in the sixth

Iliad, the circumstance of the child in his nurse's arms, has often

been remarked as adding much to the tenderness of the scene. In the

following passage, relating to the death of Cuthullin, we find a

circumstance that must strike the imagination with still greater

force. "And is the son of Semo fallen?" said Carril, with a sigh.

"Mournful are Tura's walls, and sorrow dwells at Dunscaich. Thy

spouse is left alone in her youth; the son of thy love is alone. He

shall come to Bragela, and ask her why she weeps? He shall lift his

eyes to the wall, and see his father's sword. Whose sword is that? he

will say; and the soul of his mother is sad." Soon after Fingal had

shown all the grief of a father's heart for Ryno, one of his sons,

fallen in battle, he is calling, after his accustomed manner, his

sons to the chase. "Call," says he, "Fillan and Ryno.--But he is not

here.--My son rests on the bed of death." This unexpected start of

anguish is worthy of the highest tragic poet.

If she come in, she'll sure speak to I wife--

My wife!--my wife!--What wife!--I have no wife--

Oh, insupportable! Oh, heavy hour!--

Othello.

The contrivance of the incident in both poets is similar: but the

circumstances are varied with judgment. Othello dwells upon the name

of wife, when it had fallen from him, with the confusion and horror

of one tortured with guilt. Fingal, with the dignity of a hero,

corrects himself, and suppresses his rising grief. The contrast which

Ossian frequently makes between his present and his former state,

diffuses over his whole poetry a solemn pathetic air, which cannot

fail to make impression on every heart. The conclusion of the songs

of Selma is particularly calculated for this purpose. Nothing can be

more poetical and tender, or can leave upon the mind a stronger and

more affecting idea of the venerable and aged bard. "Such were the

words of the bards in the days of the song; when the king heard the

music of harps, and the tales of other times. The chiefs gathered

from all their hills, and heard the lovely sound. They praised the

voice of Cona, the first among a thousand bards. But age is now on my

tongue, and my soul has failed. I hear, sometimes, the ghosts of

bards, and learn their pleasant song. But memory fails on my mind; I

hear the call of years. They say, as they pass along, Why does Ossian

sing? Soon shall he lie in the narrow house, and no bard shall raise

his fame. Roll on, ye dark-brown years! for ye bring no joy in your

course. Let the tomb open to Ossian, for his strength has failed. The

sons of the song are gone to rest. My voice remains, like a blast,

that roars lonely on the sea-rur-rounded rock, after the winds are

laid. The dark moss whistles there, and the distant mariner sees the

waving trees."

Upon the whole, if to feel strongly, and to describe naturally, be

the two chief ingredients in poetical genius, Ossian must, after fair

examination, be held to possess that genius in a high degree. The

question is not, whether a few improprieties may be pointed out in

his works?-whether this or that passage might not have been worked up

with more art and skill, by some writer of happier times? A thousand

such cold and frivolous criticisms are altogether indecisive as to

his genuine merit. But has he the spirit, the fire the inspiration of

a poet? Does he utter the voice of nature? Does he elevate by his

sentiments? Does lie interest by his description? Does be paint to

the heart as well as to the fancy? Does he make his readers glow, and

tremble, and weep? These are the great characteristics of true

poetry. Where these are found, he must be a minute critic, indeed,

who can dwell, upon slight defects. A few beauties of this high kind

transcend whole volumes of faultless mediocrity. Uncouth and abrupt

Ossian may sometimes appear, by reason of his conciseness; but he is

sublime, he is pathetic, in an eminent degree. If he has not the

extensive knowledge, the regular dignity of narration, the fulness

and accuracy of description, which we find in Homer and Virgil, yet

in strength of imagination, in grandeur of sentiment, in native

majesty of passion, he is fully their equal. If he flows not always

like a clear stream, yet he breaks forth often like a torrent of

fire. Of art, too, he is far from being destitute; and his

imagination is remarkable for delicacy as well as strength. Seldom or

never is he either trifling or tedious; and if he be thought too

melancholy, yet he is always moral. Though his merit were in other

respects much less than it is, this alone ought to entitle him to

high regard, that his writings are remarkably favorable to virtue.

They awake the tenderest sympathies, and inspire the most generous

emotions. No reader can rise from him without being warmed with the

sentiments of humanity, virtue, and honor.

Though unacquainted with the original language, there is no one but

must judge the translation to deserve the highest praise, on account

of its beauty and elegance. Of its faithfulness and accuracy, I have

been assured by persons skilled in the Gaelic tongue, who from their

youth were acquainted with many of these poems of Ossian. To

transfuse such spirited and fervid ideas from one language into

another; to translate literally, and yet with such a glow of poetry;

to keep alive so much passion, and support so much dignity

throughout; is one of the most difficult works of genius, and proves

the translator to have been animated with no small portion of

Ossian's spirit.

The measured prose which he has employed, possesses considerable

advantages above any sort of versification he could have chosen.

While it pleases and fills the ear with a variety of harmonious

cadences, being, at the same time, freer from constraint in the

choice and arrangement of words, it allows the spirit of the original

to be exhibited, with more justness, force, and simplicity. Elegant,

however, and masterly, as Mr. Macpherson's translation is, we must

never forget, whilst we read it, that we are putting the merit of the

original to a severe test. For we are examining a poet stripped of

his native dress; divested of the harmony of his own numbers. We know

how much grace and energy the works of the Greek and Latin poets

receive from the charm of versification in their original languages.

If then, destitute of this advantage, exhibited in a literal version,

Ossian still has power to please as a poet; and not to please only,

but often to command, to transport, to melt the heart; we may very

safely infer that his productions are the off-spring of a true and

uncommon genius; and we may proudly assign him a place among those

whose works are to last for ages.

Funeral Song by Regner Lodbrog

Translated into Latin from the Gothic

by Olaus Wormius

Pugnavimus ensibus

Haud post longum tempus

Cum in Gotlandia accessimus

Ad serpentis immensi necem

Tunc impetravimus Thoram

Ex hoc vocarunt me virum

Quod serpentem transfodi

Hirsutam braccam ob illam cædem

Cuspide ictum intuli in colubrum

Ferro lucidorum stupendiorum.

Multum juvenis fui quando acquisivimus

Orientem versus in Oreonico freto

Vulnerum amnes avidæ feræ

Et flavipedi avi

Accepimus ibidem sonuerunt

Ad sublimes galeas

Dura ferra magnam escam

Omnis erat oceanus vulnus

Vadavit corvus in sanguine cæsorum.

Alte tulimus tune lanceas

Quando viginti annos numeravimus

Et celebrem laudem comparavimus passim

Vicimus octo barones

In oriente ante Dimini portum

Aquilæ impetravimus tunc sufficientem

Hospitii sumptum in illa strage

Sudor decidit in vulnerum

Oceano perdidit exercitus ætatem.

Pugnæ facta copia

Cum Helsingianos postulavimus

Ad aulam Odini

Naves direximus in estium Vistulæ

Mucro potuit tum mordere

Omnis erat vulnus unda

Terra rubefacta calido

Frendebat gladius in loricas

Gladius findebat clypeos.

Memini neminem tunc fugisse

Priusquam in navibus

Heraudus in bello caderet

Non findit navibus

Alius baro præstantior

Mare ad portum

In navibus longis post ilium

Sic attulit princeps passim

Alacre in bellum, cor.

Exercitus abjecit clypeos

Cum hasta volavit

Ardua ad virorum pectora

Momordit Scarforum cautes

Cladius in pugna

Sanguineus erat clypeus

Antequam Rafho rex caderet

Fluxit ex virorum capitibus

Calidas in loricas sudor.

Habere potuerunt tum, corvi

Ante Indirorum insulas

Sufficientem prædam dilaniandam

Acquisivimus feris carnivoris

Plenum prandium unico actu

Difficile erat unius facere mentionem

Oriente sole

Spicula, vidi pungere,

Propulerunt arcus ex se ferra.

Altum mugierunt enses

Antequam in Laneo campo

Eislinus rex cecidit

Processimus auro, ditati

Ad terram prostratorum dimicandum

Gladius secuit clypeorum

Picturas in galearum conventu,

Cervicum mustum ex vulneribus

Diffusum per cerebrum fissum.

Tenuimus clypeos in sanguine

Cum hastam unximus

Ante Boring holmum

Telorum nubes disrumpunt clypeum

Extrusit arcus ex se metallum,

Volnir cecidit in conflictu.

Non erat illo rex major

Cæsi dispersi late per littora

Feræ amplectebantur escam.

Pugna manifeste crescebat

Antequam Freyr rex caderet

In Flandorum terra

Cœpit cæruleus ad incidendum

Sanguine illitus in auream

Loricam in pugna

Durus armorum mucro olim

Virgo deploravit matutinam lanienam

Multa præda dabatur feris.

Centies centenos vidi jacere

In navibus

Ubi Ænglanes vocatur

Navigavimus ad pugnam

Per sex dies antequam exercitus missam

In exortu solis

Coactus est pro nostris gladiis

Valdiofur in bello occumbere

Ruit pluvia sanguinis de gladiis

Præceps in Bardafyrde

Pallidum corpus pro accipitribus

Murmumvit arcus ubi mucro

Acriter mordebat loricas

In conflictu,

Odini pileus gales.

Cucurrit arcus ad vulnus

Venenate acutus conspersus sudore sanguineo.

Tenuimus magica scuta

Alte in pugnæ ludo

Ante Hiadningum sinum

Videre licuit tum viros

Qui gladiis lacerarunt clypeos

In gladiatorio murmure

Galeæ attritæ virorum

Erat sicut splendidam virginem

In lecto, juxta se collocare.

Dura venit tempestas clypeis

Cadaver cecidit in terram

In Nortumbria

Erat circa matutinum tempus

Hominibus necessum erat fugere

Ex prælio ubi acute

Cassidis campos mordebant gladii

Erat hoc veluti juvenem viduam

In primaria sede osculari.

Herthiofe evasit fortunatus

In Australibus Orcadibus ipse

Victoriæ in nostris hominibus

Cogrebatur in armorum nimbo,

Rogvaldus occumbere

Iste venit summus super accipitres

Luctus in gladiorum ludo

Strenue jactabat concussor

Galeæ sanguinis teli.

Quilibet jacebat transversim supra alium

Gaudebat pugna lætus

Accipiter ob gladiorum ludum

Non fecit aquilam aut aprum

Qui Irlandiam gubernavit

Conventus fiebat ferri et clypei

Marstanus rex jejunis

Fiebat in vedræ sinu

Præda data corvis.

Bellatorem multum vidi cadere

Mante ante machæram

Virum in mucronum dissidio

Filio meo incidit mature

Gladius juxta cor

Egillus fecit Agnerum spoliatum

Imperterritum virum vita

Sonuit lancea prope Hamdi

Griseam loricam splendebant vexilla.

Verborum tenaces vidi dissecare

Haud minutim pro lupis

Endili maris ensibus

Erat per hebdomadæ spatium

Quasi mulieres vinum apportarent

Rubefactæ erant naves

Valde in strepitu armorum

Scissa erat lorica

In Scioldungorum prælio.

Pulcricomum vidi crepuscuascere

Virginis amatorem circa matutinum

Et confabulationis amicum viduarum

Erat sicut calidum balneum

Vinei vasis nympha portaret

Nos in Ilæ freto

Antequam Orn rex caderet

Sanguineum clypeum vidi ruptum

Hoc invertit virorum vitam.

Egimus gladiorum ad cædem

Ludum in Lindis insula

Cum regibus tribus

Pauci potuerunt inde lætari

Cecidit multus in rictum ferarum

Accipiter dilaniavit carnem cum lupo

Ut satur inde discederet

Hybernorum sanguinis in oceanum

Copiose decidit per mactationis tempus.

Alte gladius mordebat clypeos

Tune cum aurei colors

Hasta fricabat loricas

Videre licuit in Onlugs insula

Per sæcula multum post

Ibi fuit ad gladiorum ludos

Reges processerunt

Rubicundum erat circa insulam,

At volans Draco vulnerum.

Quid est viro forti morte certius

Etsi ipse in armorum nimbo

Adversus collocatus sit

Sæpe deplorat ætatem

Qui nunquam premitur

Malum ferunt timidum incitare

Aquilam ad gladiorum ludum

Meticulosus venit nuspiam

Cordi suo usui.

Hoc numero æquum ut procedat

In contactu gladiorum

Juvenis unus contra alterum

Non retrocedat vir a viro

Hoe fuit viri fortis nobilitas diti

Semper debet amoris amicus virginum,

Audax esse in fremitu armorum.

Hoc videtur mihi re vera

Quod fata sequimur

Rarus transgreditur fata Parcarum

Non destinavi Ellæ

De vitæ exitu meæ

Cum ego sanguinem semimortuus tegerem

Et naves in aquas protrusi

Passim impetravimus tum feris

Escam in Scotiæ sinubus.

Hoc ridere me facit semper

Quod Balderi patris scamne

Parata scio in aula

Bibemus cerevisiam brevi

Ex concavis crateribus craniorum

Non gemit vir fortis contra mortem

Magnifici in Odini domibus

Non venio disperabundis

Verbis ad Odini aulam.

Hic vellent nunc omnes

Filii Aslaugæ gladiis

Amarum bellum excitare

Si exacte scirent

Calamitates nostras

Quem non pauci angues

Venenati me discerpunt

Matrem accepi meis

Filiis ita ut corda valeant.

Valde inclinatur ad hæreditatem

Crudele stat nocumentum a vipera

Anguis inhabitat aulam cordis

Speramus alterius ad Othini

Virgam in Ellæ sanguine

Filiis meis livescet

Sua ira rubescet

Non acres juvenes

Sessionem tranquillam facient.

Habeo quinquagies

Prælia sub signis facta

Ex belli invitatione et semel

Minime putavi hominum

Quod me futurus esset

Juvenis didici mucronem rubefacore

Alius rex præstantior

Nos Asæ invitabunt

Non est lugenda mors.

Fert animus finire

Invitant me Dysæ

Quas ex Othini aula

Othinus mihi misit

Lætus cerevisiam cum Asis

In summa sede, bibam

Vitæ elapsæ suot horæ

Ridens moriar.

THE POEMS OF OSSIAN

CATH-LODA.

CATH-LODA -- DUAN I. <1>

ARGUMENT

Fingal when very young, making a voyage to the Orkney Islands,

was driven by stress of weather into a bay of Scandinavia, near

the residence of Starno, king of Lochlin. Starno invites Fingal to a

feast. Fingal, doubting the faith of the king, and mindful of a

former breach of hospitality, refuses to go. -- Starno gathers

together his 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-Cargla, the

captive daughter of a neighboring 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.-- Duan first concludes with a description of

the airy hall of Cruth-loda, supposed to be the Odin of

Scandinavia.

<1> The bards distinguished those compositions in which the

narration is often interrupted by episodes and apostrophes, by

the name of Duan.

A TALE of the times of old!

Why, thou wanderer unseen! thou bender of the thistle of

Lora; why, thou breeze of the valley, hast thou left mine ear? I

hear no distant roar of streams! No sound of the harp from the

rock! Come, thou huntress of Lutha, Malvina, call back his soul

to the bard. I look forward to Lochlin of lakes, to the dark billowy

bay of U-thorno, where Fingal descends from ocean, from the

roar of winds. Few are the heroes of Morven in a land unknown!

Starno sent a dweller of Loda to bid Fingal to the feast; but

the king remembered the past, and all his rage arose. "Nor

Gormal's mossy towers, nor Starno, shall Fingal behold. Deaths

wander, like shadows, over his fiery soul! Do I forget that beam of

light, the white-handed daughter of kings? <1> Go, son of Loda;

his words are wind to Fingal: wind, that, to and fro drives the

thistle in autumn's dusky vale. Duth-maruno, arm of death!

Cromma-glas, of Iron shields! Struthmor, dweller of battle's wing!

Cromar, whose ships bound on seas, careless as the course of a

meteor, on dark-rolling clouds! Arise around me, children of

heroes, in a land unknown! Let each look on his shield like

Trenmor, the ruler of wars." -- "Come down," thus Trenmor said,

"thou dweller between the harps! Thou shalt roll this stream

away, or waste with me in earth."

Around the king they rise in wrath. No words come forth:

they seize their spears. Each soul is rolled into itself. At length

the sudden clang is waked on all their echoing shields. Each

takes his hill by night; at intervals they darkly stand. Unequal

bursts the hum of songs, between the roaring wind!

Broad over them rose the moon!

In his arms came tall Duth-maruno: he, from Croma of

rocks, stern hunter of the boar! In his dark boat he rose on

waves, when Crumthormo <2> awaked its woods. In the chase he

shone, among foes: No fear was thine, Duth-maruno!

'O Son of daring Comhal, shall my steps be forward

through night? From this shield shall I view them, over their

gleaming tribes? Starno, king of lakes, is before me, and Swaran,

the foe of strangers. Their words are not in vain, by Loda's stone

of power. Should Duth-maruno not return, his spouse is lonely at

home, where meet two roaring streams on Crathmocraulo's plain.

Around are hills, with echoing woods; the ocean is rolling near.

My son looks on screaming sea-fowl, a young wanderer on the

field. Give the head of a boar to Candona, tell him of his father's

joy, when the bristly strength of U-thorno rolled on his lifted

spear. Tell him of my deeds in war! Tell where his father fell!"

"Not forgetful of my fathers," said Fingal, "I have bounded

over the seas. Theirs were the times of danger in the days of old.

Nor settles darkness on me, before foes, though youthful in my

locks. Chief of Crathmocraulo, the field of night is mine."

Fingal rushed, in all his arms, wide bounding over

Turthor's stream, that sent its sullen roar, by night, through

Gormal's misty vale. A moonbeam glittered on a rock; in the

midst stood a stately form; a form with floating locks, like

Lochlin's white-bosomed maids. Unequal are her steps, and

short. She throws a broken song on wind. At times she tosses her

white arms: for grief is dwelling in her soul.

"Torcal-torno, of aged locks," she said, "where now are thy

steps, by Lulan? Thou hast failed at thine own dark streams,

father of Conban-cargla! But I behold thee, chief of Lulan,

sporting by Loda's hall, when the dark-skirted night is rolled

along the sky. Thou sometimes hidest the moon with thy shield. 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 thy lonely

daughter."

"Who art thou," said Fingal, "voice of night?"

She, trembling, turned away.

"Who art thou, in thy darkness?"

She shrunk into the cave.

The king loosed the thong from her hands. He asked about

her fathers.

"Torcul-torno," she said, "once dwelt at Lulan's foamy

stream: he dwelt-but now, in Loda's hall, he shakes the sounding

shell. He met Starno of Lochlin in war; long fought the dark-eyed

kings. My father fell, in his blood, blue-shielded Torcul-torno! By

a rock, at Lulan's stream, I had pierced the bounding roe. My

white hand gathered my hair from off the rushing winds. I heard

a noise. Mine eyes were up. My soft breast rose on high. My step

was forward, at Lulan, to meet thee, Torcul-torno. It was Starno,

dreadful king! His red eves rolled on me in love. Dark waved his

shaggy brow, above his gathered smile. Where is my father, I

said, he that was mighty in war! Thou art left alone among foes,

O daughter of Torcul-torno! He took my hand. He raised the sail.

In this cave he placed me dark. At times he comes a gathered

mist. He lifts before me my father's shield. But often passes a

beam of youth far distant from my cave. The son of Starno moves

in my sight. He dwells lonely in my soul."

"Maid of Lulan," said Fingal, "white-handed daughter of

grief! a cloud, marked with streaks of fire, is rolled along my soul.

Look not to that dark-robed moon; look not to those meteors of

heaven. My gleaming steel is around thee, the terror of my foes! It

is not the steel of the feeble, nor of the dark in soul! The maids

are not shut in our caves of streams! They toss not their white

arms alone. They bend fair within their locks, above the harps of

Selma. Their voice is not in the desert wild. We melt along the

pleasing sound!"

* * * * * * *

Fingal again advanced his steps, wide through the bosom

of night, to where the trees of Loda shook amid squally winds.

Three stones, with heads of moss, are there; a stream with

foaming course: and dreadful, rolled around them, is the dark red

cloud of Loda. High from its top looked forward a ghost, half

formed of the shadowy stroke. He poured his voice, at times,

amidst the roaring stream. Near, bending beneath a blasted tree,

two heroes received his words: Swaran of lakes, and Starno, foe

of strangers. On their dun shields they darkly leaned: their

spears are forward through night. Shrill sounds the blast of

darkness in Starno's floating beard.

They heard the tread of Fingal. The warriors rose in arms.

"Swaran, lay that wanderer low," said Starno, in his pride. "Take

the shield of thy father. It is a rock in war." Swaran threw his

gleaming spear. It stood fixed in Loda's tree. Then came the foes

forward with swords. They mixed their rattling steel. Through the

thongs of Swaran's shield rushed the blade <3> of Luno. The

shield fell rolling on earth. Cleft, the helmet fell down. Fingal

stopt the lifted steel. Wrathful stood Swaran, unarmed. He rolled

his silent eyes; he threw his sword on earth. Then, slowly

stalking over the stream, he whistled as he went.

Nor unseen of his father is Swaran. Starno turns away in

wrath. His shaggy brows were dark above his gathered rage. He

strikes Loda's tree with his spear. He raises the hum of songs.

They come to the host of Lochlin, each in his own dark path; like

two foam-covered streams from two rainy vales!

To Turthor's plain Fingal returned. Fair rose the beam of the

east. It shone on the spoils of Lochlin in the hand of the king.

From her cave came forth, in her beauty, the daughter of Torcul-

torno. She gathered her hair from wind. She wildly raised her

song. The song of Lulan of shells, where once her father dwelt.

She saw Starno's bloody shield. Gladness rose, a light. on her

face. She saw the cleft helmet of Swaran She shrunk, darkened,

from Fingal. "Art thou fallen by thy hundred streams, O love of

the mournful maid?"

U-thorno that risest in waters! on whose side are the

meteors of night? I behold the dark moon descending behind thy

resounding woods. On thy top dwells the misty Loda: the house

of the spirits of men! In the end of his cloudy hall bends forward

Cruth-loda of swords. His form is dimly seen amid his wavy mist.

His right hand is on his shield. In his left is the half viewless

shell. The roof of his dreadful hall is marked with nightly fires!

The race of Cruth-loda advance, a ridge of formless shades.

He reaches the sounding shell to those who shone in war. But

between him and the feeble, his shield rises a darkened orb. He is

a setting meteor to the weak in arms. Bright as a rainbow on

streams, came Lulan's white-bosomed maid.

<1> The white-handed daughter of kings: Agandecca, the

daughter of Starno, whom her father killed, on account of her

discovering to Fingal a plot laid against his life.

<2> Crumthormoth: one of the Orkney or Shetland Islands

<3> The blade of Luno: The sword of Fingal, so called from its

maker, Luno of Lochlin

CATHLODA -- DUAN II.

ARGUMENT

Fingal, returning with day, devolves the command on Duth-

maruno, who engages the enemy, and drives them over the

stream of Turthor. Having recalled his people, he congratulates

Duth-maruno on his success, but discovers that that hero had

been mortally wounded in the action -- Duth-maruno dies. Ullin,

the bard in honor of the dead, introduces the episode of Colgorm

and Strina-dona, which concludes this duan.

"WHERE art thou, son of the king?" said darkhaired Duth-

maruno. "Where hast thou failed, young beam of Selma? He

returns not from the bosom of night! Morning is spread on U-

thorno. In his mist is the sun on his hill. Warriors, lift the shields

in my presence. He must not fall like a fire from heaven, whose

place is not marked on the ground. He comes like an eagle, from

the skirt of his squally wind! in his hand are the spoil 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 vapor. The traveller shrinks on his journey; he

knows not whither to fly. No trembling travellers are we! Sons of

heroes call forth the steel. Shall the sword of Fingal arise, or shall

a warrior lead?"

The deeds of old, said Duth-maruno, are like paths to our

eyes, O Fingal! Broad-shielded Trenmor is still seen amidst his

own dim years. Nor feeble was the soul of the king. There no dark

deed wandered in secret. From their hundred streams came the

tribes, to glassy Colglan-crona. Their chiefs were before them.

Each strove to lead the war. Their swords were often half

unsheathed. Red rolled their eyes of rage. 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 the chiefs to lead by turns;

they led, but they were rolled away. From his own mossy hill

blue-shielded Trenmor came down. He led wide-skirted battle,

and the strangers failed. Around him the dark-browed warriors

came: they struck the shield of joy. Like a pleasant gale the

words of power rushed forth from Selma of kings. But the chiefs

led by turns, in war, till mighty danger rose: then was the hour of

the king to conquer in the field.

"Not unknown," said Cromma-glas of shields, "are the

deeds of our fathers. But who shall now lead the war before the

race of kings? Mist settles on these four dark hills: within it let

each warrior strike his shield. Spirits may descend in darkness,

and mark us for the war." They went each to his hill of mist.

Bards marked the sounds of the shields. Loudest rung thy boss

Duth-maruno. Thou must lead in war!

Like the murmurs 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 Duthmaruno's sword.

Lochlin is rolled over her streams. The wrathful kings are lost in

thought. They roll their silent eyes over the flight of their land.

The horn of Fingal was heard; the sons of woody Albion returned.

But many lay, by Turthor's stream, silent in their blood.

" Chief of Crathmo," said the king, " Duth-maruno, hunter

of boars! not harmless returns my eagle from the field of foes! For

this white-bosomed Lanul shall brighten at her streams;

Candona shall rejoice as he wanders in Crathmo's fields."

" Colgorm," replied the chief, " was the first of my race in

Albion; Colgorm, the rider of ocean; through Its watery vales. He

slew his brother in I-thorno:<1> he left the land of his fathers. He

chose his place in silence, by rocky Crathmo-craulo. His race

came forth in their years; they came forth to war, but they always

fell. The wound of my fathers is mine, king of echoing isles!

He drew an arrow from his side! He fell pale in a land

unknown. His soul came forth to his fathers, to their stormy isle.

There they pursued boars of mist, along the skirts of winds. The

chiefs stood silent around, as the stones of Loda, on their hill.

The traveller sees them, through the twilight, from his lonely

path. He thinks them the ghosts of the aged, forming future wars.

Night came down on U-thorno. Still stood the chiefs in their

grief. The blast whistled, by turns, through every warrior's hair.

Fingal, at length, broke forth from the thoughts of his soul. He

called Ullin of harps, and bade the song to rise. "No falling fire,

that is only seen, and then retires in night; no departing meteor

was he that is laid so low. He was like the strong-beaming sun,

long rejoicing on his hill, Call the names of his fathers from their

dwellings old!'"

I-thorno, said the bard, that risest midst ridgy seas! Why is

thy head so gloomy in the ocean's mist? From thy vales came

forth a race, fearless as thy strong winged eagles: the race of

Colgorm of iron shields, dwellers of Loda's hall.

In Tormoth's resounding isle arose Lurthan, streamy hill. It

bent its woody head over a silent vale. There, at foamy Cruruth's

source, dwelt Rurmar, hunter of boars! His daughter was fair as

a sunbeam, white-bosomed Strina-dona!

Many a king of heroes, and hero of iron shields; many a

youth of heavy locks came to Rurmar's echoing hall. They came

to woo the maid, the stately huntress of Tormoth wild. But thou

lookest careless from thy steps, high-bosomed Strina-dona!

If on the heath she moved, her breast was whiter than the

down of cana;<2> If on the sea-beat shore, than the foam of the

rolling ocean. Her eyes were two stars of light. Her face was

heaven's bow in showers. Her dark hair flowed round it, like the

streaming clouds. Thou wert the dweller of souls, white-handed

Strina-dona!

Colgorm came in his ship, and Corcul-suran, king of shells.

The brothers came from I-thorno to woo the sunbeam of Tormoth

wild. She saw them in their echoing steel. Her soul was fixed on

blue-eyed Colgorm. Ul-lochlin's <3> nightly eye looked in, and

saw the tossing arms of Strina-dona.

. 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 Crathmocraulo'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.

<1> I-thorno: an island of Scandinavia.

<2> The cana is a certain kind of grass, which grows plentifully in

the heathy morasses of the north.

<3> Ul-lochlin "the guide to Lochlin;" the name of a star

CATH-LODA -- DUAN III.

ARGUMENT

Ossian, after some general reflections, describes the situation of

Fingal, and the position of the army of Lochlin. -- The

conversation of Starno and Swaran. -- The episode of Corman-

trunar and Foina-bragal. -- Starno, from his own example,

recommends to Swaran to surprise Fingal, who had retired alone

to a neighboring hill. Upon Swaran's refusal, Starno undertakes

the enterprise 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 colored sides.

I look unto the times of old, but they seem dim to Ossian's

eyes, like reflected moonbeams on a distant lake. Here rise the

red beams of war! There, silent dwells a feeble race! They mark

no years with their deeds, as slow they pass along. Dweller

between the shields! thou that awakest the failing soul! descend

from thy wall, harp of Cona, with thy voices three! Come with

that which kindles the past: rear the forms of old, on their own

dark-brown years!

U-thorno, hill of storms, I behold my race on thy side.

Fingal is bending in night over Duthmaruno's tomb. Near him are

the steps of his heroes, hunters of the boar. By Turthor's stream

the host of Lochlin is deep in shades. The wrathful kings stood on

two hills: they looked forward on their bossy shields. They looked

forward to the stars of night, red wandering in the west. Cruth-

loda bends from high, like formless meteor in clouds. He sends

abroad the winds and marks them with his signs. Starno foresaw

that Morven's king was not to yield in war.

He twice struck the tree in wrath. He rushed before his

son. He hummed a surly song, and heard his air in wind. Turned

from one another, they stood like two oaks, which different winds

had bent; each hangs over his own loud rill, and shakes his

boughs in the course of blasts.

" 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 the withered vales, from its own mossy rock. He

came forth to the lake Luth-cormo, to meet the tall Corman-

trunar, he from Urlor of streams, dweller of battle's wing."

The chief of Urlor had come to Gormal with his dark-

bosomed ships. He saw the daughter of Annir, white-armed

Foina-bragal. He saw her! Nor careless rolled her eyes on the

rider of stormy waves. She fled to his ship in darkness, like a

moonbeam through a nightly veil. 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 rushed into roaring Urlor. With his people came tall

Corman-trunar. We fought; but the foe prevailed. In his wrath my

father stood. He lopped the young trees with his sword. His eyes

rolled red in his rage. 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 Foina-bragal. I

threw my broken shield before her! I spoke the words of peace.

"Beside his rolling sea lies Annir of many lakes. The king was

pierced in battle; and Starno is to raise his tomb. Me, a son of

Loda, he sends to white-handed Foina, to bid her send a lock

from her hair, to rest with her father in earth. And thou, king of

roaring Urlor, let the battle cease, till Annir receive the shell from

fiery-eyed Cruth-loda."

Bursting into tears, she rose, and tore a lock from her hair;

a lock, which wandered in the blast, along her heaving breast.

Corman-trunar gave the shell, and bade me rejoice before him. I

rested in the shade of night, and hid my face in my helmet deep.

Sleep descended on the foe. I rose, like a stalking ghost. I pierced

the side of Corman-trunar. Nor did Foina-bragal escape. She

rolled her white bosom in blood.

Why, then, daughter of heroes, didst thou wake my rage?

Morning rose. The foe were fled, like the departure of mist.

Annir struck his bossy shield. He called his dark-haired son. I

came, streaked with wandering blood: thrice rose the shout of the

king, like the 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, Fingal is alone in his hill of night. Let thy

spear pierce the king in secret; like Annir, my soul shall rejoice.

"O Son of Annir," said Swaran, "I shall not slay in shades: I

move forth in light: the hawks rush from all their winds. They are

wont to trace my course: it is not harmless through war."

Burning rose the rage of the king. He thrice raised his

gleaming spear. But, starting, he spared his son, and rushed

into the night. By Turthor's stream, a cave is dark, the dwelling of

Conban-carglas. There he laid the helmet of kings, and called the

maid of Lulan; but she was distant far in Loda's resounding hall.

Swelling in his rage, he strode to where Fingal lay alone.

The king was laid on his shield, on his own secret hill.

Stern hunter of shaggy boars! no feeble maid is laid before

thee. No boy on his ferny bed, by Turthor's murmuring stream.

Here is spread the couch of the mighty, from which they rise to

deeds of death! Hunter of shaggy boars, awaken not the terrible!

Starno came murmuring on. Fingal arose in arms. "Who art

thou, son of night!" Silent he threw the spear. They mixed their

gloomy strife. The shield of Starno fell, cleft in twain. He is bound

to an oak. The early beam arose. It was then Fingal beheld the

king. He rolled awhile his silent eyes. He thought of other days,

when white-bosomed Agandecca moved like the music of songs.

He loosed the thong from his hands. Son of Annir, he said, retire.

Retire to Gormal of shells; a beam that was set returns. I

remember thy white-bosomed daughter; dreadful king, away! Go

to thy troubled dwelling, cloudy foe of the lovely Let the stranger

shun thee, thou gloomy in the hall"

A tale of the times of old!

COMALA, A DRAMATIC POEM

ARGUMENT.

This poem. is valuable on account of the light it throws on the

antiquity of Ossian's compositions. The Caracul mentioned here

is the same with Caracalla, the son of Severus, who, in the year

211, commanded an expedition against the Caledonians. The

variety of the measure shows that the poem was originally set to

music, and perhaps presented before the chiefs upon solemn

occasions. Tradition has handed down the story more complete

than it is in the poem. "Comala, the daughter of Sarno, king of

Inistore, or Orkney Islands, fell in love with Fingal, the son of

Comhal, at a feast, to which her father had invited him [Fingal,

B. III.] upon his return from Lochlin, after the death of

Agandecca. Her passion was so violent, that she followed him,

disguised like a youth, who wanted to be employed in his wars.

She was soon discovered by Hidallan, the son of Lamor, one of

Fingal's heroes, whose love she had slighted some time before.

Her romantic passion and beauty recommended her so much to

the king, that he had resolved to make her his wife; when news

was brought him of Caracul's expedition. He marched to stop the

progress of the enemy, and Comala attended him. He left her on

a hill, within sight of Caracul's army, when he himself went to

battle, having previously promised, if he survived, to return that

night." The sequel of the story may be gathered from the poem

itself.

The Persons.

FINGAL

COMALA

HIDALLAN

MELILCOMA }Daughters

DERSAGRENA }of Morni.

BARDS

Dersagrena. The chase is over. No noise on Erdven but the

torrent's roar! Daughter of Morni, come from Crona's banks. Lay

down the bow and take the harp. Let the night come on with

songs; let our joy be great on Ardven.

Melilcoma. Night comes on apace, thou blue-eyed maid!

gray night grows dim along the plain, I saw a deer at Crona's

stream; a mossy bank he seemed through the gloom, but soon he

bounded away. A meteor played round his branching horns; the

awful faces of other times looked from the clouds of Crona.

Dersagrena. These are the signs of Fingal's death. The king

of shields is fallen! and Caracul prevails. Rise, Comala, from thy

rock; daughter of Sarno, rise in tears! the youth of thy love is low;

his ghost is on our hills.

Melilcoma. There Comala sits forlorn! two gray dogs near

shake their rough ears, and catch the flying breeze. Her red

cheek rests upon her arm, the mountain wind is in her hair. She

turns her blue eyes towards the fields of his promise. Where art

thou, O Fingal? The night is gathering around.

Comala. O Carun of the streams! why do I behold thy

waters rolling in blood? Has the noise of the battle been heard;

and sleeps the king of Morven? Rise, moon, thou daughter of the

sky! look from between thy clouds; rise, that I may behold the

gleam of his steel on the field of his promise. Or rather let the

meteor, that lights our fathers through the night, come with its

red beam, to show me the way to my fallen hero. Who will defend

me from sorrow? Who from the love of Hidallan? Long shall

Comala look before she can behold Fingal in the midst of his

host; bright as the coming forth of the morning in the cloud of an

early shower.

Hidallan. Dwell, thou mist of gloomy Crona, dwell on the

path of the king! Hide his steps from mine eyes, let me remember

my friend no more. The bands of battle are scattered, no

crowding tread round the noise of his steel. O Carun! roll thy

streams of blood, the chief of the people is low.

Comala. Who fell on Carun's sounding banks, son of the

cloudy night? Was he white as the snow of Ardven? Blooming as

the bow of the shower? Was his hair like the mist of the hill, soft

and curling in the day of the sun? Was he like the thunder of

heaven in battle? Fleet as the roe of the desert?

Hidallan. O that I might behold his love, fair-leaning from

her rock! Her red eye dim in tears, her blushing cheek half hid in

her locks! Blow, O gentle breeze! lift thou the heavy locks of the

maid, that I may behold her white arm, her lovely cheek in her

grief.

Comala. And is the son of Comhal fallen, chief of the

mournful tale! The thunder rolls on the hill! The lightning flies on

wings of fire! They frighten not Comala; for Fingal is low. Say,

chief of the mournful tale, fell the breaker of the shields?

Hidallan. The nations are scattered on their hills! they shall

hear the voice of the king no more.

Comala. Confusion pursue thee over thy plains! Ruin

overtake thee, thou king of the world! Few be thy steps to thy

grave; and let one virgin mourn thee! Let her be like Comala,

tearful in the days of her youth! Why hast thou told me, Hidallan,

that my hero fell? I might have hoped a little while his return; I

might have thought I saw him on the distant rock: a tree might

have deceived me with his appearance; the wind of the hill might

have been the sound of his horn in mine ear. O that I were on the

banks or Carun; that my tears might be warm on his cheek.

Hidallan. He lies not on the banks of Carun: on Ardven

heroes raise his tomb. Look on them, O moon! from thy clouds;

be thy beam bright on his breast, that Comala may behold him in

the light of his armor.

Comala. Stop, ye sons of the grave, till I behold lily love! He

left me at the chase alone. I knew not that he went to war. He

said he would return with the night; the king of Morven is

returned! Why didst thou not tell me that he would fall, O

trembling dweller of the rock? <1> Thou sawest him in the blood

of his youth; but thou didst not tell Comala.

Melilcoma. What sound is that on Ardven? Who is that

bright in the vale? Who comes like the strength of rivers, when

their crowded waters glitter to the moon?

Comala. Who is it but the foe of Comala, the son of the king

of the world! Ghost of Fingal! do thou, from thy cloud, direct

Comala's bow. Let him fall like the hart of the desert. It is Fingal

in the crowd of his ghosts. Why dost thou come, my love, to

frighten and please my soul?

Fingal. Raise, ye bards, the song; raise the wars of the

streamy Carun! Caracul has fled from our arms along the field of

his pride. He sets far distant like a meteor, that encloses a spirit

of night, when the winds drive it over the heath, and the dark

woods are gleaming around. I heard a voice, or was it the breeze

of my hills? Is it the huntress of Ardven, the white-handed

daughter of Sarno? Look from the rocks, my love; let me hear the

voice of Comala!

Comala. Take me to the cave of thy rest, O lovely son of

death

Fingal. Come to the cave of my rest. The storm is past, the

sun is on our fields. Come to the cave of my rest, huntress of

echoing Ardven!

Comala. He is returned with his fame! I feel the right hand

of his wars! But I must rest beside the rock till my soul returns

from my fear! O let the harp be near! raise the song, ye daughters

of Morna.

Dersagrena. Comala has slain three deer on Ardven, the

fire ascends on the rock; go to the feast of Comala, king of the

woody Morven!

Fingal. Raise, ye sons of song, the wars of the streamy

Carun; that my white-handed maid may rejoice: while I behold

the feast of my love.

Bards. Roll, streamy Carun, roll in joy, the sons of battle

are fled! the steed is not seen on our fields; the wings of their

pride spread on other lands. The sun will now rise in peace, and

the shadows descend in joy. The voice of the chase will be heard;

the shields hang in the hall. Our delight will be in the war of the

ocean, our hands shall grow red in the blood of Lochlin. Roll,

streamy Carun, roll in joy, the sons of battle fled!

Melilcoma. Descend, ye light mists from high! Ye

moonbeams, lift her soul! Pale lies the maid at the rock! Comala

is no more!

Fingal. Is the daughter of Sarno dead; the white-bosomed

maid of my love? Meet me, Comala, on my heaths, when I sit

alone at the streams of my hills.

Hidallan. Ceased the voice of the huntress of Ardven? why

did I trouble the soul of the maid? When shall I see thee, with joy,

in the chase of the dark-brown hinds? Fingal. Youth of the

gloomy brow! No more shalt thou feast in my halls! Thou shalt

not pursue my chase, my foes shall not fall by thy sword. Lead

me to the place of her rest, that I may behold her beauty. Pale

she lies as the rock, the cold winds lift her hair. Her bow-string

sounds in the blast, her arrow was broken in her fall. Raise the

praise of the daughter of Sarno! give her name to the winds of

heaven.

Bards. See! meteors gleam around the maid! See!

moonbeams lift her soul! Around her, from their clouds, bend the

awful faces of her father: Sarna of the gloomy brow! the red-

rolling eyes of Hidallan! When shall thy white hand arise? When

shall thy voice be heard on our rocks? The maids shall seek thee

on the heath, but they shall not find thee. Thou shalt come, at

times, to their dreams, to settle peace in their soul. Thy voice

shall remain in their ears, they shall think with joy on the

dreams of their rest. Meteors gleam around the maid, and

moonbeams lift her soul!

<1> By the " dweller of the rock" she means a Druid.

CARRIC-THURA.

ARGUMENT.

Fingal, returning from an expedition which he had made into the

Roman province, resolved to visit Cathulla, king of Inistore, and

brother to Comala, whose story is related at large in the

preceding dramatic poem. Upon his coming in sight of Carric-

thura, the palace of Cathulla, he observed a flame on its top,

which, in those days, was a signal of distress. The wind drove

him into a bay at some distance from Carric-thura, and he was

obliged to pass the night on shore. Next day he attacked the army

of Frothal, king of Sora, who had besieged Cathulla in his palace

of Carric-thura, and took Frothal himself prisoner, after he had

engaged him in a single combat. The deliverance of Carric-thura

is the subject of the poem; but several other episodes are

interwoven with it. It appears, from tradition, that this poem was

addressed to a Culdee, or one of the first Christian missionaries,

and that the story of the spirit of Loda, supposed to be the

ancient Odin of Scandinavia, was introduced by Ossian in

opposition to the Culdee's doctrine. Be this as it will, it lets us

into Ossian's notions of a superior Being; and shows us that he

was not addicted to the superstition which prevailed all the world

over, before the introduction of Christianity.

HAST thou left thy blue course in heaven, golden-haired

son of the sky! The west opened its gates; the bed of thy repose is

there. The waves come to behold thy beauty. They lift their

trembling heads. They see thee lovely in thy sleep; they shrink

away with fear. Rest in thy shadowy cave, O sun! let thy return

be in joy.

But let a thousand lights arise to the sound of the harps of

Selma: let the beam spread in the hall, the king of shells is

returned! The strife of Crona is past, like sounds that are no

more. Raise the song, O bards! the king is returned with his

fame!

Such were the words of Ullin, when Fingal returned from

war; when he returned in the fair blushing of youth with all his

heavy locks. His blue arms were on the hero; like a light cloud on

the sun, when he moves in his robes of mist, and shows but half

his beams. His heroes followed the king: the feast of shells is

spread. Fingal turns to his bards, and bids the song to rise.

Voices of echoing Cona! he said; O bards of other times! Ye,

on whose souls the blue host of our fathers rise! strike the harp

in my hall: and let me hear the song. Pleasant is the joy of grief; it

is like the shower of spring when it softens the branch of the oak,

and the young leaf rears its green head. Sing on, O bards! to-

morrow we lift the sail. My blue course is through the ocean, to

Carric-thura's walls; the mossy walls of Sarno, where Comala

dwelt. There the noble Cathulla spreads the feast of shells. The

boars of his woods are many; the sound of the chase shall arise!

Cronnan, son of the song! said Ullin; Minona, graceful at

the harp! raise the tale of Shilric, to please the king of Morven.

Let Vinvela come in her beauty, like the showery bow when it

shows its lovely head on the lake, and the setting sun is bright.

She comes, O Fingal! her voice is soft, but sad.

Vinvela. My love is a son of the hill. He pursues the flying

deer. His gray dogs are panting around him; his bow-string

sounds in the wind. Dost thou rest by the fount of the rock, or by

the noise of the mountain stream? The rushes are nodding to the

wind, the mist flies over the hill. I will approach my love unseen; I

will behold him from the rock. Lovely I saw thee first by the aged

oak of Branno; thou wert returning tall from the chase; the

fairest among thy friends.

Shilric. What voice is that I hear? that voice like the

summer wind! I sit not by the nodding rushes; I hear not the

fount of the rock . Afar, Vinvela, afar, I go to the wars of Fingal.

My dogs attend me no more. No more I tread the hill. No more

from on high I see thee, fair moving by the stream of the plain;

bright as the bow of heaven; as the moon on the western wave.

Vinvela. Then thou art gone, O Shilric! I am alone on the

hill! The deer are seen on the brow: void of fear they graze along.

No more they dread the wind; no more the rustling tree. The

hunter is far removed, he is in the field of graves. Strangers! sons

of the waves! spare my lovely Shilric!

Shilric. If fall I must in the field, raise high my grave,

Vinvela. Gray stones, and heaped up earth, shall mark me to

future times. When the hunter shall sit by the mound, and

produce his food at noon, "some warrior rests here," he will say;

and my fame shall live in his praise. Remember me, Vinvela,

when low on earth I lie!

Vinvela. Yes! I will remember thee! alas! my Shilric will fall!

What shall I do, my love, when thou art for ever gone? Through

these hills I will go at noon: I will go through the silent heath.

There I will see the place of thy rest, returning from the chase.

Alas! my Shilric will fall; but I will remember Shilric.

And I remember the chief, said the king of woody Morven;

he consumed the battle in his rage. But now my eyes behold him

not. I met him one day on the hill; his cheek was pale: his brow

was dark. The sigh was frequent in his breast: his steps were

towards the desert. But now he is not in the crowd of my chiefs,

when the sounds of my shields arise. Dwells he in the narrow

house,<1> the chief of high Carmora?

Cronnan! said Ullin of other times, raise the song of Shilric!

when he returned to his hills, and Vinvela was no more. He

leaned on her gray mossy stone he thought Vinvela lived. He saw

her fair moving on the plain; but the bright form lasted not: the

sunbeam fled from the field, and she was seen no more. Hear the

song of Shilric; it is soft, but sad!

I sit by the mossy fountain; on the top of the hill of winds.

One tree is rustling above me. Dark waves roll over the heath.

The lake is troubled below. The deer descend from the hill. No

hunter at a distance is seen. It is mid-day: but all is silent. Sad

are my thoughts alone. Didst thou but appear, O my love? a

wanderer on the heath? thy hair floating on the wind behind

thee; thy bosom heaving on the sight; thine eyes full of tears for

thy friends, whom the mists of the hill had concealed? Thee I

would comfort, my love, and bring thee to thy father's house?

But is it she that there appears, like a beam of light on the

heath? bright as the moon in autumn, as the sun in a summer

storm, comest thou, O maid, over rocks, over mountains, to me?

She speaks: but how weak her voice! like the breeze in the reeds

of the lake.

"Returnest thou safe from the war? Where are thy friends,

my love? I heard of thy death on the hill; I heard and mourned

thee, Shilric! Yes, my fair, I return: but I alone of my race. Thou

shalt see them no more; their graves I raised on the plain. But

why art thou on the desert hill? Why on the heath alone?

" Alone I am, O Shilric! alone in the winter-house. With

grief for thee I fell. Shilric, I am pale in the tomb."

She fleets, she sails away; as mist before the wind; and wilt

thou not stay, Vinvela? Stay, and behold my tears! Fair thou

appearest, Vinvela! fair thou wast, when alive!

By the mossy fountain I will sit; on the top of the hills of

winds. When mid-day is silent around, O talk with me, Vinvela!

come on the light-winged gale! on the breeze of the desert, come!

Let me hear thy voice, as thou passest, when mid-day is silent

around!

Such was the song of Cronnan, on the night of Selma's joy.

But morning rose in the east; the blue waters rolled in light.

Fingal bade his sails to rise; the winds came rustling from their

hills. Inistore rose to sight, and Carric-thura's mossy towers! But

the sign of distress was on their top: the warning flame edged

with smoke. The king of Morven struck his breast: he assumed at

once his spear. His darkened brow bends forward to the coast: he

looks back to the lagging winds. His hair is disordered on his

back. The silence of the king is terrible!

Night came down on the sea: Rotha's bay received the ship.

A rock bends along the coast with all its echoing wood. On the

top is the circle of Loda, the mossy stone of power! A narrow plain

spreads beneath covered with grass and aged trees, which the

midnight winds, in their wrath, had torn from their shaggy rock.

The blue course of a stream is there! the lonely blast of ocean

pursues the thistle's beard. The flame of three oaks arose: the

feast is spread round; but the soul of the king is sad, for Carric-

thura's chief distrest.

The wan cold moon rose in the east. Sleep descended on

the youths! Their blue helmets glitter to the beam; the fading fire

decays. But sleep did not rest on the king: he rose in the midst of

his arms, and slowly ascended the hill, to behold the flame of

Sarno's tower.

The flame was dim and distant; the moon hid her red face

in the east. A blast came from the mountain, on its wings was the

spirit of Loda. He came to his place in his terrors, and shook his

dusky spear. His eyes appear like flames in his dark face; his

voice is like distant thunder. Fingal advanced his spear in night,

and raised his voice on high.

Son of night, retire; call thy winds, and fly! Why dost thou

come to my presence, with thy shadowy arms? Do I fear thy

gloomy form, spirit of dismal Loda! Weak is thy shield of clouds;

feeble is that meteor, thy sword! The blast rolls them together;

and thou thyself art lost. Fly from my presence, son of night; call

thy winds, and fly!

Dost thou force me from my place? replied the hollow voice.

The people bend before me. I turn the battle in the field of the

brave. I look on the nations, and they vanish: my nostrils pour

the blasts of death. I come abroad on the winds; the tempests are

before my face. But my dwelling is calm, above the clouds; the

fields of my rest are pleasant.

Dwell in thy pleasant fields, said the king: Let Comhal's

son be forgot. Do my steps ascend from my hills into thy peaceful

plains? Do I meet thee with a spear on thy cloud, spirit of dismal

Loda? Why then dost thou frown on me? Why shake thine airy

spear? Thou frownest in vain: I never fled from the mighty in war.

And shall the Sons of the wind frighten the king of Morven? No!

he knows the weakness of their arms!

Fly to thy land, replied the form: receive thy wind and fly?

The blasts are in the hollow of my hand the course of the storm is

mine. The king of Sora is my son, he bends at the stone of my

power. His battle is around Carric-thura; and he will prevail! Fly

to thy land, son of Comhal, or feel my flaming wrath.

He lifted high his shadowy spear! He bent forward his

dreadful height. Fingal, advancing, drew his sword; the blade of

dark-brown Luno. The gleaming path of the steel winds through

the gloomy ghost. The form fell shapeless into the air, like a

column of smoke, which the staff of the boy disturbs as it rises

from the half-extinguished furnace.

The spirit of Loda shrieked, as, rolled into himself, he rose

on the wind. Inistore shook at the sound. The waves heard it on

the deep. They stopped in their course with fear; the friends of

Fingal started at once, and took their heavy spears. They missed

the king: they rose in rage; all their arms resound!

The moon came forth in the east. Fingal returned in the

gleam of his arms. The joy of his youth was great, their souls

settled, as a sea from a storm. Ullin raised the song of gladness.

The hills of Inistore rejoiced. The flame of the oak arose; and the

tales of heroes are told.

But Frothal Sora's wrathful king sits in sadness beneath a tree.

The host spreads around Carric-thura. He looks towards the

walls with rage He longs for the blood of Cathulla, who once

overcame him in war. When Annir reigned in Sora, the father of

sea-borne Frothal, a storm arose on the sea, and carried Frothal

to Inistore. Three days he feasted in Sarno's halls, and saw the

slow-rolling eyes of Comala. He loved her in the flame of youth,

and rushed to seize the white-armed maid. Cathulla met the

chief. The gloomy battle arose. Frothal was bound in the hall:

three days he pined alone. On the forth, Sarno sent him to his

ship, and he returned to his land. But wrath darkened in his soul

against the noble Cathulla. When Annir's stone of fame arose,

Frothal came in his strength. The battle burned round Carric-

thura and Sarno's mossy walls.

Morning rose on Inistore. Frothal struck his dark brown

shield. His chiefs started at the sound; they stood, but their eyes

were turned to the sea. They saw Fingal coming in his strength;

and first the noble Thubar spoke, "Who comes, like the stag oft

he desert, with all his herd behind him? Frothal, it is a foe! I see

his forward spear. Perhaps it is the king of Morven, Fingal the

first of men. His deeds are well known in Lochlin! the blood of his

foes is in Sarno's halls. Shall I ask the peace of kings? His sword

is the bolt of heaven!"

Son of the feeble hand, said Frothal, shall my days begin in

a cloud? Shall I yield before I have conquered, chief of streamy

Tora? The people would say in Sora, Frothal flew forth like a

meteor; but a darkness has met him, and his fame is no more.

No, Thubar, I will never yield; my fame shall surround me like

light. No: I will never yield, chief of streamy Tora!

He went forth with the stream of his people, but they met a

rock; Fingal stood unmoved, broken they rolled back from his

side. Nor did they safely fly; the spear of the king pursued their

steps. The field is covered with heroes. A rising hill preserved the

foe.

Frothal saw their flight. The rage of his bosom rose. He

bent his eyes to the ground, and called the noble Thubar.

Thubar! my people are fled. My fame has ceased to rise. I will

fight the king; I feel my burning soul! Send a bard to demand the

combat. Speak not against Frothal's words! But, Thubar! I love a

maid; she dwells by Thano's stream, the white-bosomed daughter

of Herman, Utha, with soft-rolling eyes. She feared the low-laid

Comala; her secret sighs rose when I spread the sail. Tell to Utha

of harps that my soul delighted in her.

Such were his words, resolved to fight. The soft sigh of

Utha was near! She had followed her hero in the armor of a man.

She rolled her eye on the youth, in secret, from beneath her steel.

She saw the bard as he went; the spear fell thrice from her hand!

Her loose hair flew on the wind. Her white breast rose with sighs.

She raised her eyes to the king. She would speak, but thrice she

failed.

Fingal heard the words of the bard; he came in the strength

of his steel. They mixed their deathful spears: they raised the

gleam of their arms. But the sword of Fingal descended and cut

Frothal's shield in twain. His fair side is exposed; half-bent, he

foresees his death. Darkness gathered on Utha's soul. The fear

rolled down her cheek. She rushed to cover the chief with her

shield: but a fallen oak met her steps. She fell on her arm of

snow; her shield, her helmet flew wide. Her white bosom heaved

to the sigh; her dark-brown hair is spread on earth.

Fingal pitied the white-armed maid! he stayed the uplifted

sword. The tear was in the eye of the king, as, bending forward,

he spoke, "King of streamy Sora! fear not the sword of Fingal. it

was never stained with the blood of the vanquished it never

pierced a fallen foe. Let thy people rejoice by their native Streams.

Let the maid of thy love be glad. Why shouldst thou fall in thy

youth, king of streamy Sora?" Frothal heard the words of Fingal,

and saw the rising maid: they <2> stood in silence, in their

beauty, like two young trees of the plain, when the shower of

spring is on their leaves, and the loud winds are laid.

Daughter of Herman, said Frothal, didst thou come from

streams? didst thou come in thy beauty to behold thy warrior

low? But he was low before the mighty, maid of the slow-rolling

eye! The feeble did not overcome the son of car-borne Annir!

Terrible art thou, O king of Morven! in battles of the spear. But,

in peace, thou art like the sun when he looks through a silent

shower: the flowers lift their fair heads before him; the gales

shake their rustling wings. O that thou wert in Sora! that my

feast were spread! The future kings of Sora would see thy arms

and rejoice. They would rejoice at the fame of their fathers, who

beheld the mighty Fingal!

Son of Annir, replied the king, the fame of Sora's race shall

be heard! When. chiefs are strong in war, then does the song

arise! But if their swords are stretched over the feeble; if the

blood of the weak has stained their arms; the bard shall forget

them in the song, and their tombs shall not be known. The

stranger shall come and build there, and remove the heaped-up

earth. An half-worn sword shall rise before him; bending above it,

he will say, "These are the arms of the chiefs of old, but their

names are not in song." Come thou, O Frothal! to the feast of

Inistore: let the maid of thy love be there; let our faces brighten

with joy!

Fingal took his spear, moving in the steps of his might. The

gates of Carric-thura are opened wide. The feast of shells is

spread. The soft sound of music arose. Gladness brightened in

the hall. The voice of Ullin was heard; the harp of Selma was

strung. Utha rejoiced in his presence, and demanded the song of

grief; the big tear hung in her eye when the soft Crimora spoke.

Crimora, the daughter of Rinval, who dwelt at Lotha's roaring

stream! The tale was long, but lovely; and pleased the blushing

Utha.

Crimora. Who cometh from the hill, like a cloud tinged with

the beam of the west? Whose voice is that, loud as the wind, but

pleasant as the harp of Carril? It is my love in the light of steel;

but sad is his darkened brow! Live the mighty race of Fingal? or

what darkens Connal's soul?

Connal. They live. They return from the chase like a stream

of light. The sun is on their shields. Like a ridge of fire they

descend the hill. Loud is the voice of the youth! the war, my love,

is near! To-morrow the dreadful Dargo comes to try the force of

our race . The race of Fingal he defies; the race of battles and

wounds!

Crimora. Connal, I saw his sails like gray mist on the dark-

brown wave. They slowly came to land. Connal, many are the

warriors of Dargo.

Connal. Bring me thy father's shield, the bossy iron shield

of Rinval! that shield like the full-orbed moon, when she moves

darkened through heaven.

Crimora. That shield I bring, O Connal! but it did not

defend my father. By the spear of Gormar he fell. Thou mayst fall,

O Connal!

Connal. Fall I may! but raise my tomb, Crimora! Gray

stones, a mound of earth, shall send my name to other times.

Bend thy red eye over my grave, beat thy mournful heaving

breast. Though fair thou art, my love, as the light; more pleasant

than the gale of the hill; yet I will not hear remain. Raise my

tomb, Crimora!

Crimora. Then give me those arms that gleam; that sword

and that spear of steel. I shall meet Dargo with Connal, and aid

him in the fight. Farewell, ye rocks of Ardven! ye deer! and ye

streams of the hill! We shall return no more! Our tombs are

distant far!

"And did they return no more?" said Utha's bursting sigh."

Fell the mighty in battle, and did Crimora live? Her steps were

lonely; her soul was sad for Connal. Was he not young and lovely;

like the beam of the setting sun? Ullin saw the virgin's tear, he

took the softly trembling harp; the song was lovely, but sad, and

silence was in Carric-thura.

Autumn is dark on the mountains; gray mist rests on the

hills. The whirlwind is heard on the heath. Dark rolls the river

through the narrow plain. A tree ands alone on the hill, and

marks the slumbering Connal. The leaves whirl round with the

wind, and strew the grave of the dead. At times are seen here the

ghosts of the departed, when the musing hunter alone stalks

slowly over the heath.

Who can reach the source of thy race, O Connal, who

recount thy fathers? Thy family grew like an oak on the

mountain, which meeteth the wind with its lofty head. But now it

is torn from the earth. Who shall supply the place of Connal?

Here was the din of arms; here the groans of the dying. Bloody

are the wars of Fingal, O Connal! it was here thou didst fall.

Thine arm was like a storm; thy sword a beam of the sky; thy

height a rock on the plain; thine eyes a furnace of fire. Louder

than a storm was thy voice, in the battles of thy steel. Warriors

fell by thy sword, as the thistles by the staff of a boy. Dargo the

mighty came on, darkened in his rage. His brows were gathered

into wrath. His eyes like two caves in a rock. Bright rose their

swords on each side; loud was the clang of their steel.

The daughter of Rinval was near; Crimora bright in the

armor of man; her yellow hair is loose behind, her bow is in her

hand. She followed the youth to the war, Connal her much-

beloved. She drew the string on Dargo; but, erring, she pierced

her Connal. He falls like an oak on the plain; like a rock from the

shaggy hill. What shall she do. hapless maid? He bleeds; her

Connal dies! All the night long she cries, and all the day, "O

Connal, my love, and my friend!" With grief the sad mourner

dies! Earth here encloses the loveliest pair on the hill. The grass

grows between the stones of the tomb: I often sit in the mournful

shade. The wind sighs through the grass; their memory rushes

on my mind. Undisturbed you now sleep together; in the tomb of

the mountain you rest alone!

And soft be their rest, said Utha, hapless children of

dreamy Lotha! I will remember them with tears, and my secret

song shall rise; when the wind is in the groves of Tora, when the

stream is roaring near. Then shall they come on my soul, with all

their lovely grief!

Three days feasted the kings: on the fourth their white sails

arose. The winds of the north drove Fingal to Morven's woody

land. But the spirit of Loda sat in his cloud behind the ships of

Frothal. He hung forward with all his blasts, and spread the

white-bosomed sails. The wounds of his form were not forgotten!

he still feared the hand of the king!

<1> The narrow house: The grave.

<2> They: Frothal and Utha.

CARTHON.

ARGUMENT.

This poem is complete, and the subject of it, as of most of

Ossian's compositions, tragical. In the time of Comhal, the son of

Trathal, and father of the celebrated Fingal, Cless mmor, the son

of Thaddu, and brother of Morna, Fingal's mother, was driven by

a storm into the river Clyde, on the banks of which stood

Balclutha, a town belonging to the Britons, between the walls. He

was hospitably received by Reuth mir, the principal man in the

place, who gave him Moina, his only daughter, in marriage.

Reudo, the son of Cormo, a Briton, who was in love with Moina,

came to Reuth mir's house, and behaved haughtily towards

Cless mmor. A quarrel ensued, in which Reudo was killed; the

Britons who attended him, pressed so hard on Cless mmor, that

he was obliged to throw himself into the Clyde and swim to his

ship. He hoisted sail, and the wind being favorable, bore him out

to sea. He often endeavored to return, and carry off his beloved

Moina by night; but the wind continuing contrary, he was forced

to desist.

Moina, who had been left with child by her husband,

brought forth a son, and died soon after. Reuth mir named the

child Carthon, i. e., "the murmur of waves," from the storm which

carried off Cless mmor his father, who was supposed to have

been cast away. When Carthon was three years old, Comhal, the

father of Fingal, in one of his expeditions against the Britons,

took and burnt Balclutha. Reuth mir was killed in the attack;

and Carthon was carried safe away by his nurse, who fled farther

into the country of the Britons. Carthon, coming to man's estate,

was resolved to revenge the fall of Balclutha on Comhal's

posterity. He set sail from the Clyde, and falling on the coast of

Morven, defeated two of Fingal's heroes, who came to oppose his

progress. He was, at last, unwittingly killed by his father

Cless mmor, in a single combat. This story is the foundation of

the present poem, which opens on the night preceding the death

of Carthon, so that what passed before is introduced by way of

episode. The poem is addressed to Malvina, the daughter of

Toscar.

A TALE of the times of old! The deeds of days of other

years.

The murmur of thy streams, O Lora! brings back the

memory of the past. The sound of thy woods, Garmaller, is lovely

in mine ear. Dost thou not behold Malvina, a rock with its head

of heath! Three aged pines bend from its face; green is the narrow

plain at its feet; there the flower of the mountain grows, and

shakes its white head in the breeze. The thistle is there alone,

shedding its aged beard. Two stones, half sunk in the ground,

show their heads of moss. The deer of the mountain avoids the

place, for he beholds a dim ghost standing there. The mighty lie,

O Malvina! in the narrow plain of the rock.

A tale of the times of old! The deeds of days of other years!

Who comes from the land of strangers, with his thousands

around him? The sunbeam pours its bright stream before him;

his hair meets the wind of his hills. His face is settled from war.

He is calm as the evening beam that looks from the cloud of the

west, on Cona's silent vale. Who is it but Comhal's son, the king

of mighty deeds! He beholds the hills with joy, he bids a

thousand voices rise. "Ye have fled over your fields, ye sons of the

distant land! The king of the world sits in his hall, and hears of

his people's flight. He lifts his red eye of pride; he takes his

father's sword. Ye have fled over your fields, sons of the distant

land!

Such were the words of the bards, when they came to

Selma's halls. A thousand lights from the stranger's land rose in

the midst of his people. The feast is spread around; the night

passed away in joy. Where is the noble Cless mmor? said the

fair-haired Fingal. Where is the brother of Morna, in the hour of

my joy? Sullen and dark, he passes his days in the vale of

echoing Lora: but, behold, he comes from the hill, like a steed in

his strength, who finds his companions in the breeze, and tosses

his bright mane in the wind. Blest be the soul of Cless mmor,

why so long from Selma?

Returns the chief, said Cless mmor, in the midst of his

fame? Such was the renown of Comhal in the battles of his

youth. Often did we pass over Carun to the land of the strangers:

our swords returned, not unstained with blood: nor did the kings

of the world rejoice. Why do I remember the times of our war? My

hair is mixed with gray. My hand forgets to bend the bow: I lift a

lighter spear. O that my joy would return, as when I first beheld

the maid; the white bosomed daughter of strangers, Moina, with

the dark-blue eyes!

Tell, said the mighty Fingal, the tale of thy youthful days.

Sorrow, like a cloud on the sun, shades the soul of Cless mmor.

Mournful are thy thoughts, alone, on the banks of the roaring

Lora. Let us hear the sorrow of thy youth and the darkness of thy

days!

"It was in the days of peace," replied the great Cless mmor,

"I came in my bounding ship to Balclutha's walls of towers. The

winds had roared behind my sails, and Clutha's streams received

my dark-bosomed ship. Three days I remained in Reuth mir's

halls, and saw his daughter, that beam of light. The joy of the

shell went round, and the aged hero gave the fair. Her breasts

were like foam on the waves, and her eyes like stars of light; her

hair was dark as the raven's wing: her soul was generous and

mild. My love for Moina was great; my heart poured forth in joy.

"The son of a stranger came; a chief who loved the white-

bosomed Moina. His words were mighty in the hall; he often half-

unsheathed his sword. 'Where,' said he, 'is the mighty Comhal,

the restless wanderer of the heath? Comes he, with his host, to

Balclutha, since Cless mmor is so bold?' My soul, I replied, O

warrior! burns in a light of its own. I stand without fear in the

midst of thousands, though the valiant are distant far. Stranger!

thy words are mighty, for Cless mmor is alone. But my sword

trembles by my side, and longs to glitter in my hand. Speak no

more of Comhal, son of the winding Clutha!

"The strength of his pride arose. We fought: he fell beneath

my sword. The banks of Clutha heard his fall; a thousand spears

glittered around. I fought: the strangers prevailed: I plunged into

the stream of Clutha. My white sails rose over the waves, and I

bounded on the dark-blue sea. Moina came to the shore, and

rolled the red eye of her tears; her loose hair flew on the wind;

and I heard her mournful, distant cries. Often did I turn my ship;

but the winds of the east prevailed. Nor Clutha ever since have I

seen, nor Moina of the dark-brown hair. She fell in Balclutha, for

I have seen her ghost. I knew her as she came through the dusky

night, along the murmur of Lora: she was like the new moon,

seen through the gathered mist; when the sky pours down its

flaky snow, and the world is silent and dark."

Raise, ye bards, said the mighty Fingal, the praise of

unhappy Moina. Call her ghost, with your songs, to our hills, that

she may rest with the fair of Morven, the sunbeams of other days,

the delight of heroes of old. I have seen the walls of Balclutha,

but they were desolate. The fire had resounded in the halls: and

the voice of the people is heard no more. The stream of Clutha

was removed from its place by the fall of the walls. The thistle

shook there its lonely head: the moss whistled to the wind. The

fox looked out from the windows, the rank grass of the wall

waved round its head. Desolate is the dwelling of Moina, silence

is in the house of her fathers. Raise the song of mourning, O

bards, over the land of strangers. They have but fallen before us:

for one day we must fall. Why dost thou build the hall, son of the

winged days? Thou lookest from thy towers to-day: yet a few

years, and the blast of the desert comes; it howls in thy empty

court, and whistles round thy half-worn shield. And let the blast

of the desert come! we shall be renowned in our day! The mark of

my arm shall be in battle; my name in the song of bards. Raise

the song, send round the shell: let joy be heard in my hall. When

thou, sun of heaven! shalt fail; if thou shalt fail, thou mighty

light! if thy brightness is for a season, like Fingal; our fame shall

survive thy beams.

Such was the song of Fingal in the day of his joy. His

thousand bards leaned forward from their seats, to hear the voice

of the king. It was like the music of harps on the gale of the

spring. Lovely were thy thoughts, O Fingal! why had not Ossian

the strength of thy soul? But thou standest alone, my father! who

can equal the king of Selma?

The night passed away in song; morning returned in joy.

The mountains showed their gray heads; the blue face of ocean

smiled. The white wave is seen tumbling round the distant rock;

a mist rose slowly from the lake. It came, in the figure of an aged

man, along the silent plain. Its large limbs did not move in steps,

for a ghost supported it in mid air. It came towards Selma's hall,

and dissolved in a shower of blood.

The king alone beheld the sight; he foresaw the death of the

people. He came in silence to his hall, and took his father's spear.

The mail rattled on his breast. The heroes rose around. They

looked in silence on each other, marking the eyes of Fingal. They

saw battle in his face; the death of armies on his spear. A

thousand shields at once are placed on their arms; they drew a

thousand swords. The hall of Selma brightened around. The

clang of arms ascends. The gray dogs howl in their place. No

word is among the mighty chiefs. Each marked the eyes of the

king and half-assumed his spear.

Sons of Morven, began the king, this is no time to fill the

shell; the battle darkens near us, death hovers over the land.

Some ghost, the friend of Fingal, has forewarned us of the foe.

The sons of the stranger come from the darkly rolling sea; for

from the water came the sign of Morven's gloomy danger. Let

each assume his heavy spear, each gird on his father's sword. Let

the dark helmet rise on every head; the mail pour its lightning

from every side. The battle gathers like a storm; soon shall ye

hear the roar of death.

The hero moved on before his host, like a cloud before a

ridge of green fire, when it pours on the sky of night, and

mariners foresee a storm. On Cona's rising heath they stood: the

white-bosomed maids beheld them above like a grove; they

foresaw the death of the youth, and looked towards the sea with

fear. The white wave deceived them for distant sails; the tear is

on their cheek! The sun rose on the sea, and we beheld a distant

fleet. Like the mist of ocean they came and poured their youth

upon the coast. The chief was among them, like the stag in the

midst of the herd. His shield is studded with gold; stately strode

the king of spears. He moved towards Selma; his thousands

moved behind.

Go, with a song of peace, said Fingal: go, Ullin, to the king

of swords. Tell him that we are mighty in war; that the ghosts of

our foes are many. But renowned are they who have feasted in

my halls; show the arms of my fathers in a foreign land; the Sons

of the strangers wonder, and bless the friends of Morven's race;

for our names have been heard afar: the kings of the world shook

in the midst of their host.

Ullin went with his song. Fingal rested on his spear: he saw

the mighty foe in his armor: he blest the stranger's son. "How

stately art thou, son of the sea!" said the king of woody Morven.

"Thy sword is a beam of fire by thy side; thy spear is a pine that

defies the storm. The varied face of the moon is not broader than

thy shield. Ruddy is thy face of youth! soft the ringlets of thy hair!

But this tree may fall, and his memory be forgot! The daughter of

the stranger will be sad, looking to the rolling sea: the children

will say, 'We see a ship; perhaps it is the king of Balclutha.' The

tear starts from their mother's eye: her thoughts are of him who

sleeps in Morven!"

Such were the words of the king when Ullin came to the

mighty Carthon: he threw down the spear before him, he raised

the song of peace. "Come to the feast of Fingal, Carthon, from the

rolling sea! partake of the feast of the king, or lift the spear of

war! The ghosts of our foes are many: but renowned are the

friends of Morven! Behold that field, O Carthon! many a green hill

rises there, with mossy stones and rustling grass; these are the

tombs of Fingal's foes, the Sons of the rolling sea!"

"Dost thou speak to the weak in arms!" said Carthon, "bard

of the woody Morven? Is my face pale for fear, son of the peaceful

song? Why then dost thou think to darken my soul with the tales

of those who fell? My arm has fought in battle, my renown is

known afar. Go to the feeble in arms, bid them yield to Fingal.

Have not I seen the fallen Balclutha? And shall I feast with

Comhal's son? Comhal, who threw his fire in the midst of my

father's hall? I was young, and knew not the cause why the

virgins wept. The columns of smoke pleased mine eye, when they

rose above my walls! I often looked back with gladness when my

friends flew along the hill. But when the years of my youth came

on, I beheld the moss of my fallen walls. My sigh arose with the

morning, and my tears descended with night. Shall I not fight, I

said to my soul, against the children of my foes? And I will fight,

O bard! I feel the strength of my soul!"

His people gathered around the hero, and drew at once

their shining swords. He stands in the midst, like a pillar of fire,

the tear half-starting from his eye, for he thought of the fallen

Balclutha. The crowded pride of his soul arose. Sidelong he

looked up to the hill, where our heroes shone in arms: the spear

trembled in his hand. Bending forward, he seemed to threaten

the king.

Shall I, said Fingal to his soul, meet at once the youth?

Shall I stop him in the midst of his course before his fame shall

arise! But the bard hereafter may say, when he sees the tomb of

Carthon, Fingal took his thousands to battle, before the noble

Carthon fell. No: bard of the times to come! thou shalt not lessen

Fingal's fame! my heroes will fight the youth, and Fingal behold

the war. If he overcomes, I rush, in my strength, like the roaring

stream of Cona. Who of my chiefs will meet the son of the rolling

sea? Many are his warriors on the coast, and strong is his ashen

spear!

Cathul rose in his strength, the son of the mighty Lormar:

three hundred youths attend the chief, the race of his native

streams. Feeble was his arm against Carthon: he fell, and his

heroes fled. Connal resumed the battle, but he broke his heavy

spear: he lay bound on the field: Carthon pursued his people.

Cless mmor, said the king of Morven, where is the spear of

thy strength. Wilt thou behold Connal bound: thy friend at the

stream of Lora? Rise, in the light of thy steel, companion of

valiant Comhal! let the youth of Balclutha feel the strength of

Morven's race. He rose in the strength of his steel, shaking his

grisly locks. He fitted the steel to his side; he rushed in the pride

of valor.

Carthon stood on a rock: he saw the hero rushing on. He

loved the dreadful joy of his face: his strength in the locks of age!

"Shall I lift that spear," he said, "that never strikes but once a

foe? Or shall I, with the words of peace, preserve the warrior's

life? Stately are his steps of age! lovely the remnant of his years!

Perhaps it is the husband of Moina, the father of car-borne

Carthon. Often have I heard that he dwelt at the echoing stream

of Lora."

Such were his words when Cless mmor came, and lifted

high his spear. The youth received it on his shield, and spoke the

words of peace. "Warrior of the aged locks! is there no youth to

lift the spear? Hast thou no son to raise the shield before his

father to meet the arm of youth? Is the spouse of thy love no

more? or weeps she over the tombs of thy sons? Art thou of the

kings of men? What will be the fame of my sword shouldst thou

fall?"

It will be great, thou son of pride! begun the tall

Cless mmor. I have been renowned in battle, but I - never told

my name to a foe. <1> Yield to me, son of the wave, then shalt

thou know that the mark of my sword is in many a field. " I never

yielded, king of spears!" replied the noble pride of Carthon: "I

have also fought in war, I behold my future fame. Despise me

not, thou chief of men! my arm, my spear is strong. Retire among

thy friends; let younger heroes fight." Why dost thou wound my

soul? replied Cless mmor, with a tear. Age does not tremble on

my hand. I still can lift the sword. Shall I fly in Fingal's sight, in

the sight of him I love? Son of the sea! I never fled: exalt thy

pointed spear.

They fought like two contending winds, that strive to roil

the wave. Calthon bade his spear to err: he still thought that the

foe was the spouse of Moina. He broke Cless mmor's beamy

spear in twain: he seized his shining sword. But as Carthon was

binding the chief, the chief drew the dagger of his fathers. He saw

the foe's uncovered side, and opened there a wound.

Fingal saw Cless mmor low: he moved in the sound of his

steel. The host stood silent in his presence: they turned their eyes

to the king. He came like the sullen noise of a storm before the

winds arise: the hunter hears it in the vale, and retires to the

cave of the rock. Carthon stood in his place, the blood is rushing

down his side: he saw the coming down of the king, his hopes of

fame arose, but pale was his cheek: his hair flew loose, his

helmet shook on high: the force of Carthon failed, but his sword

was strong.

Fingal beheld the hero's blood; he stopt the uplifted spear.

"Yield, king of swords!" said Comhal's son, "I behold thy blood;

thou hast been mighty in battle, and thy fame shall never fade."

Art thou the king so far renowned? replied the car-borne

Carthon: art thou that light of death, that frightens the kings of

the world? But why should Carthon ask? for he is like the stream

of his hills, strong as a river in his course, swift as the eagle of

heaven. O that I had fought with the king, that my fame might be

great in song! that the hunter, beholding my tomb, might say, he

fought with the mighty Fingal. But Carthon dies unknown: he

has poured out his force on the weak.

" But thou shalt not die unknown, replied the king of

woody Morven: my bards are many, O Carthon! their songs

descend to future times. The children of years to come shall hear

the fame of Carthon, when they sit round the burning oak, and

the night is spent in songs of old. The hunter, sitting in the

heath, shall hear the rustling blast, and raising his eyes, behold

the rock where Carthon fell. He shall turn to his son, and show

the place where the mighty fought: There the king of Balclutha

fought, like the strength of a thousand streams."

Joy rose in Carthon's face; he lifted his heavy eyes. He gave

his sword to Fingal, to lie within his hall, that the memory of

Balclutha's king might remain in Morven. The battle ceased along

the field, the bard had sung the song of peace. The chiefs

gathered round the falling Carthon; they heard his words with

sighs. Silent they leaned on their spears, while Balclutha's hero

spoke. His hair sighed in the wind, and his voice was sad and

low.

"King of Morven," Carthon said, "I fall in the midst of my

course. A foreign tomb receives, in youth, the last of Reuth mir's

race. Darkness dwells in Balclutha; the shadows of grief in

Crathmo. But raise my remembrance on the banks of Lora, where

my fathers dwelt. Perhaps the husband of Moina will mourn over

his fallen Carthon." His words reached the heart of Cless mmor:

he fell in silence on his son. The host stood darkened around: no

voice is on the plain. Night came: the moon, from the east, looked

on the mournful field; but still they stood, like a silent grove that

lifts its head on Gormal, when the loud winds are laid, and dark

autumn is on the plain.

Three days they mourned above Carthon; on the fourth his

father died. In the narrow plain of the rock they lie; a dim ghost

defends their tomb. There lovely Moina is often seen, when the

sunbeam darts on the rock, and all around is dark. There she is

seen, Malvina; but not like the daughters of the hill. Her robes

are from the stranger's land, and she is still alone!

Fingal was sad for Carthon; he commanded his bards to

mark the day when shadowy autumn returned; and often did

they mark the day, and sing the hero's praise. "Who comes so

dark from ocean's roar, like autumn's shadowy cloud? Death is

trembling in his hand! his eyes are flames of fire! Who roars along

dark Lora's heath? Who but Carthon, king of swords! The people

fall! see how he strides like the sullen ghost of Morven! But there

he lies, a goodly oak which sudden blasts overturned! When shalt

thou rise, Balclutha's joy? When, Carthon, shalt thou arise? Who

comes so dark from ocean's roar, like autumn's shadowy cloud?"

Such were the words of the bards in the day of their mourning;

Ossian often joined their voice, and added to their song. My soul

has been mournful for Carthon: he fell in the days of his youth;

and thou, O Cless mmor! where is thy dwelling in the wind? Has

the youth forgot his wound? Flies he on clouds with thee? I feel

the sun, O Malvina! leave me to my rest. Perhaps they may come

to my dreams: I think I hear a feeble voice! The beam of heaven

delights to shine on the grave of Carthon: I feel it warm around.

O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my

fathers! Whence are thy beams, O sun! thy everlasting light! Thou

comest forth in thy awful beauty; the stars hide themselves in the

sky; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave; but

thou thyself movest alone. Who can be a companion of thy

course? The oaks of the mountains fall; the mountains

themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks and grows again;

the moon herself is lost in heaven: but thou art forever the same,

rejoicing in the brightness of thy course. When the world is dark

with tempests, when thunder rolls and lightning flies, thou

lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, and laughest at the storm.

But to Ossian thou lookest in vain, for he beholds thy beams no

more: whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or

thou tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou art, perhaps,

like me, for a season; thy years will have an end. Thou shalt sleep

in thy clouds, careless of the voice of the morning. Exult then, O

sun, in the strength of thy youth! age is dark and unlovely; it is

like the glimmering light of the moon, when it shines through

broken clouds, and the mist is on the hills: the blast of the north

is on the plain, the traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey.

<1> To tell one's name to an enemy, was reckoned, in those days

of heroism, a manifest evasion of fighting him; for if it was once

known that friendship subsisted of old, between the ancestors of

the combatants. the battle immediately ceased, and the ancient

amity of their forefathers was renewed. "A man who tells his

name to his enemy," was of old an ignominious term for a

coward.

OINA-MORUL.

ARGUMENT.

After an address to Malvina, the daughter of Toscar, Ossian

proceeds to relate his own expedition to Fu„rfed, an island of

Scandinavia. Mal-orchol, king of Fu„rfed, being hard pressed in

war by Ton-thormod, chief of Sar-dronto (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 inconstant sun over Larmon's grassy hill so

pass the tales of old along my soul by night! When bards are

removed to their place, when harps are hung in Selma's hall,

then comes a voice to Ossian, and awakes his soul! It is the voice

of years that are gone! they roll before me with all their deeds! I

seize the tales as they pass, and pour them forth in song. Nor a

troubled stream is the song of the king, it is like the rising of

music from Lutha of the strings. Lutha of many strings, not silent

are thy streamy rocks, when the white hands of Malvina move

upon the harp! Light of the shadowy thoughts that fly across my

soul, daughter of Toscar of helmets, wilt thou not hear the song?

We call back, maid of Lutha, the years that have rolled away! It

was in the days of the king, while yet my locks were young, that I

marked Con-cathlin <1> on high, from ocean's nightly wave. My

course was towards the isle of Fu„rfed, woody dweller of seas!

Fingal had sent me to the aid Mal-orchol, king of Fu„rfed wild:

for war was around him, and our fathers had met at the feast.

In Col-coiled I bound my sails. I 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

Fu„rfed; my people are rolled away. Why comes the race of

heroes to a falling king?"

I come not, I said, to look, like a boy, on the strife. Fingal

remembers Mal-orchol, and his hall for strangers. From his

waves the warrior descended on thy woody isle: thou wert no

cloud before him. Thy feast was spread with songs. For this my

sword shall rise, and thy foes perhaps may fail. Our friends are

not forgot in their danger, though distant is our land.

"Descendant of the daring Trenmor, thy words are like the

voice of Cruth-Loda, when he speaks from his parting cloud,

strong dweller of the sky! Many have rejoiced at my feast; but

they all have forgot Mal-orchol. I have looked towards all the

winds, but no white sails were seen! but steel resounds in my

hall, and not the joyful shells. Come to my dwelling, race of

heroes! dark-skirted night is near. Hear the voice of songs from

the maid of Fu„rfed wild."

We went. On the harp arose the white hands of Oina-

morul. She waked her own sad tale from every trembling string. I

stood in silence; for bright in her locks was the daughter of many

isles! Her eyes were two stars, looking forward through a rushing

shower. The mariner marks them on high, and blesses the lovely

beams. With morning we rushed to battle, to Tormul's

resounding stream: the foe moved to the sound of Ton-thormod's

bossy shield. From wing to wing the strife was mixed. I met Ton-

thormod in fight. Wide flew his broken steel. I seized the king in

war. I gave his hand, fast bound with thongs, to Mal-orchol, the

giver of shells. Joy rose at the feast of Fu„rfed, for the foe had

failed. Ton-thormod turned his face away from Oina-morul of

isles.

Son of Fingal, began Mal-orchol, not forgot shalt thou pass

from me. A light shall dwell in thy ship, Oina-morul of slow-

rolling eyes. She shall kindle gladness along thy mighty soul. Nor

unheeded shall the maid move in Selma through the dwelling of

kings.

In the hall I lay in night. Mine eyes were half closed in

sleep. Soft music came to mine ear. It was like the rising breeze,

that whirls at first the thistle's beard, then flies dark-shadowy

over the grass. It was the maid of Fu„rfed wild! she raised the

nightly song; she knew that my soul was a stream that flowed at

pleasant sounds. "Who looks," she said, "from his rock on ocean's

closing mist? His long locks like the raven's wing, are wandering

on the blast. -- Stately are his steps in grief! The tears are in his

eyes! His manly breast is heaving over his bursting soul! Retire, I

am distant afar, a wanderer in lands unknown. Though the race

of kings are around me, yet my soul is dark. Why have our

fathers been foes, Ton-thormod, love of maids!"

"Soft voice of the streamy isle," I said, "why dost thou

mourn by night? The race of daring Trenmor are not the dark in

soul. Thou shalt not wander by streams unknown, blue-eyed

Oina-morul! within this bosom 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 Fu„rfed wild, why should Ton-thormod mourn? He

is of the race of heroes, and a flame in war. Your fathers have

been foes, but now their dim ghosts rejoice in death. They stretch

their hands of mist to the same shell in Loda. Forget their rage,

ye warriors! It was the cloud of other years."

Such were the deeds of Ossian, while yet his locks were

young; though loveliness, with a robe of beams, clothed the

daughter of many isles. We call back, of Lutha, the years that

have rolled away!

<1> Con-cathlin, "mild beam of the wave." What star was so

called of old is not easily ascertained. Some now distinguish the

pole-star by that name.

COLNA-DONA.

ARGUMENT.

Fingal despatches Ossian and Toscar, the son of Conloch, and

father of Malvina, to raise a stone on the banks of the stream of

Crona, to perpetuate the memory of a victory which he had

obtained in that place. When they were employed in that work,

Car-ul, a neighboring 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 enamored of Toscar. An

incident at a hunting party brings their loves to a happy issue.

COL-AMON <1> of troubled streams, dark wanderer of

distant vales, I behold thy course, between trees near Car-ul's

echoing halls! There dwelt bright Colna-dona, the daughter of the

king. Her eyes were rolling stars; her arms were white as the

foam of streams. Her breast rose slowly to sight, like ocean's

heaving wave. Her soul was a stream of light. Who, among the

maids was like the love of heroes?

Beneath the voice of the king we moved to Crona <2> of the

streams, Toscar of grassy Lutha, and Ossian young in fields.

Three bards attended with songs. Three bossy shields were borne

before us; for we were to rear the stone in memory of the past. By

Crona's mossy course Fingal had scattered his foes; he had rolled

away the strangers like a troubled sea. We came to the place of

renown; from the mountains descended night. I tore an oak from

its hill, and raised a flame on high. I bade my fathers to look

down from the clouds of their hall; for, at the fame of their race

they brighten in the wind.

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 shield of foes, as rose

or fell the sound of Ullin's nightly song. Toscar laid a dagger in

earth, a mail of sounding steel. We raised the mould around the

stone, and bade it speak to other years.

Oozy daughter of streams, that now art reared on high,

speak to the feeble, O stone! after Selma's race have failed! Prone

from the stormy night, the traveller shall lay him by thy side: thy

whistling moss shall sound in his dreams; the years that were

past shall return. Battles rise before him, blue-shielded kings

descend to war: the darkened moon looks from heaven on the

troubled field. He shall burst with morning from dreams, and see

the tombs of warriors round. He shall ask about the stone, and

the aged shall reply, "This gray stone was raised by Ossian, a

chief of other years!"

From Col-amon came a bard, from Car-ul, the friend of

strangers. He bade us to the feast of kings, to the dwelling of

bright Colna-dona. We went to the hall of harps. There Car-ul

brightened between his aged locks, when he beheld the sons of

his friends, like two young branches before him.

"Sons of the mighty," he said, "ye bring back the days of

old, when first I descended from waves, on Selma's streamy vale!

I pursued Duthmocarglos, dweller of ocean's wind. Our fathers

had been foes; we met by Clutha's winding waters. He fled along

the sea, and my sails were spread behind him. Night deceived me

on the deep. I came to the dwelling of kings, to Selma of high-

bosomed maids. Fingal came forth with his bards, and Conloch,

arm of heath. I feasted three days in the hall, and saw the blue

eye. Erin, Roscrana, daughter of heroes, light of Cormac's race.

Nor forgot did my steps depart: the kings gave their shields to

Car-ul: they hang on high in Col-amon, in memory of the past.

Sons of the daring kings, ye bring back the days of old!

Car-ul kindled 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. <3>

* * * * * * *

With morning we awaked the woods and hung forward on

the path of the roes. They fell by their wonted streams. We

returned through Crona's vale. From the wood a youth came

forward, with a shield and pointless spear. -- "Whence," said

Toscar of Lutha, "is the flying beam? Dwells there peace at Col-

amon, round bright Colna-dona of harps?"

"By Col-amon of streams," said the youth, "bright Colna-

dona dwelt. She dwelt; but her course is now in deserts with the

son of the king; he that seized with love her soul as it wandered

through the hall." "Stranger of tales," said Toscar, "hast thou

marked the warrior's course? He must fall; give thou that bossy

shield." In wrath he took the shield. Fair behind it rose the

breasts of a maid, white as the bosom of a swan, rising graceful

on swift-rolling waves, It was Colna-dona of harps, the daughter

of the king! Her blue eyes had rolled on Toscar, and her love

arose!

<1> Colna-dona signifies "the love of heroes." Col-amon, "narrow

river." Car-ul, "dark-eyed."

<2> Crona, "murmuring," was the name of a small stream which

discharged itself in the river Carron.

<3> Here an episode is entirely lost; or, at least, is handed down

so imperfectly, that it does not deserve a place in the poem.

OITHONA.

ARGUMENT.

Gaul, the son of Morni, attended Lathmon into his own country,

after his being defeated in Morven, as related in a preceding

poem. He was kindly entertained by Nu„th, the father of

Lathmon, and fell in love with his daughter Oithona. The lady

was no less enamored of Gaul, and a day was fixed for their

marriage. In the mean time Fingal, preparing for an expedition

into the country of the Britons, sent for Gaul. He obeyed, and

went; but not without promising to Oithona to return, it he

survived the war, by a certain day. Lathmon too was obliged to

attend his father Nu„th in his wars, and Oithona was left alone

at Dunlathmon, the seat of the family. Dunrommath, Lord of

Uthal, supposed to be one of the Orkneys, taking advantage of

the absence of her friends, came and carried off, by force,

Oithona, who had formerly rejected his love, into Trom thon, a

desert island, where he concealed her in a cave.

Gaul returned on the day appointed; heard of the rape, and

sailed to Trom thon, to revenge himself on Dunrommath. When

he landed, he found Oithona disconsolate, and resolved not to

survive the loss of her honor. She told him the story of her

misfortunes, and she scarce ended when Dunrommath with his

followers appeared at the farther end of the island. Gaul prepared

to attack him, recommending to Uithona to retire till the battle

was over. She seemingly obeyed; but she secretly armed herself

rushed into the thickest of the battle, and was mortally wounded.

Gaul, pursuing the flying enemy, found her just expiring on the

field; he mourned over her, raised her tomb, and returned to

Morven. Thus is the story handed down by tradition; nor is it

given with any material difference in the poem, which opens with

Gaul's return to Dunlathmon, after the rape of Oithona.

DARKNESS dwells around Dunlathmon, though the moon shows

half her face on the hill. The daughter of night turns her eyes

away; she beholds the approaching grief. The son of Morni is on

the plain: there is no sound in the hall. No long streaming beam

of light comes trembling through the gloom. The voice of Oithona

is not heard amidst the noise of the streams of Dunranna.

"Whither art thou gone in thy beauty, dark-haired daughter of

Nu„th? Lathmon is in the field of the valiant, but thou didst

promise to remain in the hall till the son of Morni returned. Till

he returned from Strumon, to the maid of his love! The tear was

on thy cheek at his departure; the sigh rose in secret in thy

breast. But thou dost not come forth with songs, with the lightly

trembling sound of the harp!"

Such were the words of Gaul, when he came to

Dunlathmon's towers. The gates were open and dark. The winds

were blustering in the hall. The trees strewed the threshold with

leaves; the murmur of night was abroad. Sad and silent, at a

rock, the son of Morni sat: his soul trembled for the maid; but he

knew not whither to turn his course! The son of Leth stood at a

distance, and heard the winds in his bushy hair. But he did not

raise his voice, for he saw the sorrow of Gaul!

Sleep descended on the chiefs. The visions of night arose.

Oithona stood, in a dream, before the eyes of Morni's son. Her

hair was loose and disordered; her lovely eye rolled deep in tears.

Blood stained her snowy arm. The robe half hid the wound of her

breast. She stood over the chief, and her voice was feebly heard. "

Sleeps the son of Morni, he that was lovely in the eyes of

Oithona? Sleeps Gaul at the distant rock, and the daughter of

Nu„th low? The sea rolls round the dark isle of Trom thon. I sit

in my tears in the cave! Nor do I sit alone, O Gaul! the dark chief

of Cuthal is there. He is there in the rage of his love. What can

Oithona do?"

A rougher blast rushed through the oak. The dream of

night departed. Gaul took his aspen spear. He stood in the rage

of his soul. Often did hid turn to the east. He accused the lagging

light. At length the morning came forth. The hero lifted up the

sail. The winds came rustling from the hill; he bounded on the

waves of the deep. On the third day arose Trom thon, like a blue

shield in the midst of the sea. The white wave roared against its

rocks; sad Oithona sat on the coast! She looked on the rolling

waters, and her tears came down. But when she saw Gaul in his

arms, she started, and turned her eyes away. Her lovely cheek is

bent and red; her white arm trembles by her side. Thrice she

strove to fly from his presence; thrice her steps failed as she

went!

"Daughter of Nu„th," said the hero, " why dost thou fly

from Gaul? Do my eyes send forth the flame of death? Darkens

hatred in my soul? Thou art to me the beam of the east, rising in

a land unknown. But thou coverest thy face with sadness,

daughter of car-borne Nu„th! Is the foe of Oithona near! My soul

burns to meet him in fight. The sword trembles by the side of

Gaul, and longs to glitter in his hand. Speak, daughter of Nu„th!

Dost thou not behold my tears?"

" Young chief of Strumon," replied the maid, " why comest

thou over the dark-blue wave, to Nu„th's mournful daughter!

Why did I not pass away in secret, like the flower of the rock, that

lifts its fair head unseen, and strews its withered leaves on the

blast! Why didst thou come, O Gaul! to hear my departing sigh! I

vanish in my youth; my name shall not be heard. Or it will be

heard with grief; the tears of Nu„th must fall. Thou wilt be sad,

son of Morni! for the departed fame of Oithona. But she shall

sleep in the narrow tomb, far from the voice of the mourner. Why

didst thou come, chief of Strumon! to the sea-beat rocks of

Trom thon!"

"I came to meet thy foes, daughter of car-borne Nu„th! The

death of Cuthal's chief darkens before me; or Morni's son shall

fall! Oithona! when Gaul is low, raise my tomb on that oozy rock.

When the dark, bounding ship shall pass, call the sons of the

sea; call them, and give this sword, to bear it hence to Morni's

hall. The gray-haired chief will then cease to look towards the

desert for the return of his son!"

"Shall the daughter of Nu„th live?" she replied, with a

bursting sig. "Shall I live in Trom thon, and the son of Morni

low? My heart is not of that rock; nor my soul careless as that

sea, which lifts its blue waves to every wind, and rolls beneath

the storm! The blast which shall lay thee low, shall spread the

branches of Oithona on earth. We shall wither together, son of

car-borne Morni! The narrow house is pleasant to me, and the

gray stone of the dead: for never more will I leave thy rocks, O

sea-surrounded Trom thon! Night came on with her clouds after

the departure of Lathmon, when he went to the wars of his

fathers, to the moss-covered rock of Duth¢rmoth. Night came on.

I sat in the hall, at the beam of the oak! The wind was abroad in

the trees. I heard the sound of arms. Joy rose in my face. I

thought of thy return. It was the chief of Cuthal, the red-haired

strength of Dunrommath. His eyes rolled in fire: the blood of my

people was on his sword. They who defended Oithona fell by the

gloomy chief! What could I do? My arm was weak. I could not lift

the spear. He took me in my grief; amidst my tears he raised the

sail. He feared the returning Lathmon, the brother of unhappy

Oithona! But behold, he comes with his people! the dark wave is

divided before him! Whither wilt thou turn thy steps, son of

Morni? Many are the warriors of thy foe!"

"My steps never turned from battle," Gaul said, and

unsheathed his sword: " shall I then begin to fear, Oithona! when

thy foes are near? Go to thy cave, my love, till our battle tease on

the field. Son of Leth bring the bows of our fathers! the sounding

quiver of Morni! Let our three warriors bend the yew. Ourselves

will lift the spear. They are a host on the rock! our souls are

strong in war!

Oithona went to the cave. A troubled joy rose on her mind,

like the red path of lightning on a stormy cloud! Her soul was

resolved: the tear was dried from her wildly-looking eye.

Dunrommath slowly approached. He saw the son of Morni.

Contempt contracted his face, a smile is on his dark-brown

cheek; his red eye rolled half concealed, beneath his shaggy

brows!

"Whence are the sons of the sea?" began the gloomy chief.

Have the winds driven you on the rocks of Trom thon? or come

you in search of the white-handed maid? the sons of the

unhappy, ye feeble men, come to the hand of Dunrommath! His

eye spares not the weak; he delights in the blood of strangers.

Oithona is a beam of light, and the chief of Cuthal enjoys it in

secret; wouldst thou come on its loveliness like a cloud, son of

the feeble hand? Thou mayest come, but shalt thou return to the

halls of thy fathers?"

" Dost thou not know me," said Gaul, "red-haired chief of

Cuthal? Thy feet were swift on the heath, in the battle of car-

borne Lathmon; when the sword of Morni's son pursued his host,

in Morven's woody land. Dunrommath! thy words are mighty, for

thy warriors gather behind thee. But do I fear them, son of pride?

I am not of the race of the feeble!"

Gaul advanced in his arms; Dunrommath shrunk behind

his people. But the spear of Gaul pierced the gloomy chief: his

sword lopped off his head, as it bended in death. The son of

Morni shook it thrice by the lock; the warriors of Dunrommath

fled. The arrows of Morven pursued them: ten fell on the mossy

rocks. The rest lift the sounding sail, and bound on the troubled

deep. Gaul advanced towards the cave of Oithona. He beheld a

youth leaning on a rock. An arrow had pierced his side; his eye

rolled faintly beneath his helmet. The soul of Morni's son was

sad; he came, and spoke the words of peace.

" Can the hand of Gaul heal thee, youth of the mournful

brow? I have searched for the herbs of the mountains; I have

gathered them on the secret banks of their streams. My hand has

closed the wound of the brave, their eyes have blessed the son of

Morni. Where dwelt thy fathers, warrior? Were they of the sons of

the mighty! Sadness shall come, like night, on thy native

streams. Thou art fallen in thy youth!"

" My fathers," replied the stranger, " were of the race of the

mighty; but they shall not be sad; for my fame is departed like

morning mist. High walls rise on the banks of Duvranna; and see

their mossy towers in the stream; a rock ascends behind them

with its bending pines. Thou mayest behold it far distant. There

my brother dwells. He is renowned in battle: give him this

glittering helmet."

The helmet fell from the hand of Gaul. It was the wounded

Oithona! She had armed herself in the cave, and came in search

of death. Her heavy eyes are half closed; the blood pours from her

heaving side. "Son of Morni!" she said, "prepare the narrow tomb.

Sleep grows, like darkness, on my soul. The eyes of Oithona are

dim! O had I dwelt at Duvranna, in the bright beam of my fame!

then had my years come on with joy; the virgins would then bless

my steps. But I fall in youth, son of Morni! my father shall blush

in his hall!"

She fell pale on the rock of Trom thon. The mournful

warrior raised her tomb. He came to Morven; we saw the

darkness of his soul. Ossian took the harp in the praise of

Oithona. The brightness of the face of Gaul returned. But his sigh

rose, at times, in the midst of his friends; like blasts that shake

their unfrequent wings, after the stormy winds are laid!

CROMA.

ARGUMENT.

Malvina, the daughter of Toscar, is overheard by Ossian

lamenting the death of Oscar her lover. Ossian, to divert her grief,

relates his own actions in expedition which he undertook, at

Fingal's command, to aid Crothar the petty king of Croma, a

country in Ireland, against Rothmar, who invaded his dominions.

The story is delivered down thus in tradition. Crothar, king of

Croma, being blind with age, and his son too young for the field,

Rothmar, the chief of Tromo resolved to avail himself of the

opportunity offered of annexing the dominions of Crothar to his

own. He accordingly marched into the country subject to Crothar,

but which he held of Arth or Artho, who was, at the time,

supreme king of Ireland.

Crothar being, on account of his age and blindness unfit

for action, sent for aid to Fingal, king of Scotland; who ordered

his son Ossian to the relief of Crothar. But before his arrival

Fovargormo, the son of Crothar, attacking Rothmar, was slain

himself, and his forces totally defeated. Ossian renewed the war;

came to battle, killed Rothmar, and routed his army. Croma

being thus delivered of its enemies, Ossian returned to Scotland.

"It was the voice of my love! seldom art thou in the dreams

of Malvina! Open your airy halls, O father of Toscar of shields!

Unfold the gates of your clouds: the steps of Malvina are near. I

have heard a voice in my dream. I feel the fluttering of my soul.

Why didst thou come, O blast! from the dark-rolling face of the

lake? Thy rustling wing was in the tree; the dream of Malvina

fled. But she beheld her love when his robe of mist flew on the

wind. A sunbeam was on his skirts, they glittered like the gold of

the stranger. It was the voice of my love! seldom comes he to my

dreams!

"But thou dwellest in the soul of Malvina, son of mighty

Ossian! My sighs arise with the beam of the east; my tears

descend with the drops of night. I was a lovely tree, in thy

presence, Oscar, with all my branches round me; but thy death

came like a blast from the desert, and laid my green head low.

The spring returned with its showers; no leaf of mine arose! The

virgins saw me silent in the hall; they touched the harp of joy.

The tear was on the cheek of Malvina: the virgins beheld me in

my grief. Why art thou sad, they said, thou first of the maids of

Lutha! Was he lovely as the beam of the morning, and stately in

thy sight?"

Pleasant is thy song in Ossian's ear, daughter of streamy

Lutha! Thou hast heard the music of departed bards in the

dream of thy rest, when sleep fell on thine eyes, at the murmur of

Moruth. When thou didst return from the chase in the day of the

sun, thou hast heard the music of bards, and thy song is lovely!

It is lovely, O Malvina! but it melts the soul. There is a joy in

grief when peace dwells in the breast of the sad. But sorrow

wastes the mournful, O daughter of Toscar! and their days are

few! They fall away, like the flower on which the sun hath looked

in his strength, after the mildew has passed over it, when its

head is heavy with the drops of night. Attend to the tales of

Ossian, O maid! He remembers the days of his youth!

The king commanded; I raised my sails, and rushed into

the bay of Croma; into Croma's sounding bay in lovely

Inisfail.<1> High on the coast arose the towers of Crothar king of

spears; Crothar renowned in the battles of his youth; but age

dwelt then around the chief. Rothmar had raised the sword

against the hero; and the wrath of Fingal burned. He sent Ossian

to meet Rothmar in war, for the chief of Croma was the friend of

his youth. I sent the bard before me with songs. I came into the

hall of Crothar. There sat the chief amidst the arms of his

fathers, but his eyes had failed. His gray locks waved around a

staff which the warrior leaned. He hummed the song of other

times; when the sound of our arms reached his ears Crothar

rose, stretched his aged hand, and blessed the son of Fingal.

"Ossian!" said the hero, "the strength of Crothar's arm has

failed. O could I lift the sword, as on the day that Fingal fought at

Strutha! He was the first of men; but Crothar had also his fame.

The king of Morven praised me; he placed on my arm the bossy

shield of Calthar, whom the king had slain in his wars. Dost thou

not behold it on the wall? for Crothar's eyes have failed. Is thy

strength like thy father's, Ossian! let the aged feel thine arm!"

I gave my arm to the king; he felt it with his aged hands.

The sigh rose in his breast, and his tears came down. "Thou art

strong, my son," he said, "but not like the king of Morven! But

who is like the hero among the mighty in war? Let the feast of my

hall be spread; and let my bards exalt the song. Great is he that

is within my walls, ye sons of echoing Croma!" The feast is

spread. The harp is heard; and joy is in the hall. But it was joy

covering a sigh, that darkly dwelt in every breast. It was like the

faint beam of the moon spread on a cloud in heaven. At length

the music ceased, and the aged king of Croma spoke; he spoke

without a tear, but sorrow swelled in the midst of his voice.

" Son of Fingal! beholdest thou not the darkness of

Crothar's joy? My soul was not sad at the feast, when my people

lived before me. I rejoiced in the presence of strangers, when my

son shone in the hall. But, Ossian, he is a beam that is departed.

He left no streak of light behind. He is fallen, son of Fingal! in the

wars of his father. Rothmar the chief of grassy Tromlo heard that

these eyes had failed; he heard that my arms were fixed in the

hall, and the pride of his soul arose! He came towards Croma; my

people fell before him. I took my arms in my wrath, but what

could sightless Crothar do? My steps were unequal; my grief was

great. I wished for the days that were past. Days! wherein I

fought; and won in the field of blood. My son returned from the

chase: the fair haired Fovargormo. He had not lifted his sword in

battle, for his arm was young. But the soul of the youth was

great; the fire of valor burned in his eyes. He saw the disordered

steps of his father, and his sigh arose -- "King of Croma," he said,

"is it because thou hast no son; is it for the weakness of

Fovargormo's arm that thy sighs arise? I begin, my father, to feel

my strength; I have drawn the sword of my youth; and I have

bent the bow. Let me meet this Rothmar, with the sons of Croma:

let me meet him, O my father? I feel my burning soul!" -- "And

thou shalt meet him," I said, "son of the sightless Crothar! But let

others advance before thee that I may hear the tread of thy feet at

thy return; for my eyes behold thee not, fair haired Fovargormo!"

He went; he met the foe; he fell. Rothmar advances to Croma. He

who slew my son is near, with all his pointed spears."

This is no time to fill the shell, I replied, and took my spear!

My people saw the fire of my eyes; they all arose around. Through

night we strode along the heath. Gray morning rose in the east. A

green narrow vale appeared before us; nor wanting are its

winding streams. The dark host of Rothmar are on its banks with

all their glittering arms. We fought along the vale. They fled.

Rothmar sunk beneath my sword! Day had not descended in the

west, when I brought his arms to Crothar. The aged hero felt

them with his hands; and joy brightened over all his thoughts.

The people gather to the hall! The shells of the feast are

heard. Ten harps are strung; five bards advance, and sing, by

turns, the praise of Ossian; they poured forth their burning

souls, and the string answered to their voice. The joy of Croma

was great; for peace returned to the land. The night came on with

silence; the morning returned with joy. No foe came in darkness

with his glittering spear. The joy of Croma was great; for the

gloomy Rothmar had fallen!

I raised my voice for Fovargormo, when they laid the chief

in earth. The aged Crothar was there, but his sigh was not heard.

He searched for the wound of his son, and found it in his breast.

Joy rose in the face of the aged. He came and spoke to Ossian.

"King of spears!" he said, "my son has not fallen without his

fame. The young warrior did not fly; but met death as he went

forward in his strength. Happy are they who die in youth, when

their renown is heard! The feeble will not behold them in the hall;

or smile at their trembling hands. Their memory shall be honored

in song; the young tear of the virgin will fall. But the aged wither

away by degrees; the fame of their youth, while yet they live, is all

forgot. They fall in secret. The sigh of their son is not heard. Joy

is around their tomb; the stone of their fame is placed without a

tear. Happy are they who die in their youth, when their renown is

around them!"

<1> Inisfail: one of the ancient names of Ireland.

CALTHON AND COLMAL.

ARGUMENT.

This piece, as many more of Ossian's compositions, is addressed

to one of the first Christian missionaries. The story of the poem is

handed down by tradition thus:- In the country of the Britons,

between the walls, two chiefs lived in the days of Fingal,

Dunthalmo, Lord of Teutha, supposed to be the Tweed; and

Rathmor, who dwelt at Clutha, well known to be the river Clyde.

Rathmor was not more renowned for his generosity and

hospitality, than Dunthalmo was infamous for his cruelty and

ambition. Dunthalmo, through envy, or on account of some

private feuds, which subsisted between the families, murdered

Rathmor at a feast; but being afterward touched with remorse, he

educated the two sons of Rathmor, Calthon and Colmar, in his

own house. They growing up to man's estate, dropped some hints

that they intended to revenge the death of their father, upon

which Dunthalmo shut them up in two caves, on the banks of

Teutha, intending to take them off privately. Colmal, the

daughter of Dunthalmo, who was secretly in love with Calthon,

helped him to make his escape from prison, and hied with him to

Fingal, disguised in the habit of a young warrior, and implored

his aid against Dunthalmo. Fingal sent Ossian with three

hundred men to Colmar's relief. Dunthalmo, having previously

murdered Colmar, came to a battle with Ossian, but he was

killed by that hero, and his army totally defeated. Calthon

married Colmal his deliverer; and Ossian returned to Morven.

Pleasant is the voice of thy song, thou lonely dweller of the

rock! It comes on the sound of the stream, along the narrow vale.

My soul awakes, O stranger, in the midst of my hall. I stretch my

hand to the spear, as in the days of other years. I stretch my

hand, but it is feeble: and the sigh of my bosom grows. Wilt thou

not listen, son of the rock! to the song of Ossian? My soul is full

of other times; the joy of my youth returns. Thus the sun appears

in the west, after the steps of his brightness have moved behind a

storm: the green hills lift their dewy heads: the blue streams

rejoice in the vale. The aged hero comes forth on his stair; his

gray hair glitters in the beam. Dost thou not behold, son of the

rock! a shield in Ossian's hall? It is marked with the strokes of

battle; and the brightness of its bosses has failed. That shield the

great Dunthalmo bore, the chief of streamy Teutha. Dunthalmo

bore it in battle before he fell by Ossian's spear. Listen, son of the

rock! to the tale of other years.

Rathmor was a chief of Clutha. The feeble dwelt in his ball.

The gates of Rathmor were never shut: his feast was always

spread. The sons of the stranger came. They blessed the generous

chief of Clutha. Bards raised the song, and touched the harp: joy

brightened on the face of the sad! Dunthalmo came, in his pride,

and rushed into the combat of Rathmor. The chief of Clutha

overcame: the rage of Dunthalmo rose. He came, by night, with

his warriors; the mighty Rathmor fell. He fell in his halls, where

his feast was often spread for strangers.

Colmar and Calthon were young, the sons of car-borne

Rathmor. They came, in the joy of youth, into their father's hall.

They behold him in his blood; their bursting tears descend. The

soul of Dunthalmo melted, when he saw the children of youth. He

brought them to Alteutha's walls; they grew in the house of their

foe. They bent the bow in his presence: and came forth to his

wars. They saw the fallen walls of their fathers; they saw the

green thorn in the hall. Their tears rushed forth in secret. At

times their faces were sad. Dunthalmo beheld their grief; his

darkening soul designed their death. He closed them in two

caves, on the echoing banks of Teutha. The sun did not come

there with his beams; nor the moon of heaven by night. The sons

of Rathmor remained in darkness, and foresaw their death.

The daughter of Dunthalmo wept in silence, the fair-haired

blue-eyed Colmal. Her eye had rolled in secret on Calthon; his

loveliness swelled in her soul. She trembled for her warrior; but

what could Colmal do? Her arm could not lift the spear; nor was

the sword formed for her side. Her white breast never rose

beneath a mail. Neither was her eye the terror of heroes. What

canst thou do, O Colmal!! for the falling chief? Her steps are

unequal; her hair is loose; her eye looks wildly through her tears.

She came, by night, to the hall. She armed her lovely form in

steel; the steel of a young warrior, who fell in the first of his

battles. She came to the cave of Calthon, and loosed the thong

from his hands.

"Arise, son of Rathmor," she said, "arise, the night is dark!

Let us fly to the king of Selma, chief of fallen Clutha! I am the son

of Lamgal, who dwelt in thy father's hall. I heard of thy dark

dwelling in the cave, and my soul arose. Arise, son of Rathmor!

arise, the night is dark!" -- "Blest voice!" replied the chief, "comest

thou from the clouds to Calthon? The ghosts of his fathers have

often descended in his dreams, since the sun has retired from his

eyes, and darkness has dwelt around him. Or art thou the son of

Lamgal, the chief I often saw in Clutha? But shall I fly to Fingal,

and Colmar my brother low? Will I fly to Morven, and the hero

closed in night? No; give me that spear, son of Lamgal; Calthon

will defend his brother!"

"A thousand warriors," replied the maid, "stretch their

spears round car-borne Colmar. What can Calthon do against a

host so great? Let us fly to the king of Morven, he will come with

war. His arm is stretched forth to the unhappy; the lightning of

his sword is round the weak. Arise, thou son of Rathmor; the

shadows will fly away. Arise, or thy steps may be seen, and thou

must fall in youth."

The sighing hero rose; his tears descend for car-borne

Colmar. He came with the maid to Selma's hall: but he knew not

that it was Colmal. The helmet covered her lovely face. Her bosom

heaved beneath the steel. Fingal returned from the chase, and

found the lovely strangers. They were like two beams of light, in

the midst of the hall of shells. The king heard the tale of grief,

and turned his eyes around. A thousand heroes half rose before

him; claiming the war of Teutha. I came with my spear from the

hill; the joy of battle rose in my breast: for the king spoke to

Ossian in the midst of a thousand chiefs.

" Son of my strength," began the king, "take thou the spear

of Fingal. Go to Teutha's rushing stream, and save the car-borne

Colmar. Let thy fame return before thee like a pleasant gale; that

my soul may rejoice over my son, who renews the renown of

fathers. Ossian! be thou a storm in war; but mild when the foe is

low! it was thus my fame arose, O my son! be thou like Selma's

chief. When the haughty come to my halls, my eyes behold them

not. But my arm is stretched forth to the unhappy. My sword

defends the weak."

I rejoiced in the words of the king. I took my rattling arms.

Diaran rose at my side, and Dargo, king of spears. Three hundred

youths followed our steps; the lovely strangers were at my side.

Dunthalmo heard the sound of our approach. He gathered the

strength of Teutha. He stood on a hill with his host. They were

like rocks broken with thunder, when their bent trees are singed

and bare, and the streams of their chinks have failed. The stream

of Teutha rolled in its pride, before the gloomy foe. I sent a bard

to Dunthalmo, to offer the combat on the plain; but he smiled in

the darkness of his pride. His unsettled host moved on the hill;

like the mountain cloud, when the blast has entered its womb,

and scatters the curling gloom on every side.

They brought Colmar to Teutha's bank, bound with a

thousand thongs. The chief is sad, but stately. His eye is on his

friends; for we stood in our arms, whilst Teutha's waters rolled

between. Dunthalmo came with his spear, and pierced the hero's

side: he rolled on the bank in his blood. We heard his broken

sighs. Calthon rushed into the stream: I bounded forward on my

spear. Teutha's race fell before us. Night came rolling down.

Dunthalmo rested on a rock, amidst an aged wood. The rage of

his bosom burned against the car-borne Calthon. But Calthon

stood in grief; he mourned the fallen Colmar; Colmar slain in

youth before his fame arose!

I bade the song of wo to rise, to soothe the mournful chief;

but he stood beneath a tree, and often threw his spear on the

earth. The humid eye of Colmar rolled near in a secret tear: she

foresaw the fall of Dunthalmo, or of Clutha's warlike chief. Now

half the night had passed away. Silence and darkness were on

the field. Sleep rested on the eyes of the heroes: Calthon's settling

soul was still. His eyes were half closed; but the murmur of

Teutha had not yet failed in his ear. Pale, and showing his

wounds, the ghost of Colmar came: he bent his head over the

hero, and raised his feeble voice!

" Sleeps the son of Rathmor in his night, and his brother

low? Did we not rise to the chase together? Pursued we not the

dark-brown hinds? Colmar was not forgot till he fell, till death

had blasted his youth I lie pale beneath the rock of Lona. O let

Calthon rise! the morning comes with its beams; Dunthalmo will

dishonor the fallen." He passed away in his blast The rising

Calthon saw the steps of his departure. He rushed in the sound

of his steel. Unhappy Colmal rose. She followed her hero through

night, and dragged her spear behind. But when Calthon came to

Lona's rock, he found his fallen brother. The rage of his bosom

rose; he rushed among the foe. The groans of death ascend. They

close around the chief. He is bound in the midst, and brought to

gloomy Dunthalmo. The shout of joy arose; and the hills of night

replied.

I started at the sound; and took my father's spear. Diaran

rose at my side; and the youthful strength of Dargo. We missed

the chief of Clutha, and our souls were sad. I dreaded the

departure of my fame. The pride of my valor rose. "Sons of

Morven," I said, "it is not thus our fathers fought. They rested not

on the field of strangers, when the foe was not fallen before them.

Their strength was like the eagles of heaven; their renown is in

the song. But our people fall by degrees. Our fame begins to

depart. What shall the king of Morven say, if Ossian conquers not

at Teutha? Rise in your steel, ye warriors, follow the sound of

Ossian's course. He will not return, but renowned, to the echoing

walls of Selma."

Morning rose on the blue waters of Teutha. Colmal stood

before me in tears. She told of the chief of Clutha: thrice the

spear fell from her hand. My wrath turned against the stranger;

for my soul trembled for Calthon. '"Son of the feeble hand!" I said,

"do Teutha's warriors fight with tears? The battle is not won with

grief; nor dwells the sigh in the soul of war. Go to the deer of

Carmun, to the lowing herds of Teutha. But leave these arms,

thou son of fear! A warrior may lift them in fight."

I tore the mail from her shoulders. Her snowy breast

appeared. She bent her blushing face to the ground. I looked in

silence to the chiefs. The spear fell from my hand; the sigh of my

bosom rose! But when I heard the name of the maid, my

crowding tears rushed down. I blessed the lovely beam of youth,

and bade the battle move!

Why, son of the rock, should Ossian tell how warriors

died? They are now forgot in their land; their tombs are not found

on the heath. Years came on with their storms. The green

mounds are mouldered away. Scarce is the grave of Dunthalmo

seen, or the place where he fell by the spear of Ossian.

Some gray warrior, half blind with age, sitting by night at

the flaming oak of the hall, tells now my deeds to his sons, and

the fall of the dark Dunthalmo. The faces of youth bend sidelong

towards his voice. Surprise and joy burn in their eyes! I found

Calthon bound to an oak; my sword cut the thongs from his

hands. I gave him the white-bosomed Colmal. They dwelt in the

halls of Teutha.

THE WAR OF CAROS.

ARGUMENT.

Caros is probably the noted usurper Carausius, by birth a

Menapran, who assumed the purple in the year 284; and, seizing

on Britain, defeated the emperor Maximinian Herculius in several

naval engagements, which gives propriety to his being called in

this poem "the king of ships." He repaired Agricola's wall, in order

to obstruct the incursions of the Caledonians, and when he was

employed in that work, it appears he was attacked by a party

under the command of Oscar the son of' Ossian. This battle is the

foundation of the present poem, which is addressed to Malvina,

the daughter of Toscar.

Bring, daughter of Toscar, bring the harp! the light of the

song rises in Ossian's soul! It is like the field, when darkness

covers the hills around, and the shadow grows slowly on the

plain of the sun. I behold my son, O Malvina! near the mossy

rock of Crona. But it is the mist of the desert, tinged with the

beam of the west! Lovely is the mist that assumes the form of

Oscar! turn from it, ye winds, when ye roar on the side of Ardven!

Who comes towards my son, with the murmur of a song?

His staff is in his hand, his gray hair loose on the wind. Surly joy

lightens his face. He often looks back to Caros. It is Ryno of

songs, he that went to view the foe. "What does Caros, king of

ships?" said the son of the now mournful Ossian: "spreads he the

wings <1> of his pride, bard of the times of old?" "He spreads

them, Oscar," replied the bard," but it is behind his gathered

heap.<2> He looks over his stones with fear. He beholds thee

terrible, as the ghost of night, that rolls the waves to his ships!"

"Go, thou first of my bards!" says Oscar, "take the spear of

Fingal. Fix a flame on its point. Shake it to the winds of heaven.

Bid him in songs, to advance, and leave the rolling of his wave.

Tell to Caros that I long for battle; that my bow is weary of the

chase of Cona. Tell him the mighty are not here; and that my arm

is young."

He went with the murmur of songs. Oscar reared his voice

on high. It reached his heroes on Ardven, like the noise of a cave,

when the sea of Togorma rolls before it, and its trees meet the

roaring winds. They gather round my son like the streams of the

hill; when, after rain, they roll in the pride of their course. Ryno

came to the mighty Caros. He struck his flaming spear. Come to

the battle of Oscar. O thou that sittest on the rolling waves!

Fingal is distant far; he hears the songs of bards in Morven: the

wind of his hall is in his hair. His terrible spear is at his side; his

shield that is like the darkened moon Come to the battle of

Oscar; the hero is alone.

He came not over the streamy Carun. The bard returned

with his song. Gray night grows dim on Crona. The feast of shells

is spread. A hundred oaks burn to the wind; faint light gleams

over the heath. The ghosts of Ardven pass through the beam, and

show their dim and distant forms. Comala <3> is half unseen on

her meteor; Hidallan is sullen and dim, like the darkened moon

behind the mist of night.

" Why art thou sad?" said Ryno; for he alone beheld the

chief. "Why art thou sad, Hidallan! hast thou not received thy

fame? The songs of Ossian have been heard , thy ghost has

brightened in wind, when thou didst bend from thy cloud to hear

the song of Morven's bard!"---" And do thine eyes," said Oscar, "

behold the chief, like the dim meteor of night? Say, Ryno, say,

how fell Hidallan, the renowned in the days of my fathers! His

name remains on the rocks of Cona. I have often seen the

streams of his hills!"

Fingal, replied the bard, drove Hidallan from his wars. The

king's soul was sad for Comala, and his eyes could not behold

the chief. Lonely, sad, along the heath he slowly moved, with

silent steps. His arms hung disordered on his side. His hair flies

loose from his brow. The tear is in his downcast eyes; a sigh half

silent in his breast! Three days he strayed unseen, alone, before

he came to Lamor's halls: the mossy halls of his fathers, at the

stream of Balva. There Lamor sat alone beneath a tree; for he had

sent his people with Hidallan to war. The stream ran at his feet;

his gray head rested on his staff. Sightless are his aged eyes. He

hums the song of other times. The noise of Hidallan's feet came

to his ear: he knew the tread of his son.

"Is the son of Lamor returned; or is it the sound of his

ghost? Hast thou fallen on the banks of Carun, son of the aged

Lamor? Or, if I hear the sound of Hidallan's feet, where are the

mighty in the war? where are my people, Hidallan! that were wont

to return with their echoing shields? Have they fallen on the

banks of Carun?"

"No," replied the sighing youth, "the people of Lamor live.

They are renowned in war, my father! but Hidallan is renowned

no more. I must sit alone on the banks of Balva, when the roar of

the battle grows."

" But thy fathers never sat alone," replied the rising pride of

Lamor. "They never sat alone on the banks of Balva, when the

roar of battle rose. Dost thou not behold that tomb? My eyes

discern it not; there rests the noble Garm llon, who never fled

from war! Come, thou renowned in battle, he says, come to thy

father's tomb. How am I renowned, Garm llon? my son has fled

from war!"

"King of the streamy Balva!" said Hidallan with a sigh, "why

dost thou torment my soul? Lamor, I never fled. Fingal was sad

for Comala; he denied his wars to Hidallan. Go to the gray

streams of thy land, he said; moulder like a leafless oak, which

the winds have bent over Balva, never more to grow."

"And must I hear," Lamor replied, "the lonely tread of

Hidallan's feet? When thousands are renowned in battle, shall he

bend over my gray streams? Spirit of the noble Garm llon! carry

Lamor to his place; his eyes are dark, his soul is sad, his son has

lost his fame."

"Where," said the youth, " shall I search for fames to

gladden the soul of Lamor? From whence shall return with

renown, that the sound of my arms may be pleasant in his ear? If

I go to the chase of hinds, my name will not be heard. Lamor will

not feel my dogs with his hands, glad at my arrival from the hill.

He will not inquire of his mountains, or of the dark-brown deer of

his deserts!"

"I must fall," said Lamor, "like a leafless oak: it grew on a

rock! it was overturned by the winds! My ghost will be seen on

my hills, mournful for my young Hidallan. Will not ye, ye mists,

as ye rise, hide him from my sight! My son, go to Lamor's ball:

there the arms of our fathers hang. Bring the sword of

Garm llon: he took it from a foe!"

He went and brought the sword with all its studded thongs.

He gave it to his father. The gray-haired hero felt the point with

his hand.

"My son, lead me to Garm llon's tomb: it rises beside that

rustling tree. The long grass is withered; I hear the breezes

whistling there. A little fountain murmurs near, and sends its

waters to Balva. There let me rest; it is noon: the sun is on our

fields!"

He led him to Garm llon's tomb. Lamor pierced the side of

his son. They sleep together: their ancient halls moulder away.

Ghosts are seen there at noon: the valley is silent, and the people

shun the place of Lamor.

"Mournful is thy tale," said Oscar, "son of the times of old!

My soul sighs for Hidallan; he fell in the days of his youth. He

flies on the blast of the desert: his wandering is in a foreign land.

Sons of the echoing Morven! draw near to the foes of Fingal. Send

the night away in songs; watch the strength of Caros. Oscar goes

to the people of other times; to the shades of silent Ardven, where

his fathers sit dim in their clouds, and behold the future war.

And art thou there, Hidallan, like a half-extinguished meteor?

Come to my sight, in thy sorrow, chief of the winding Balva!"

The heroes move with their songs. Oscar slowly ascends

the hill. The meteors of night set on the heath before him. A

distant torrent faintly roars. Unfrequent blasts rush through

aged oaks. The half enlightened moon sinks dim and red behind

her hill. Feeble Voices are heard on the heath. Oscar drew his

sword! " Come," said the hero, " O ye ghosts of my fathers! ye that

fought against the kings of the world! Tell the deeds of future

times; and your converse in our caves, when you talk together,

and behold your sons in the fields of the brave!"

Trenmo came from his hill at the voice of his mighty son. A

cloud, like the steed of the stranger, supported his airy limbs. His

robe is of the mist of Lano, that brings death to the people. His

sword is a green meteor, half-extinguished. His face is without

form, and dark. He sighed thrice over the hero; thrice the winds

of night roared around! Many were his words to Oscar; but they

only came by halves to our ears; they were dark as the tales of

other times, before the light of the song arose. He slowly

vanished, like a mist that melts on the sunny hill. it was then, O

daughter of Toscar! my son began first to be sad. He foresaw the

fall of his race. At times he was thoughtful and dark, like the sun

when he carries a cloud on his face, but again he looks forth from

his darkness on the green hills of Cona.

Oscar passed the night among his fathers: gray morning

met him on Carun's banks. A green vale surrounded a tomb

which arose in the times of old. Little hills lift their heads at a

distance, and stretch their old trees to the wind. The warriors of

Caros sat there, for they had passed the stream by night. They

appeared like the trunks of aged pines, to the pale light of the

morning. Oscar stood at the tomb, and raised thrice his terrible

voice. The rocking hills echoed around; the starting roes bounded

away: and the trembling ghosts of the dead fled, shrieking on

their clouds. So terrible was the voice of my son, when he called

his friends!

A thousand spears arose around; the people of Caros rose.

Why, daughter of Toscar, why that tear? My son, though alone, is

brave. Oscar is like a beam of the sky; he turns around, and the

people fall. his hand is the arm of a ghost, when he stretches it

from a cloud; the rest of his thin form is unseen; but the people

die in the vale! My son beheld the approach of the foe; he stood in

the silent darkness of his strength. " Am I alone," said Oscar, " in

the midst of a thousand foes? Many a spear is there! many a

darkly-rolling eye. Shall I fly to Ardven? But did my fathers ever

fly? The mark of their arm is in a thousand battles. Oscar too

shall be renowned. Come, ye dim ghosts of my fathers, and

behold my deeds in war! I may fall; but I will be renowned like the

race of the echoing Morven." He stood, growing in his place, like a

flood in a narrow vale! The battle came, but they fell: bloody was

the sword of Oscar!

The noise reached his people at Crona; they came like a

hundred streams. The warriors of Caros fled; Oscar remained like

a rock left by the ebbing sea. Now dark and deep, with all his

steeds, Caros rolled his might along: the little streams are lost in

his course: the earth is rocking round. Battle spreads from wing

to wing; ten thousand swords gleam at once in the sky. But why

should Ossian sing of battles? For never more shall my steel

shine in war. I remember the days of my youth with grief, when I

feel the weakness of my arm. Happy are they who fell in their

youth, in the midst of their renown! They have not beheld the

tombs of their friends, or failed to bend the bow of their strength.

Happy art thou, O Oscar, in the midst of thy rushing blast! Thou

often goest to the fields of thy fame, where Caros fled from thy

lifted sword!

Darkness comes on my soul, O fair daughter of Toscar! I

behold not the form of my son at Carun, nor the figure of Oscar

on Crona. The rustling winds have carried him far away, and the

heart of his father is sad. But lead me, O Malvina! to the sound of

my woods, to the roar of my mountain streams. Let the chase be

heard on Cona: let me think on the days of other years. And

bring me the harp, O maid! that I may touch it when the light of

my soul shall arise. Be thou near to learn the song; future times

shall hear of me! The sons of the feeble hereafter will lift the voice

of Cona; and looking up to the rocks, say, "Here Ossian dwelt."

They shall admire the chiefs of old, the race that are no more,

while we ride on our clouds, Malvina! on the wings of the roaring

winds. Our voices shall be heard at times in the desert; we shall

sing on the breeze of the rock!

<1> The wings of his pride: The Roman eagle.

<2> His gathered heap: Agricola's wall, which Carausius repaired.

<3> This is the scene of Comala's death, which is the subject of

the dramatic poem.

CATHLIN OF CLUTHA.

ARGUMENT.

An address to Malvina, the daughter of Toscar. The poet relates

the arrival of Cathlin in Selma, to solicit aid against Duth-carmor

of Cluba, who had killed Cathmol for the sake of his daughter

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 despatches 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 neighboring hill.

Upon the coming on of day, the battle joins. 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.

COME, thou beam that art lonely, from watching in the

night! The squalling 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 season of

night. Dwells there no joy in song, white-hand of the harps of

Lutha? Awake the voice of the string; roll my soul to me. It is a

stream that has failed. Malvina, pour the song.

I hear thee from thy darkness in Selma, thou that

watchest lonely by night! Why didst thou withhold the song from

Ossian's falling soul? As the falling brook to the ear of the

hunter, descending from his storm-covered hill, in a sunbeam

rolls the echoing stream, he hears and shakes his dewy locks:

such is the voice of Lutha to the friend of the spirits of heroes. My

swelling bosom beats high. I look back on the days that are past.

Come, thou beam that art lonely, from watching in the night!

In the echoing bay of Carmona we saw one day the

bounding ship. On high hung a broken shield; it was marked

with wandering blood. Forward came a youth in arms, and

stretched his pointless spear. Long, over his tearful eyes, hung

loose his disordered locks. Fingal gave the shell of kings. The

words of the stranger arose. "In his hall lies Cathmol of Clutha,

by the winding of his own dark streams. Duth-carmor saw white-

bosomed Lanul, and pierced her father's side. In the rushy desert

were my steps. He fled in the season of night. Give thine aid to

Cathlin to revenge his father. I sought thee not as a beam in a

land of clouds. Thou, like the sun, art known, king of echoing

Selma!"

Selma's king looked around. In his presence we rose in

arms. But who should lift the shield? for all had claimed the war.

The night came down; we strode in silence, each to his hill of

ghosts, that spirits might descend in our dreams to mark us for

the field. We struck the shield of the dead: we raised the hum of

songs. We thrice called the ghosts of our fathers. We laid us 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 the stretching forward to

deaths. I listened, but no sound was there. The forms were empty

wind!

I started from the dream of ghosts. On a sudden blast flew

my whistling hair. Low sounding. in the oak, is the departure of

the dead. I took my shield from its bough. Onward came the

rattling of steel. It was Oscar of Lego. He had seen his fathers. As

rushes forth the blast on the bosom of whitening waves, so

careless shall my course be, through ocean, to the dwelling of

foes. I have seen the dead, my father! My beating soul is high! My

fame is bright before me, like the streak of light on a cloud, when

the broad sun comes forth, red traveller of the sky!"

" Grandson of Branno," I said, "not Oscar alone shall meet

the foe. I rush forward, through ocean, to the woody dwelling of

heroes. Let us contend, my son, like eagles from one rock, when

they lift their broad wings against the stream of winds." We

raised our sails in Carmona. From three ships they marked my

shield on the wave, as I looked on nightly Ton-thena,<1> red

traveller between the clouds. Four days came the breeze abroad.

Lumon came forward in mist. In winds were its hundred groves.

Sunbeams marked at times its brown side. White leapt the foamy

streams from all its echoing rocks.

A green field, in the bosom of hills, winds silent with its

own blue stream. Here, "midst the waving of oaks, were the

dwellings of kings of old." But silence, for many dark-brown

years, had settled in grassy Rath-col; for the race of heroes had

failed along the pleasant vale. Duth-carmor was here, with his

people, dark rider of the wave! Ton-thena had hid her head in the

sky. He bound his white-bosomed sails. His course is on the hills

of Rath-col to the seats of roes. We came. I sent the bard, with

songs, to call the foe to fight. Duth-carmor heard him with joy.

The king's soul was like a beam of fire; a beam of fire, marked

with smoke, rushing, varied through the bosom of night. The

deeds of Duth-carmor were dark, though his arm was strong.

Night came with the gathering of clouds. By the beam of

the oak we sat down. At a distance stood Cathlin of Clutha. I saw

the changeful soul of the stranger. As shadows fly over the field of

grass, so various is Cathlin's cheek. It was fair within locks, that

rose on Rath-col's wind. I did not rush, amidst his soul, with my

words. I bade the song to rise.

"Oscar of Lego," I said, "be thine the secret hill to-night.

<2> Strike the shield like Morven's kings. With day thou shalt

lead in war. From my rock I shall see thee, Oscar, a dreadful form

ascending in fight, like the appearance of ghosts amidst the

storms they raise. Why should mine eyes return to the dim times

of old, ere yet the song had bursted forth, like the sudden rising

of winds? But the years that are past are marked with mighty

deeds. As the nightly rider of waves looks up to Ton-thena of

beams, so let us turn our eyes to Trenmor the father of kings."

"Wide, in Caracha's echoing field, Carmal had poured his

tribes. They were a dark ridge of waves. The gray-haired bards

were like moving foam on their face. They kindle the strife around

with their red-rolling eyes. Nor alone were the dwellers of rocks; a

son of Loda was there, a voice in his own dark land, to call the

ghosts from high. On his hill he had dwelt in Lochlin, in the

midst of a leafless grove. Five stones lifted near their heads. Loud

roared his rushing stream. He often raised his voice to the winds,

when meteors marked their nightly wings, when the dark-robed

moon was rolled behind her hill. Nor unheard of ghosts was he!

They came with the sound of eagle-wings. They turned battle, in

fields, before the kings of men.

" But Trenmor they turned not from battle. He drew

forward that troubled war: in its dark skirt was Trathal, like a

rising light. It was dark, and Loda's son poured forth his signs on

night. The feeble were not before thee, son of other lands! Then

rose the strife of kings about the hill of night; but it was soft as

two summer gales, shaking their light wings on a lake. Trenmor

yielded to his son, for the fame of the king had been heard.

Trathal came forth before his father, and the foes failed in

echoing Caracha. The years that are past, my son, are marked

with mighty deeds."

In clouds rose the eastern light. The foe came forth in

arms. The strife is mixed on Rath-col, like the roar of streams.

Behold the contending of kings! They meet beside the oak. In

gleams of steel the dark forms are lost; such is the meeting of

meteors in a vale by night: red light is scattered round, and men

foresee the storm! -- Duth-carmor is low in blood! The son of

Ossian overcame! Not harmless, in battle, was he, Malvina, hand

of harps!

Nor, in the field, were the steps of Cathlin. The strangers

stood by secret stream, where the foam of Rath-col skirted the

mossy stones. Above bends the branchy birch, and strews its

leaves on wind. The inverted spear of Cathlin touched at times

the stream. Oscar brought Duth-carmor's mail: his helmet with

its eagle-wing. He placed them before the stranger, and his words

were heard. " The foes of thy father have fallen. 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 lie raised in war. Take the mail of

Cathlin, place it high in Selma's hall, that thou mayest remember

the hapless in thy distant land." From white breasts descended

the mail. It was the race of kings: the soft-handed daughter of

Cathmol, at the streams of Clutha! Duth-carmor saw her bright

in the hall; he had come by night to Clutha. Cathmol met him in

battle, but the hero fell. Three days dwelt the foe with the maid.

On the fourth she fled in arms. She remembered the race of

kings, and felt her bursting soul!

Why, maid of Toscar of Lutha, should I tell how Cathlin

failed? Her tomb is at rushy Lumon, in a distant land. Near it

were the steps of Sul-malla, in the days of grief. She raised the

song for the daughter of strangers, and touched the mournful

harp.

Come from the watching of night, Malvina, lonely beam!

<1> Ton-thena, " fire of the wave," was the remarkable star

mentioned in the seventh book of Temora, which directed the

course of Larthon to Ireland.

<2> This passage alludes to the well-known custom among the

ancient kings of Scotland, to retire from their army on the night

preceding a battle. The story which Ossian introduces in the next

paragraph, concerns the fall of the Druids.

SUL-MALLA OF LUMON.

ARGUMENT.

This poem, which, properly speaking, is a continuation of

the last, opens with an address to Sul-malla, the daughter of the

king of Inis-huna, whom Ossian met at the chase, as he returned

from the battle of Rath-col. Sul-malla invites Ossian and Oscar to

a feast, at the residence of her father, who was then absent on

the wars. Upon hearing their names and family, she relates an

expedition of Fingal into Inis-huna. She casually mentioning

Cathmor, chief of Atha, (who then assisted her father against his

enemies,) Ossian introduces the episode of Culgorm and Suran-

dronlo, two Scandinavian kings, in whose wars Ossian himself

and Cathmor were engaged on opposite sides. The story is

imperfect, a part of the original being lost. Ossian, warned in a

dream by the ghost of Trenmor, sets sail from Inis-huna.

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

deserts, like a light through a cloudy field? The young roes are

panting by their secret rocks. Return, thou daughter of kings! the

cloudy night is near! It was the young branch of green Inishuna,

Sul-malla of blue eyes. She sent the bard from her rock to bid us

to her feast. Amidst the song we sat down in Cluba's echoing

hall. White moved the hands of Sul-malla on the trembling

strings. Half-heard amidst the sound, was the name of Atha's

king: he that was absent in battle for her own green land. Nor

absent from her soul was he: he came 'midst her thoughts by

night. Ton-thena looked in from the sky, and saw her tossing

arms.

The sound of shells had ceased. Amidst long locks Sul-

malla rose. She spoke with bended eyes, and asked of our course

through seas; "for of the kings of men are ye, tall riders of the

wave." "Not unknown," I said, "at his streams is he, the father of

our race. Fingal has been heard of at Cluba, blue-eyed daughter

of kings. Not only at Crona's stream is Ossian and Oscar known.

Foes tremble at our voice and shrink in other lands."

"Not unmarked," said the maid, "by Sul-malla, is the shield

of Morven's king. It hangs high in my father's hall, in memory of

the past, when Fingal came to Cluba, in the days of other years.

Loud roared the boar of Culdarnu, in the midst of his rocks and

woods. Inis-huna sent her youths; but they failed, and virgins

wept over tombs. Careless went Fingal to Culdarnu. On his spear

rolled the strength of the woods. He was bright, they said, in his

locks, the first of mortal men. Nor at the feast were heard his

words. His deeds passed from his soul of fire, like the rolling of

vapors from the face of the wandering sun. Not careless looked

the blue eyes of Cluba on his stately steps. In white bosoms rose

the king of Selma, in the midst of their thoughts by night. But

the winds bore the stranger to the echoing vales of his roes. Nor

lost to other lands was he, like a meteor, that sinks in a cloud.

He came forth, at times in his brightness, to the distant dwelling

of foes. His fame came, like the sound of winds, to Cluba's woody

vale.

"Darkness dwells in Cluba of harps! the race of kings is

distant far: in battle is my father Conmor; and Lormar, my

brother, king of streams. Nor darkening alone are they; a beam

from other lands is nigh; the friend of strangers <1> in Atha, the

troubler of the field. High from their misty hills looks forth the

blue eyes of Erin, for he is far away, young dweller of their souls!

Nor harmless, white hands of Erin! is Cathmor in the skirts of

war; he rolls ten thousand before him in his distant field."

"Not unseen by Ossian," I said, "rushed Cathmor from his

streams, when he poured his strength on I-thorno, isle of many

waves! In strife met two kings in I-thorno, Culgorm and Suran-

dronlo: each from his echoing isle, stern hunters of the boar!

"They met a boar at a foamy stream; each pierced him with

his spear. They strove for the fame of the deed, and gloomy battle

rose. From isle to isle they sent a spear broken and stained with

blood, to call the friends of their fathers in their sounding arms.

Cathmor came from Erin to Colgorm, red-eyed king; I aided

Suran-dronlo in his land of boars.

"We rushed on either side of a stream, which roared

through a blasted heath. High broken rocks were round with all

their bending trees. Near were two circles of Loda, with the stone

of power, where spirits descended by night in dark-red streams of

fire. There, mixed with the murmur of waters, rose the voice of

aged men; they called the forms of night to aid them in their war.

"Heedless I stood with my people, where fell the foamy

stream from rocks. The moon moved red from 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 the fight; from wing to wing is

the rolling of strife. They fell like the thistle's head beneath

autumnal winds.

"In armor came a stately form: I mixed my strokes with the

chief. By turns our shields are pierced: loud rung our steely mail.

His helmet fell to the ground. In brightness shone the foe. His

eyes, two pleasant flames, rolled between his wandering locks. I

knew Cathmor of Atha, and threw my spear on earth. Dark we

turned, and silent passed to mix with other foes.

"Not so passed the striving kings. They mixed in echoing

fray, like the meeting of ghosts in the dark wing of winds.

Through either breast rushed the spears, nor yet lay the foes on

earth! A rock received their fall; half-reclined they lay in death.

Each held the lock of his foe: each grimly seemed to roll his eyes.

The stream of the rock leapt on their shields, and mixed below

with blood.

"The battle ceased in I-thorno. The strangers met in peace:

Cathmor from Atha of streams, and Ossian king of harps. We

placed the dead in earth. Our steps were by Runar's bay. With

the bounding boat afar advanced a ridgy wave. Dark was the

rider of seas, but a beam of light was there like the ray of the sun

in Stromlo's rolling smoke. It was the daughter of Suran-dronlo,

wild in brightened looks. Her eyes were wandering flames amidst

disordered locks. Forward is her white arm with the spear; her

high-heaving breast is seen, white as foamy waves that rise, by

turns, amidst rocks. They are beautiful, but terrible, and

mariners call the winds!

"Come, ye dwellers of Loda!" she said: "come, Carchar, pale

in the midst of clouds! Sluthmor that stridest in airy halls!

Corchtur, terrible in winds! Receive from his daughter's spear the

foes of Suran-dronlo. No shadow at his roaring streams, no

mildly looking form, was he! When he took up his spear, the

hawks shook their sounding wings: for blood was poured a round

the steps of dark-eyed Suran-dronlo. He lighted me no harmless

beam to glitter on his streams. Like meteors I was bright, but I

blasted the foes of Suran-dronlo."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Nor unconcerned heard Sul-malla the praise of Cathmor of

shields. He was within her soul, like a fire in secret heath, which

awakes at the voice of the blast, and sends its beam abroad.

Amidst the song removed the daughter of kings, like the voice of a

summer breeze, when it lifts the heads of flowers, and curls the

lakes and streams. The rustling Sound gently spreads o'er the

vale, softly-pleasing as it saddens the soul.

By night came a dream to Ossian; formless stood the

shadow of Trenmor. He seemed to strike the dim 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

showed its streams to the morn.

Come from the watching night Malvina, lonely beam!

<1> The friend of strangers: Cathmor, the son of Barbar-duthol.

THE WAR OF INIS-THONA

ARGUMENT.

Reflections on the poet's youth. An apostrophe to Selma. Oscar

obtains leave to go to Inis-thona, an island of Scandinavia. The

mournful story of Argon and Ruro, the two sons of the king of

Inis-thona. Oscar revenges their death, and returns in triumph to

Selma. A soliloquy by the poet himself.

Our youth is like the dream of the hunter on the hill of

heath. He sleeps in the mild beams of the sun: he awakes amidst

a storm; the red lightning flies around: trees shake their heads to

the wind! He looks back with joy on the day of the sun, and the

pleasant dreams of his rest! When shall Ossian's youth return?

When his ear delight in the sound of arms? When shall I, like

Oscar, travel in the light of my steel? Come with your streams, ye

hills of Cona! listen to the voice of Ossian. The song rises, like the

sun, in my soul. I feel the joys of other times.

I behold thy towers, O Selma! the oaks of thy shaded wall:

thy streams sound in my ear; thy heroes gather round. Fingal

sits in the midst. He leans on the shield of Trenmor; his spear

stands against the wall; he listens to the songs of his bards. The

deeds of his arm are heard; the actions of the king in his youth!

Oscar had returned from the chase, and heard the hero's praise.

He took the shield of Branno <1> from the wall; his eyes were

filed with tears. Red was the cheek of youth. His voice was

trembling low. My spear shook its bright head in his hand: he

spoke to Morven's king.

"Fingal! thou king of heroes! Ossian, next to him in war! ye

have fought in your youth; your names are renowned in song.

Oscar is like the mist of Cona; I appear and I vanish away. The

bard will not know my name. The hunter will not search in the

heath for my tomb. Let me fight, O heroes, in the battles of Inis-

thona. Distant is the land of my war! ye shall not hear of Oscar's

fall: some bard may find me there; some bard may give my name

to song. The daughter of the stranger shall see my tomb, and

weep over the youth, that came from afar. The bard shall say, at

the feast, Hear the song of Oscar from the distant land!"

" Oscar," replied the king of Morven, " thou shalt fight, son

of my fame! Prepare my dark-bosomed ship to carry my hero to

Inis-thona. Son of my son, regard our fame; thou art of the race

of renown: let not the children of strangers say, Feeble are the

sons of Morven! Be thou, in battle, a roaring storm: mild as the

evening sun in peace! Tell, Oscar, to Inis-thona's king, that Fingal

remembers his youth; when we strove in the combat together, in

the days of Agandecca."

They lifted up the sounding sail: the wind whistled through the

thongs <2> of their masts. Waves lashed the oozy rocks: the

strength of ocean roars. My son beheld, from the wave, the land

of groves. He rushed into Runa's sounding bay, and sent his

sword to Annir of spears. The gray-headed hero rose, when he

saw the sword of Fingal. His eyes were full of tears; he

remembered his battles in youth. Twice had they lifted the spear

before the lovely Agandecca.: heroes stood far distant, as if two

spirits were striving in winds.

" But now," began the king, " I am old; the Sword lies

useless in my hall. Thou who art of Morven's race! Annir has

seen the battle of spears; but now he is pale and withered, like

the oak of Lano. I have no son to meet thee with joy, to bring thee

to the halls of his fathers. Argon is pale in the tomb, and Ruro is

no more. My daughter is in the hall of strangers: she longs to

behold my tomb. Her spouse shakes ten thousand spears; he

comes a cloud of death from Lano. Come, to share the feast of

Annir, son of echoing Morven?

Three days they feasted together. On the fourth, Annir heard the

name of Oscar. They rejoiced in the shell. <3> They pursued the

boars of Runa. Beside the fount of mossy stones the weary heroes

rest. The tear steals in secret from Annir: he broke the rising

sigh. "Here darkly rest," the hero said, "the children of my youth.

This stone is the tomb of Ruro; that tree sounds over the grave of

Argon. Do ye hear my voice, O my sons, within your narrow

house? Or do ye speak in these rustling leaves, when the wind of

the desert rises?"

"King of Inis-thona," said Oscar, "how fell the children of

youth? The wild boar rushes over their tombs, but he does not

disturb their repose. They pursue deer formed of clouds, and

bend their airy bow. They still love the sport of their youth; and

mount the wind with joy."

"Cormalo," replied the king, " is a chief of ten thousand spears.

He dwells at the waters of Lano <4> which sends forth the vapor

of death. He came to Runa's echoing halls, and sought the honor

of the spear.<5> The youth was lovely as the first beam of the

sun; few were they who could meet him in fight. My heroes

yielded to Cormalo; my daughter was seized in his love. Argon

and Ruro returned from the chase; the tears of their pride

descend: they roll their silent eyes on Runa's heroes, who had

yielded to stranger. Three days they feasted with Cormalo; on the

fourth young Argon fought. But who could light with Argon?

Cormalo is overcome. His heart swelled with the grief of pride; he

resolved in secret to behold the death of my sons. They went to

the hills of Runa; they pursued the dark-brown hinds. The arrow

of Cormalo flew in secret; my children fell in blood. He came to

the maid of his love; to Inis-thona's long-haired maid. They fled

over the desert, Annir remained alone. Night came on, and day

appeared; nor Argon's voice nor Ruro's came. At length their

much-loved dog was seen; the fleet and bounding Runa. He came

into the hall and howled; and seemed to look towards the place of

their fall. We followed him; we found them here: we laid them by

this mossy stream. This is the haunt of Annir, when the chase of

the hinds is past. I bend like the trunk of an aged oak; my tears

for ever flow!"

" O Ronnan!" said the rising Oscar, "Osgar, king of spears!

call my heroes to my side, the sons of streamy Morven. To-day we

go to Lano's water, that sends forth the vapor of death. Cormalo

will not long rejoice: death is often at the point of our swords!"

They came over the desert like stormy clouds, when the

winds roll them along the heath; their edges are tinged with

lightning; the echoing groves foresee the storm! The horn of

Oscar's battle is heard; Lano shook over all its waves. The

children of the lake convened around the sounding shield of

Cormalo. Oscar fought as he was wont in war. Cormalo fell

beneath his sword: the sons of dismal Lano fled to their secret

vales! Oscar brought the daughter of Inis-thona to Annir's

echoing halls. The face of age is bright with joy; he blest the king

of swords.

How great was the joy of Ossian, when he beheld the

distant sail of his son! it was like a cloud of light that rises in the

east, when the traveller is sad in a land unknown: and dismal

night with her ghosts, is sitting around in shades! We brought

him with songs to Selma's halls. Fingal spread the feast of shells.

A thousand bards raised the name of Oscar: Morven answered to

the sound. The daughter of Toscar was there; her voice was like

the harp, when the distant sound comes in the evening, on the

soft rustling breeze of the vale!

O lay me, ye that see the light, near some rock of my hills!

let the thick hazels be around, let the rustling oak be near. Green

be the place of my rest; let the sound of the distant torrent be

heard. Daughter of Toscar, take the harp, and raise the lovely

song of Selma; that sleep may overtake my soul in the midst of

joy; that the dreams of my youth may return, and the days of the

mighty Fingal. Selma! I behold thy towers, thy trees, thy shaded

wall! I see the heroes of Morven; I hear the song of bards: Oscar

lifts the sword of Cormalo; a thousand youths admire its studded

thongs. They look with wonder on my son: they admire the

strength of his arm. They mark the joy of his father's eyes; they

long for an equal fame, and ye shall have your fame, O sons of

streamy Morven! My soul is often brightened with song; I

remember the friends of my youth. But sleep descends in the

sound of the harp! pleasant dreams begin to rise! Ye Sons of the

chase, stand far distant nor disturb my rest The bard of other

times holds discourse with his fathers! the chiefs of the days of

old! Sons of the chase, stand far distant! disturb not the dreams

of Ossian!

<1> Branno: The father of Everallin, and grandfather to Oscar

<2> Leather thongs were used among the Celtic nations, instead

of ropes

<3> To "rejoice in the shell," is a phrase for feasting sumptuously

and drinking freely.

<4> Lano was a lake of Scandinavia, remarkable in the days of

Ossian for emitting a pestilential vapor in autumn.

<5> By " the honor of the spear," is meant the tournament

practised among the ancient northern nations.

THE SONGS OF SELMA.

ARGUMENT.

Address to the evening star. Apostrophe to Fingal and his times.

Minona sings before the king the song of the unfortunate Colma,

and the bards exhibit other specimens of their poetical talents

according to an annual custom established by the monarchs of

the ancient Caledonians.

STAR of descending night! fair is thy light in the west! thou

that liftest thy unshorn head from thy cloud: thy steps are stately

on thy hill. What dost thou behold in the plain? The stormy

winds are laid. The murmur of the torrent comes from afar.

Roaring waves climb the distant rock. The flies of evening are on

their feeble wings: the hum of their course is in the field. What

dost thou behold, fair light? But thou dost smile and depart. The

waves come with joy around thee: they bathe thy lovely hair.

Farewell, thou silent beam! Let the light of Ossian's soul arise!

And it does arise in its strength! I behold my departed

friends. Their gathering is on Lora, as in the days of other years.

Fingal comes like a watery column of mist! his heroes are around:

and see the bards of song, gray-haired Ullin! Stately Ryno! Alpin

with the tuneful voice! the soft complaint of Minona! How are ye

changed, my friends, since the days of Selma's feast! when we

contended, like gales of spring, as they fly along the hill, and

bend by turns the feebly whistling grass.

Minona came forth in her beauty: with downcast look and

tearful eye. Her hair flew slowly on the blast, that rushed

unfrequent from the hill. The souls of the heroes were sad when

she raised the tuneful voice. Often had they seen the grave of

Salgar, the dark dwelling of white-bosomed Colma. Colma left

alone on the hill, with all her voice of song! Salgar promised to

come: but the night descended around. Hear the voice of Colma,

when she sat alone on the hill.

Colma. It is night, I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms.

The wind is heard on the mountain. The torrent pours down the

rock. No hut receives me from the rain; forlorn on the hill of

winds!

Rise, moon! from behind thy clouds. Stars of the night,

arise! Lead me, some light, to the place where my love rests from

the chase alone! his bow near him, unstrung: his dogs panting

around him. But here I must sit alone, by the rock of the mossy

stream. The stream and the wind roar aloud. I hear not the voice

of my love! Why delays my Salgar, why the chief of the hill, his

promise? here is the rock, and here the tree! here is the roaring

stream! Thou didst promise with night to be here. Ah! whither is

my Salgar gone? With thee, I would fly from my father; with thee,

from my brother of pride. Our race have long been foes; we are

not foes, O Salgar!

Cease a little while, O wind! stream, be thou silent awhile!

let my voice be heard around. Let my wanderer hear me! Salgar!

it is Colma who calls. Here is the tree, and the rock. Salgar, my

love! I am here. Why delayest thou thy coming? Lo! the calm

moon comes forth. The flood is bright in the vale. The rocks are

gray on the steep, I see him not on the brow. His dogs come not

before him, with tidings of his near approach. Here I must sit

alone!

Who lie on the heath beside me? Are they my love and my

brother? Speak to me, O my friends! To Colma they give no reply.

Speak to me; I am alone! My soul is tormented with fears! Ah!

they are dead! Their swords are red from the fight. O my brother!

my brother! why hast thou slain my Salgar? why, O Salgar! hast

thou slain my brother? Dear were ye both to me! what shalt I say

in your praise? Thou wert fair on the hill among thousands! he

was terrible in fight. Speak to me; hear my voice; hear me, song

of my love! They are silent; silent for ever! Cold, cold, are their

breasts of clay! Oh! from the rock on the hill, from the top of the

windy steep, speak, ye ghosts of the dead! speak, I will not be

afraid! Whither are ye gone to rest? In what cave of the hill shall I

find the departed? No feeble voice is on the gale: no answer half-

drowned in the storm!

I sit in my grief; I wait for morning in my tears! Rear the

tomb, ye friends of the dead. Close it not till Colma come. My life

flies away like a dream: why should I stay behind? Here shall I

rest with my friends, by the stream of the sounding rock. When

night comes on the hilt; when the loud winds arise; my ghost

shall stand in the blast, and mourn the death of my friends. The

hunter shall hear from his booth. he shall fear but love my voice!

For sweet shall my voice be for my friends: pleasant were her

friends to Colma!

Such was thy song, Minona, softly-blushing daughter of

Torman. Our tears descended for Colma, and our souls were sad!

Ullin came with his harp! he gave the song of Alpin. The voice of

Alpin was pleasant: the soul of Ryno was a beam of fire! But they

had rested in the narrow house: their voice had ceased in Selma.

Ullin had returned, one day, from the chase, before the heroes

fell. He heard their strife on the hilt; their song was soft but sad!

They mourned the fall of Morar, first of mortal men! His soul was

like the soul of Fingal: his sword like the sword of Oscar. But he

fell, and his father mourned: his sister's eyes were full of tears.

Minona's eyes were full of tears, the sister of car-borne Morar.

She retired from the song of Ullin, like the moon in the west,

when she foresees the shower, and hides her fair head in a cloud.

I touched the harp with Ullin; the song of mourning rose!

Ryno. The wind and the rain are past; calm is the noon of

day. The clouds are divided in heaven. Over the green hills flies

the inconstant sun. Red through the stony vale comes down the

stream of the hill. Sweet are thy murmurs, O stream! but more

sweet is the voice I hear. It is the voice of Alpin, the son of song,

mourning for the dead! Bent is his head of age; red his tearful

eye. Alpin, thou son of song, why alone on the silent hill? why

complainest thou, as a blast in the wood; as a wave on the lonely

shore?

Alpin. My tears, O Ryno! are for the dead; my voice for

those that have passed away. Tall thou art on the hill; fair among

the sons of the vale. But thou shalt fall like Morar; the mourner

shall sit on thy tomb. The hills shall know thee no more; thy bow

shall in thy hall unstrung.

Thou wert swift, O Morar! as a roe on the desert; terrible as

a meteor of fire. Thy wrath was as the storm. Thy sword in battle,

as lightning in the field. Thy voice was a stream after rain; like

thunder on distant hills. Many fell by thy arm; they were

consumed in the flames of thy wrath. But when thou didst return

from war, how peaceful was thy brow! Thy face was like the sun

after rain; like the moon in the silence of night; calm as the

breast of the lake when the loud wind is laid.

Narrow is thy dwelling now! Dark the place of thine abode!

With three steps I compass thy grave. O thou who wast so great

before! Four stones, with their heads of moss, are the only

memorial of thee. A tree with scarce a leaf, long grass, which

whistles in the wind, mark to the hunter's eye the grave of the

mighty Morar. Morar! thou art low indeed. Thou hast no mother

to mourn thee; no maid with her tears of love. Dead is she that

brought thee forth. Fallen is the daughter of Morglan.

Who on his staff is this? who is this whose head is white

with age; whose eyes are red with tears? who quakes at every

step? It is thy father, O Morar! the father of no son but thee. He

heard of thy fame in war; he heard of foes dispersed. He heard of

Morar's renown; why did he not hear of his wound? Weep, thou

father of Morar! weep; but thy son heareth thee not. Deep is the

sleep of the dead; low their pillow of dust. No more shall he hear

thy voice; no more awake at thy call. When shall it be morn in the

grave, to bid the slumberer awake Farewell, thou bravest of men!

thou conqueror in the field! but the field shall see thee no more;

nor the dark wood be lightened with the splendor of thy steel.

Thou hast left no son. The song shall preserve thy name. Future

times shall hear of thee; they shall hear of the fallen Morar.

The grief of all arose, but most the bursting sigh of Armin.

He remembers the death of his son, who fell in the days of his

youth. Carmor was near the hero, the chief of the echoing

Galmal. Why burst the sigh of Armin? he said. Is there a cause to

mourn? The song comes, with its music, to melt and please the

soul. It is like soft mist, that, rising from a lake, pours on the

silent vale; the green flowers are filled with dew, but the sun

returns in his strength, and the mist is gone. Why art thou sad,

O Armin, chief of sea-surrounded Gorma?

Sad I am! nor small is my cause of wo. Carmor, thou hast

lost no son; thou hast lost no daughter of beauty. Colgar the

valiant lives; and Annira, fairest maid. The boughs of thy house

ascend, O Carmor! but Armin is the last of his race. Dark is thy

bed, O Daura! deep thy sleep in the tomb! When shalt thou

awake with thy songs? with all thy voice of music?

Arise, winds of autumn, arise; blow along the heath!

streams of the mountains, roar! roar, tempests, in the groves of

my oaks! walk through broken clouds, O moon! show thy pale

face, at intervals! bring to my mind the night, when all my

children fell; when Arindal the mighty fell! when Daura the lovely

failed! Daura, my daughter! thou wert fair; fair as the moon on

Fura , white as the driven snow; sweet as the breathing gale.

Arindal, thy bow was strong. Thy spear was swift on the field. Thy

look was like mist on the wave: thy shield, a red cloud in a storm.

Armar, renowned in war, came, and sought Daura's love. He was

not long refused: fair was the hope of their friends!

Erath, son of Odgal, repined: his brother had been slain by

Armar. He came disguised like a son of the sea: fair was his skiff

on the wave; white his locks of age; calm his serious brow.

Fairest of women, he said, lovely daughter of Armin! a rock not

distant in the sea bears a tree on its side: red shines the fruit

afar! There Armar waits for Daura. I come to carry his love! She

went; she called on Armar. Nought answered, but the son of the

rock. <1> Armar, my love! my love! why tormentest thou me with

fear! hear, son of Arnart, hear: it is Daura who calleth thee! Erath

the traitor fled laughing to the land. She lifted up her voice; she

called for her brother and for her father. Arindal! Armin! none to

relieve your Daura!

Her voice came over the sea. Arindal my son descended

from the hill; rough in the spoils of the chase. His arrows rattled

by his side; his bow was in his hand; five dark-gray dogs

attended his steps. He saw fierce Erath on the shore: he seized

and bound him to an oak. Thick wind the thongs of the hide

around his limbs: he loads the winds with his groans . Arindal

ascends the deep in his boat, to bring Daura to land. Armar came

in his wrath, and let fly the gray-feathered shaft. It sunk, it sunk

in thy heart, O Arindal, my son! for Erath the traitor thou diest.

The oar is stopped at once; he panted on the rock and expired.

What is thy grief, O Daura, when round thy feet is poured thy

brother's blood! The boat is broke in twain. Armar plunges into

the sea, to rescue his Daura, or die. Sudden a blast from a hill

came over the waves. He sunk, and he rose no more.

Alone on the sea-beat rock, my daughter was heard to

complain. Frequent and loud were her cries. What could her

father do? All night I stood on the shore. I saw her by the faint

beam of the moon. All night I heard her cries. Loud was the wind;

the rain beat hard on the hill. Before morning appeared her voice

was weak. it died away, like the evening breeze among the grass

of the rocks. Spent with grief, she expired; and left thee, Armin,

alone. Gone is my strength in war! fallen my pride among women!

When the storms aloft arise; when the north lifts the wave on

high! I sit by the sounding shore, and look on the fatal rock.

Often by the setting moon, I see the ghosts of my children. Half

viewless, they walk in mournful conference together. Will none of

you speak in pity. They do not regard their father. I am sad, O

Carmor, nor small is my cause of wo.

Such were the words of the bards in the days of song: when

the king heard the music of harps, the tales of other times! The

chiefs gathered from all their hills, and heard the lovely sound.

They praised the voice of Cona; <2> the first among a thousand

bards! But age is now on my tongue; my soul has failed: I hear,

at times, the ghosts of bards, and learn their pleasant Song. But

memory fails on my mind. I hear the call of years; they say, as

they pass along, Why does Ossian sing? Soon shall he lie in the

narrow house, and no bard shall raise his fame! Roll on, ye dark-

brown years; ye bring no joy on your course! Let the tomb open to

Ossian, for his strength has failed. The sons of song are gone to

rest. My voice remains, like a blast, that roars, lonely, on a sea-

surrounded rock, after the winds are laid. The dark moss

whistles there; the distant mariner sees the waving trees!

<1> By "the son of the rock," the poet means the echoing back of

the human voice from a rock.

<2> Ossian is sometimes poetically called "the voice of Cona".

FINGAL: AN ANCIENT EPIC POEM

FINGAL -- BOOK I.

ARGUMENT.

Cuthullin (general of the Irish tribes, in the minority of Cormac,

king of Ireland) sitting alone beneath a tree, at the gate of Tura, a

castle of Ulster (the other chiefs having gone on a hunting party

to Cromla, a neighboring hill,) is informed of the landing of

Swaran, king of Lochlin, by Moran, the son of Fithil, one of his

scouts. He convenes the chiefs; a council is held, and disputes

run high about giving battle to the enemy. Connal, the petty king

of Togorma, and an intimate friend of Cuthullin, was for

retreating, till Fingal, king of those Caledonians who inhabited

the north-west coast of Scotland, whose aid had been previously

solicited, should arrive; but Calmar, the son of Matha, lord of

Lara, a country in Connaught, was for engaging the enemy

immediately. Cuthullin, of himself willing to fight, went into the

opinion of Calmar. Marching towards the enemy, he missed three

of his bravest heroes, Fergus, Duch"mar, and C thba. Fergus

arriving, tells Cuthullin of the death of the two other chiefs:

which introduces the affecting episode of Morna, the daughter of

Cormac. The army of Cuthullin is descried at a distance by

Swaran, who sent the son of Arno to observe the motions of the

enemy, while he himself ranged his forces in order of battle. The

son of Arno returning to Swaran, describes to him Cuthullin's

chariot, and the terrible appearance of that hero. The armies

engage, but night coming on, leaves the victory undecided.

Cuthullin, according to the hospitality of the times, sends to

Swaran a formal invitation to a feast, by his bard Carril, the son

of Kinfena. Swaran refuses to come. Carril relates to Cuthullin

the story of Grudar and Brassolis. A party, by Connal's advice, is

sent to observe the enemy; which closes the action of the first

day.

CUTHULLIN sat by Tura's wall; by the tree of the rustling

sound. His spear leaned against the rock. His shield lay on the

grass by his side. Amid his thoughts of mighty Cairbar, a hero

slain by the chief in war; the scout of ocean comes, Moran the

son of Fithil!

"Arise," said the youth, "Cuthullin, arise. I see the ships of

the north! Many, chief of men, are the foe. Many the heroes of the

sea-borne Swaran!" -- "Moran!" replied the blue-eyed chief "thou

ever tremblest, son of Fithil! Thy fears have increased the foe. It

is Fingal, king of deserts, with aid to green Erin of streams." -- "I

beheld their chief," says Moran, "tall as a glittering rock. His

spear is a blasted pine. His shield the rising moon! He sat on the

shore! like a cloud of mist on the silent hill! Many, chief of heroes!

I said, many are our hands of war. Well art thou named, the

mighty man; but many mighty men are seen from Tura's windy

walls.

"He spoke, like a wave on a rock, 'Who in this land appears

like me? Heroes stand not in my presence: they fall to earth from

my hand. Who can meet Swaran in fight? Who but Fingal, king of

Selma of storms? Once we wrestled on Malmor; our heels

overturned the woods. Rocks fell from their place; rivulets,

changing their course, fled murmuring from our side. Three days

we renewed the strife; heroes stood at a distance and trembled.

On the fourth, Fingal says, that the king of the ocean fell! but

Swaran says he stood! Let dark Cuthullin yield to him, that is

strong as the storms of his land!'

"No!" replied the blue-eyed chief, "I never yield to mortal

man! Dark Cuthullin shall be great or dead! Go, son of Fithil,

take my spear. Strike the sounding shield of Semo. It hangs at

Tura's rustling gale. The sound of peace is not its voice! My

heroes shall hear and obey." He went. He struck the bossy shield.

The hills, the rocks reply. The sound spreads along the wood:

deer start by the lake of roes. Curach leaps from the sounding

rock! and Connal of the bloody spear! Crugal's breast of snow

beats high. The son of Favi leaves the dark-brown hind. It is the

shield of war, said Ronnart; the spear of Cuthullin, said Lugar!

Son of the sea, put on thy arms! Calmar, lift thy sounding steel!

Puno! dreadful hero, arise! Cairbar, from thy red tree of Cromla!

Bend thy knee, O Eth! descend from the streams of Lena Caolt,

stretch thy side as thou movest along the whistling heath of

Mora: thy side that is white as the foam of the troubled sea, when

the dark winds pour it on rocky Cuthon.

Now I behold the chiefs, in the pride of their former deeds!

Their souls are kindled at the battles of old; at the actions of

other times. Their eyes are flames of fire. They roll in search of

the foes of the land. Their mighty hands are on their swords.

Lightning pours from their sides of steel. They come like streams

from the mountains; each rushes roaring from the hill. Bright are

the chiefs of battle, in the armor of their fathers. Gloomy and

dark, their heroes follow like the gathering of the rainy clouds

behind the red meteors of heaven. The sounds of crashing arms

ascend. The gray dogs howl between. Unequal bursts the song of

battle. Rocking Cromla echoes round. On Lena's dusky heath

they stand, like mist that shades the hills of autumn; when

broken and dark it settles high, and lifts its head to heaven.

"Hail," said Cuthullin, "Sons of the narrow vales! hail,

hunters of the deer! Another sport is drawing near: it is like the

dark rolling of that wave on the coast! Or shall we fight, ye sons

of war! or yield green Erin to Lochlin? O Connal! speak, thou first

of men! thou breaker of the shields! thou hast often fought with

Lochlin: wilt thou lift thy father's spear?"

"Cuthullin!" calm the chief replied, "the spear of Connal is

keen. it delights to shine in battle, to mix with the blood of

thousands. But though my hand is bent on fight, my heart is for

the peace of Erin. <1> Behold, thou first in Cormac's war, the

sable fleet of Swaran. His masts are many on our coasts, like

reeds on the lake of Lego. His ships are forests clothed with

mists, when the trees yield by turns to the squally wind. Many

are his chiefs in battle. Connal is for peace! Fingal would shun

his arm, the first of mortal men! Fingal who scatters the mighty,

as stormy winds the echoing Cona; and night settles with all her

clouds on the hill!"

"Fly, thou man of peace!" said Colmar, "fly," said the son of

Matha; "go, Connal, to thy silent hills, where the spear never

brightens in war! Pursue the dark-brown deer of Cromla: stop

with thine arrows the bounding roes of Lena. But blue-eyed son

of Semo, Cuthullin, ruler of the field, scatter thou the Sons of

Lochlin! <2> roar through the ranks of their pride. Let no vessel

of the kingdom of snow bound on the dark-rolling waves of

Inistore. <3> Rise, ye dark winds of Erin, rise! roar, whirlwinds of

Lara of hinds! Amid the tempest let me die, torn, in a cloud, by

angry ghosts of men; amid the tempest let Calmar die, if ever

chase was sport to him, so much as the battle of shields!

"Calmar!" Connal slow replied, "I never fled, young son of

Matha! I was swift with my friends in fight; but small is the fame

of Connal! The battle was won in my presence! the valiant

overcame! But, son of Semo, hear my voice, regard the ancient

throne of Cormac. Give wealth and half the land for peace, till

Fingal shall arrive on our coast. Or, if war be thy choice, I lift the

sword and spear. My joy shall be in midst of thousands; my soul

shall alighten through the gloom of the fight!"

"To me," Cuthullin replies, "pleasant is the noise of arms!

pleasant as the thunder of heaven, before the shower of spring!

But gather all the shining tribes, that I may view the sons of war!

Let then pass along the heath, bright as the sunshine before a

storm; when the west wind collects the clouds, and Morven

echoes over all her oaks! But where are my friends in battle? the

supporters of my arm in danger? Where art thou, white-bosomed

Cƒthba? Where is that cloud in war, Duch"mar? Hast thou left

me, O Fergus! in the day of the storm? Fergus, first in our joy at

the feast! son of Rossa! arm of death!

comest thou like a roe from Malmor? like a hart from thy echoing

hills? Hall, thou son of Rossa! what shades the soul of war?"

"Four stones," <4> replied the chief, "rise on the grave of

Cƒthba. These hands have laid in earth Duch"mar, that cloud in

war! Cƒthba, son of Torman! thou wert a sunbeam in Erin. And

thou, O valiant Duch"mar! a mist of the marshy Lano; when it

moves on the plains of autumn, bearing the death of thousands

along. Morna! fairest of maids! calm is thy sleep in the cave of the

rock! Thou hast fallen in darkness, like a star, that shoots across

the desert; when the traveller is alone, and mourns the transient

beam!"

"Say," said Semo's blue-eyed son, "say how fell the chiefs of

Erin. Fell they by the sons of Lochlin, striving in the battle of

heroes? Or what confines the strong in arms to the dark and

narrow house?"

"Cƒthba," replied the hero, " fell by the sword of Duch"mar

at the oak of the noisy streams. Duch"mar came to Tura's cave;

he spoke to the lovely Morna. 'Morna, fairest among women,

lovely daughter of strong-armed Cormac! Why in the circle of

stones: in the cave of the rock alone? The stream murmurs along.

The old tree groans in the wind. The lake is troubled before thee:

dark are the clouds of the sky! But thou art snow on the heath;

thy hair is the mist of Cromla; when it curls on the hill, when it

shines to the beam of the west! Thy breasts are two smooth rocks

seen from Branno of streams. Thy arms, like two white pillars in

the halls of the great Fingal.'

"'From whence,' the fair-haired maid replied, 'from whence

Duch"mar, most gloomy of men? Dark are thy brows and terrible!

Red are thy rolling eyes! Does Swaran appear on the sea? What of

the foe, Duch"mar?' 'From the hill I return, O Morna, from the

hill of the dark-brown hinds. Three have I slain with my bended

yew. Three with my long-bounding dogs of the chase. Lovely

daughter of Cormac, I love thee as my soul: I have slain one

stately deer for thee. High was his branchy head-and fleet his feet

of wind.' 'Duch"mar!' calm the maid replied, 'I love thee not, thou

gloomy man! hard is thy heart of rock; dark is thy terrible brow.

But Cƒthba, young son of Torman, thou art the love of Morna.

Thou art a sunbeam, in the day of the gloomy storm. Sawest thou

the son of Torman, lovely on the hill of his hinds? Here the

daughter of Cormac waits the coming of Cƒthba!"

"'Long shall Morna wait,' Duch"mar said, 'long shall Morna

wait for Cƒthba! Behold this sword unsheathed! Here wanders

the blood of Cƒthba. Long shall Morna wait. He fell by the stream

of Branno. On Croma I will raise his tomb, daughter of blue-

shielded Cormac! Turn on Duch"mar thine eyes; his arm is

strong as a storm.' 'Is the son of Torman fallen?' said the wildly-

bursting voice of the maid; 'is he fallen on his echoing hills, the

youth with the breast of snow? the first in the chase of hinds! the

foe of the strangers of ocean! Thou art dark <5> to me,

Duch"mar; cruel is thine arm to Morna! Give me that sword, my

foe! I loved the wandering blood of Cƒthba!'

"He gave the sword to her tears. She pierced his manly

breast! He fell, like the bank of a mountain stream, and

stretching forth his hand, he spoke: 'Daughter of blue-shielded

Cormac! Thou hast slain me in youth! the sword is cold in my

breast! Morna; I feel it cold. Give me to Moina the maid.

Duch"mar was the dream of her night! She will raise my tomb;

the hunter shall raise my fame. But draw the sword from my

breast, Morna, the steel is cold!' She came, in all her tears she

came; she drew the sword from his breast. He pierced her white

side! He spread her fair locks on the ground! Her bursting blood

sounds from her side: her white arm is stained with red. Rolling

in death she lay. The cave re-echoed to her sighs."

"Peace," said Cuthullin, "to the souls of the heroes! their

deeds were great in fight. Let them ride around me on clouds. Let

them show their features of war. My soul shall then be firm in

danger; mine arm like the thunder of heaven! But be thou on a

moonbeam, O Morna! near the window of my rest; when my

thoughts are of peace; when the din of arms is past. Gather the

strength of the tribes! Move to the wars of Erin! Attend the car of

my battles! Rejoice in the noise of my course! Place three spears

by my side: follow the bounding of my steeds! that my soul may

be strong in my friends, when battle darken around the beams of

my steel!

As rushes a stream of foam from the dark shady deep of

Cromla, when the thunder is traveling above, and dark-brown

night sits on half the hill. Through the breaches of the tempest

look forth the dim faces of ghosts. So fierce, so vast, so terrible

rushed on the sons of Erin. The chief, like a whale of ocean,

whom all his billows pursue, poured valor forth, as a stream,

rolling his might along the shore. The sons of Lochlin heard the

noise, as the sound of a winter storm. Swaran struck his bossy

shield: he called the son of Arno. "What murmur rolls along the

hill, like the gathered flies of the eve? The sons of Erin descend,

or rustling winds roar in the distant wood! Such is the noise of

Gormal, before the white tops of my waves arise. O son of Arno!

ascend the hill; view the dark face of the heath!"

He went. He trembling swift returned. His eyes rolled wildly

round. His heart beat high against his side. His words were

faltering, broken, slow. "Arise, son of ocean, arise, chief of the

dark-brown shields! I see the dark, the mountain-stream of

battle! the deep. moving strength of the sons of Erin! the car of

war comes on, like the flame of death! the rapid car of Cuthullin,

the noble son of Semo! It bends behind like a wave near a rock;

like a sun-streaked mist of the heath. Its sides are embossed with

stones, and sparkle like the sea round the boat of night. Of

polished yew is its beam; its seat of the smoothest bone. The

sides are replenished with spears; the bottom is the foot-stool of

heroes! Before the right side of the car is seen the snorting horse!

the high-maned, broad-breasted, proud, wide-leaping strong

steed of the hill. Loud and resounding is his hoof: the spreading

of his mane above is like a stream of smoke on a ridge of rocks.

Bright are the sides of his steed! his name Sulin-Sifadda!

"Before the left side of the car is seen the snorting horse!

The thin-maned, high-headed, strong-hoofed fleet-bounding son

of the hill: His name is Dusronnal, among the stormy sons of the

sword! A thousand thongs bind the car on high. Hard polished

bits shine in wreath of foam. Thin thongs, bright studded with

gems, bend on the stately necks of the steeds. The steeds, that

like wreaths of mist fly over the streamy vales! The wildness of

deer is in their course, the strength of eagles descending on the

prey. Their noise is like the blast of winter, on the sides of the

snow-headed Gormal.

"Within the car is seen the chief; the strong-armed son of

the sword. The hero's name is Cuthullin, son of Semo, king of

shells. His red cheek is like my polished yew. The look of his

blue-rolling eye is wide, beneath the dark arch of his brow. His

hair flies from his head like a flame, as bending forward he wields

the spear. Fly, king of ocean, fly! He comes, like a storm along the

streamy vale!

"When did I fly?" replied the king; " when fled Swaran from

the battle of spears? When did I shrink from danger, chief of the

little soul? I met the storm of Gormal when the foam of my waves

beat high. I met the storm of the clouds; shall Swaran fly from a

hero? Were Fingal himself before me, my soul should not darken

with fear. Arise to battle, my thousands! pour round me like the

echoing main, gather round the bright steel of your king; strong

as the rocks of my land; that meet the storm with joys and

stretch their dark pines to the wind!"

Like autumn's dark storms pouring from two echoing hills,

towards each other approached the heroes. Like two deep

streams from high rocks meeting, mixing roaring on the plain;

loud, rough, and dark in battle meet Lochlin and Ins-fail. Chief

mixes his strokes with chief, and man with man: steel, clanging,

sounds on steel. Helmets are cleft on high. Blood bursts and

smokes around. Strings murmur on the polished yews. Darts

rush along the sky. Spears fall like the circles of light, which gild

the face of night: as the noise of the troubled ocean, when roll the

waves on high. As the last peal of thunder in heaven, such is the

din of war! Though Cormac's hundred bards were there to give

the fight to song; feeble was the voice of a hundred bards to send

the deaths to future times! For many were the deaths of heroes;

wide poured the blood of the brave!

Mourn, ye sons of song, mourn the death of the noble

Sith llin. Let the sons of Fiona rise, on the lone plains of her

lovely Ardan. They fell, like two hinds of the desert, by the hands

of the mighty Swaran; when, in the midst of thousands, he

roared like the shrill spirit of a storm. He sits dim on the clouds

of the north, and enjoys the death of the mariner. Nor slept thy

hand by thy side, chief of the isle of mist! <6> Many were the

deaths of thine arm, Cuthullin, thou son of Semo! His sword was

like the beam of heaven when it pierces the sons of the vale:

when the people are blasted and fall, and all the hills are burning

around. Dusronnal snorted over the bodies of heroes. Sifadda

bathed his hoof in blood. The battle lay behind them, as groves

overturned on the desert of Cromla; when the blast has passed

the heath, laden with the spirits of night!

Weep on the rocks of roaring winds, O maid of Inistore!

Bend thy fair head over the waves, thou lovelier than the ghost of

the hills, when it moves on the sun-beam, at noon, over the

silence of Morven. He is fallen: thy youth is low! pale beneath the

sword of Cuthullin! No more shall valor raise thy love to match

the blood of kings. Trenar, graceful Trenar died, O maid of

Inistore! His gray dogs are howling at home: they see his passing

ghost. His bow is in the hall unstrung. No sound is in the hall of

his hinds!

As roll a thousand waves to the rocks, so Swaran's host

came on. As meets a rock a thousand waves, so Erin met Swaran

of spears. Death raises all his voices around, and mixes with the

sounds of shields. Each hero is a pillar of darkness; the sword

abeam of fire in his hand. The field echoes from wing to wing, as

a hundred hammers, that rise, by turns, on the red son of the

furnace. Who are these on Lena's heath, these so gloomy and

dark? Who are these like two clouds, and their swords like

lightning. above them? The little hills are troubled around; the

rocks tremble with all their moss. Who is it but ocean's son and

the car-borne chief of Erin? Many are the anxious eyes of their

friends, as they see them dim on the heath. But night conceals

the chiefs in clouds, and ends the dreadful fight!

It was on Cromla's shaggy side that Dorglas had placed the

deer; the early fortune of the chase, before the heroes left the hill.

A hundred youths collect the heath; ten warriors make the fire;

three hundred choose the polished stones. The feast is smoking

wide! Cuthullin, chief of Erin's war, resumed his mighty soul. He

stood upon his beamy spear, and spoke to the son of songs; to

Carril of other times, the gray-headed son of Kinfena. "Is this

feast spread for me alone, and the king of Lochlin on Erin's

shore, far from the deer of his hills, and sounding halls of his

feasts? Rise, Carril of other times, carry my words to Swaran. Tell

him from the roaring of waters, that Cuthullin gives his feast.

Here let him listen to the sound of my groves, amidst the clouds

of night, for cold and bleak the blustering winds rush over the

foam of his seas. Here let him praise the trembling harp, and

hear the songs of heroes!"

Old Carril went with softest voice. He called the king of

dark-brown shields! Rise, from the skins of thy chase; rise,

Swaran, king of groves! Cuthullin gives the joy of shells. Partake

the feast of Erin's blue-eyed chief! He answered like the sullen

sound of Cromla before a storm. Though all thy daughters, Inis-

fail, should stretch their arms of snow, should raise the heavings

of their breasts, softly roll their eyes of love, yet fixed as Lochlin's

thousand rocks here Swaran should remain, till morn, with the

young beams of the east, shall light me to the death of Cuthullin.

Pleasant to my ear is Lochlin's wind! It rushes over my seas! It

speaks aloft in all my shrouds, and brings my green forests to my

mind: the green forests of Gormal, which often echoed to my

winds when my spear was red in the chase of the boar. Let dark

Cuthullin yield to me the ancient throne of Cormac, or Erin's

torrents shall show from their hills the red foam of the blood of

his pride!

"Sad is the sound of Swaran's voice," said Carril other

times! "Sad to himself alone," said the blue-eyed son of Semo.

"But, Carril, raise the voice on high; tell the deeds of other times.

Send thou the night away in song, and give the joy of grief. For

many heroes and maids of love have moved on Inis-fail, and

lovely are the songs of wo that are heard on Albion's rocks, when

the noise of the chase is past, and the streams of Cona <7>

answer to the voice of Ossian.

"In other days," Carril replies, "came the sons of ocean to

Erin; a thousand vessels bounded on waves to Ullin's lovely

plains. The sons of Inis-fail arose to meet the race of dark-brown

shields. Cairbar, first of men, was there, and Grudar, stately

youth! Long had they strove for the spotted bull that towed on

Golbun's echoing heath. Each claimed him as his own. Death

was often at the point of their steel. Side by side the heroes

fought: the strangers of ocean fled. Whose name was fairer on

the hill than the name of Cairbar and Grudar? But, ah! why ever

lowed the bull on Golbun's echoing heath? they saw him leaping

like snow. The wrath of the chiefs returned.

"On Lubar's <8> grassy banks they fought; Grudar fell in his

blood. Fierce Cairbar came to the vale, where Brassolis, fairest of

his sisters, all alone, raised the song of grief. She sung of the

actions of Grudar, the youth of her secret soul. She mourned him

in the field of blood, but still she hoped for his return. Her white

bosom is seen from her robe, as the moon from the clouds of

night, when its edge heaves white on the view from the darkness

which covers its orb). Her voice was softer than the harp to raise

the song of grief. Her soul was fixed on Grudar. The secret look of

her eye was his. 'When shalt thou come in thine arms, thou

mighty in the war?'

"'Take, Brassolis,' Cairbar came and said; 'take, Brassolis,

this shield of blood. Fix it on high within my hall, the armor of

my foe!' Her soft heart beat against her side. Distracted, pale, she

flew. She found her youth in all his blood; she died on Cromla's

heath. Here rests their dust, Cuthullin! these lonely yews sprung

from their tombs, and shade them from the storm. Fair was

Brassolis on the plain! Stately was Grudar on the hill! The bard

shall preserve their names, and send them down to future times!"

"Pleasant is thy voice, O Carril," said the blue-eyed chief of

Erin. Pleasant are the words of other times. They are like the

calm shower of spring, when the sun looks on the field, and the

light cloud flies over the hills. O strike the harp in praise of my

love, the lonely sunbeam of Dunscaith! Strike the harp in the

praise of Brag‚la, she that I left in the isle of mist, the spouse of

Semo's son! Dost thou raise thy fair face from the rock to find the

sails of Cuthullin? The sea is rolling distant far: its white foam

deceives thee for my sails. Retire, for it is night, my love; the dark

winds sigh in thy hair. Retire to the halls of my feasts, think of

the times that are past. I will not return till the storm of war is

ceased. O Connal! speak of war and arms, and send her from my

mind. Lovely with her flowing hair is the white-bosomed daughter

of Sorglan."

Connal, slow to speak, replied, "Guard against the race of

ocean. Send thy troop of night abroad, and watch the strength of

Swaran. Cuthullin, I am for peace till the race of Selma come, till

Fingal come, the first of men, and beam, like the sun on our

fields!" The hero struck the shield of alarms, the warriors of the

night moved on. The rest lay in the heath of the deer, and slept

beneath the dusky wind. The ghosts <9> of the lately dead were

near, and swam on the gloomy clouds; and far distant in the dark

silence of Lena, the feeble voices of death were faintly heard.

<1> Erin, a name of Ireland; for "ear," or "iar," west, and "in", an

island.

<2> Lochlin: The Gaelic name of a Scandinavian general.

<3> Inistore: The Orkney islands.

<4> This passage alludes to the manner of burial among the

ancient Scots. They opened a grave six or eight feet deep; the

bottom was lined with fine clay; and on this they laid the body of

the deceased, and, if a warrior, his sword, and the heads of

twelve arrows by his side. Above they laid another stratum of

clay, in which they placed the horn of a deer, the symbol of

hunting. The whole was covered with a fine mould, and four

stones placed on end to mark the extent of the grave. These are

the four stones alluded to here.

<5> Thou art dark to me: She alludes to his name the " dark

man."

<6> The isle of mist: The isle of Sky; not improperly called the

"isle of mist," as its high hills, which catch the clouds from the

Western Ocean, occasion almost continual rains.

<7> The Cona here mentioned is the small river that runs

through Glenco in Argyleshire.

<8> Lubar, a river in Ulster; "Labhar," loud, noisy.

<9> It was long the opinion of the ancient Scots, that a ghost was

heard shrieking near the place where a death was to happen soon

after.

FINGAL -- BOOK II.

ARGUMENT.

The ghost of Crugal, one of the Irish heroes who was killed in

battle, appearing to Connal, foretells the defeat of Cuthullin in

the next battle, and earnestly advises him to make peace with

Swaran. Connal communicates the vision; but Cuthullin is

inflexible; from a principle of honor he would not be the first to

sue for peace, and he resolved to continue the war. Morning

comes; Swaran proposes dishonorable terms to Cuthullin, which

are rejected. The battle begins, and is obstinately fought for some

time, until, upon the flight of Grumal, the whole Irish army gave

way. Cuthullin and Connal cover their retreat. Carril leads them

to a neighboring hill, whither they are soon followed by Cuthullin

himself; who descries the fleet of Fingal making towards their

coast; but night coming on, he lost sight of it again. Cuthullin,

dejected after his defeat, attributes his ill success to the death of

Ferda, his friend, whom he had killed some time before. Carril, to

show that ill success did not always attend those who innocently

killed their friends, introduces the episode of Connal and

Galvina.

Connal lay by the sound of the mountain-stream, beneath

the aged tree. A stone, with its moss, supported his head. Shrill,

through the heath of Lena, he heard the voice of night. At

distance from the heroes he lay; the son of the sword feared no

foe! The hero beheld, in his rest, a dark-red stream of fire rushing

down from the hill. Crugal sat upon the beam, a chief who fell in

fight. He fell by the hand of Swaran, striving in the battle of

heroes. His face is like the beam of the setting moon. His robes

are of the clouds of the hill. His eyes are two decaying flames.

Dark is the wound of his breast! "Crugal," said the mighty

Connal, "son of Dedgal famed on the hill of hinds! Why so pale

and sad, thou breaker of shields? Thou hast never been pale for

fear! What disturbs the departed Crugal?" Dim, and in tears he

stood, and stretched his pale hand over the hero. Faintly he

raised his feeble voice, like the gale of the reedy Lego.

"My spirit, Connal, is on my hills; my course on the sands

of Erin. Thou shalt never talk with Crugal, nor find his lone steps

in the heath. I am light as the blast of Cromla. I move like the

shadow of mist! Connal, son of Colgar, I see a cloud of death: it

hovers dark over the plains of Lena. The Sons of green Erin must

fall. Remove from the field of ghosts." Like the darkened moon he

retired, in the midst of the whistling blast. "Stay," said the mighty

Connal " stay, my dark-red friend. Lay by that beam of heaven,

son of windy Cromla! What cave is thy lonely house? What green-

headed hill the place of thy repose? Shall we not hear thee in the

storm? in the noise of the mountain-stream? when the feeble

Sons of the wind come forth, and, scarcely seen, pass over the

desert?"

The soft-voiced Connal rose, in the midst of his sounding

arms. He struck his shield above Cuthullin. The son of battle

waked. "Why," said the ruler of the car, "comes Connal through

my night? My spear might turn against the sound, and Cuthullin

mourn the death of his friend. Speak, Connal; son of Colgar,

speak; thy counsel is the sun of heaven!" "Son of Semo!" replied

the chief, "the ghost of Crugal came from his cave. The stars dim

twinkled through his form His voice was like the sound of a

distant stream He is a messenger of death! He speaks of the dark

and narrow house! Sue for peace, O chief of Erin!, or fly over the

heath of Lena!"

"He spoke to Connal," replied the hero, "though stars dim

twinkled through his form. Son of Colgar, it was the wind that

murmured across thy car. Or if it was the form of Crugal, why

didst thou not force him to my sight? Hast thou inquired where is

his cave? the house of that son of wind? My sword might find

that voice, and force his knowledge from Crugal. But small is his

knowledge, Connal; he was here to-day. He could not have gone

beyond our hills! who could tell him there of our fall?" "Ghosts fly

on clouds, and ride on winds," said Connal's voice of wisdom.

"They rest together in their caves, and talk of mortal men."

"Then let them talk of mortal men; of every man but Erin's

chief. Let me be forgot in their cave. I will not fly from Swaran! If

fall I must, my tomb shall rise amidst the fame of future times.

The hunter shall shed a tear on my stone: sorrow shall dwell

around the high-bosomed Brag‚la. I fear not death; to fly I fear!

Fingal has seen me victorious! Thou dim phantom of the hill,

show thyself to me! come on thy beam of heaven, show me my

death in thine hand! yet I will not fly, thou feeble son of the wind!

Go, son of Colgar, strike the shield. It hangs between the spears.

Let my warriors rise to the sound in the midst of the battles of

Erin. Though Fingal delays his coming with the race of his

stormy isles, we shall fight; O Colgar's son, and die in the battle

of heroes!"

The sound spreads wide. The heroes rise, like the breaking

of a blue-rolling wave. They stood on the heath, like oaks with all

their branches round them, when they echo to the stream of

frost, and their withered leaves are rustling to the wind! High

Cromla's head of clouds is gray. Morning trembles on the half-

enlightened ocean. The blue mist swims slowly by, and hides the

Sons of Inis-fail!

"Rise ye," said the king of the dark-brown shields, "ye that

came from Lochlin's waves. The sons of Erin have fled from our

arms; pursue them over the plains of Lena! Morla, go to Cormac's

hall. Bid them yield to Swaran, before his people sink to the

tomb, and silence spread over his isle." They rose, rustling like a

flock of sea-fowl, when the waves expel them from the shore.

Their sound was like a thousand streams, that meet in Cona's

vale, when after a stormy night, they turn their dark eddies

beneath the pale light of the morn.

As the dark shades of autumn fly over the hills of grass, so

gloomy, dark, successive came the chiefs of Lochlin's echoing

woods. Tall as the stag of Morven, moved stately before them the

king. His shining shield is on his side, like a flame on the heath

at night, when the world is silent and dark, and the traveller sees

some ghosts sporting in the beam! Dimly gleam the hills around,

and show indistinctly their oaks! A blast from the troubled ocean

removed the settled mist. The Sons of Erin appear, like a ridge of

rocks on the coast; when mariners, on shores unknown, are

trembling at veering winds!

"Go, Morla, go," said the king of Lochlin, "offer peace to

these. Offer the terms we give to kings, when nations bow down

to our swords. When the valiant are dead in war; when virgins

weep on the field!" Tall Morla came, the son of Swaran, and

stately strode the youth along! He spoke to Erin's blue-eyed chief,

among the lesser heroes. "Take Swaran's peace," the warrior

spoke, "the peace he gives to kings when nations bow to his

sword. Leave Erin's streamy plains to us, and give thy spouse

and dog. Thy spouse, high-bosomed heaving fair! Thy dog that

overtakes the wind! Give these to prove the weakness of thine

arm, live then beneath our power!"

"Tell Swaran, tell that heart of pride, Cuthullin never

yields! I give him the dark-rolling sea; I give his people graves in

Erin. But never shall a stranger have the pleasing sunbeam of my

love. No deer shall fly on Lochlin's hills, before swift-footed

Lu„th." "Vain ruler of the car," said Morla, " wilt thou then fight

the king? the king whose ships of many groves could carry off

thine isle! So little is thy green-hilled Erin to him who rules the

stormy waves!" " In words I yield to many, Morla. My sword shall

yield to none. Erin shall own the sway of Cormac while Connal

and Cuthullin live! O Connal, first of mighty men, thou hearest

the words of Morla. Shall thy thoughts then be of peace, thou

breaker of the shields? Spirit of fallen Crugal, Why didst thou

threaten us with death? The narrow house shall receive me in the

midst of the light of renown. Exalt, ye sons of Erin, exalt the

spear and bend the bow; rush on the foe in darkness, as the

spirits of stormy nights!"

Then dismal, roaring fierce and deep, the gloom of battle

poured along, as mist that is rolled on a valley when storms

invade the silent sunshine of heaven. Cuthullin moves before me

in arms, like an angry ghost before a cloud, when meteors

enclose him with fire; when the dark winds are in his hand.

Carril, far on the heath, bids the horn of battle sound. He raises

the voice of song, and pours his soul into the minds of the brave.

"Where," said the mouth of the song, "where is the fallen

Crugal? He lies forgot on earth; the hall of shells <1> is silent.

Sad is the spouse of Crugal. She is a stranger in the hall of her

grief. But who is she that, like a sunbeam, flies before the ranks

of the foe? It is Degrena, lovely fair, the spouse of fallen Crugal.

Her hair is on the wind behind. Her eye is red; her voice is shrill.

Pale, empty, is thy Crugal now! His form is in the cave of the hill.

He comes to the ear of rest; he raises his feeble voice, like the

humming of the mountain-bee, like the collected flies of the eve!

But Degrena falls like a cloud of the morn; the sword of Lochlin is

in her side. Cairbar, she is fallen, the rising thought of thy youth!

She is fallen, O Cairbar! the thought of thy youthful hours!"

Fierce Cairbar heard the mournful sound. He rushed along

like ocean's whale. He saw the death of his daughter: he roared in

the midst of thousands. His spear met a son of Lochlin! battle

spreads from wing to wing! As a hundred winds in Lochlin's

groves, as fire in the pines of a hundred hills, so loud, so

ruinous, so vast, the ranks of men are hewn down. Cuthullin cut

off heroes like thistles; Swaran wasted Erin. Curach fell by his

hand, Cairbar of the bossy shield! Morglan lies in lasting rest! Ca-

olt trembles as he dies! His white breast is stained with blood! his

yellow hair stretched in the dust of his native land! He often had

spread the feast where he fell. He often there had raised the voice

of the harp, when his dogs leapt round for joy, and the youths of

the chase prepared the bow!

Still Swaran advanced, as a stream that bursts from the

desert. The little hills are rolled in its course, the rocks are half-

sunk by its side. But Cuthullin stood before him, like a hill, that

catches the clouds of heaven. The winds contend on its head of

pines, the hail rattles on its rocks. But, firm in its strength, it

stands, and shades the silent vale of Cona. So Cuthullin shaded

the sons of Erin, and stood in the midst of thousands. Blood rises

like the fount of a rock from panting heroes around. But Erin

falls on either wing, like snow in the day of the sun.

O sons of Erin," said Grumal, "Lochlin conquers in the

field. Why strive we as reeds against the wind? Fly to the hill of

dark-brown hinds." He fled like the stag of Morven; his spear is a

trembling beam of light behind him. Few fled with Grumal, chief

of the little soul: they fell in the battle of heroes on Lena's

echoing heath. High on his car of many gems the chief of Erin

stood. He slew a mighty son of Lochlin, and spoke in haste to

Connal. "O Connal, first of mortal men, thou hast taught this

arm of death! Though Erin's Sons have fled, shall we not fight the

foe? Carril, son of other times, carry my friends to that bushy

hill. Here, Connal, let us stand like rocks, and save our flying

friends."

Connal mounts the car of gems. They stretch their shields,

like the darkened moon, the daughter of the starry skies, when

she moves a dun circle through heaven, and dreadful change is

expected by men. Sith-fadda panted up the hill, and Stronnal,

haughty steed. Like waves behind a whale, behind them rushed

the foe. Now on the rising side of Cromla stood Erin's few sad

sons: like a grove through which the flame had rushed, hurried

on by the winds of the stormy night; distant, withered, dark, they

stand, with not a leaf to shake in the vale.

Cuthullin stood beside an oak. He rolled his red eye in

silence, and heard the wind in his bushy hair; the scout of ocean

came, Moran the son of Fithil "The ships," he cried, "the ships of

the lonely isles. Fingal comes, the first of men, the breaker of the

shields! The waves foam before his black prows! His masts with

sails are like groves in clouds!" -- "Blow," said Cuthullin, "blow,

ye winds that rush along my isle of mist. Come to the death of

thousands, O king of resounding Selma! Thy sails, my friend, are

to me the clouds of the morning; thy ships the light of heaven;

and thou thyself a pillar of fire that beams on the world by night.

O Connal, first of men, how pleasing in grief are our friends! But

the night is gathering around. Where now are the ships of Fingal?

Here let us pass the hours of darkness; here wish for the moon of

heaven."

The winds came down on the woods. The torrents rush

from the rocks. Rain gathers round the head of Cromla. The red

stars tremble between the flying clouds. Sad, by the side of a

stream, whose sound is echoed by a tree, sad by the side of a

stream the chief of Erin sits. Connal, son of Colgar, is there, and

Carril of other times. "Unhappy is the hand of Cuthullin," said

the son of Semo, "unhappy is the hand of Cuthullin since he slew

his friend! Ferda, son of Damman, I loved thee as myself!"

"How, Cuthullin, son of Semo, how fell the breaker of the

shields? Well I remember," said Connal, "the son of the noble

Damman. Tall and fair, he was like the rainbow of heaven. Ferda

from Albion came, the chief of a hundred hills. In Muri's <2> hall

he learned the sword, and won the friendship of Cuthullin. We

moved to the chase together: one was our bed in the heath."

Deugala was the spouse of Cairbar, chief of the plains of

Ullin. She was covered with the light of beauty, but her heart was

the house of pride. She loved that sunbeam of youth, the son of

the noble Damman. "Cairbar," said the white-armed Deugala,

"give me half of the herd. No more I will remain in your halls.

Divide the herd, dark Cairbar!" "Let Cuthullin," said Cairbar,

"divide my herd on the hill.

His breast is the seat of justice. Depart, thou light of

beauty!" I went and divided the herd. One snow-white bull

remained. I gave that bull to Cairbar. The wrath of Deugala rose!

"Son of Damman," began the fair, "Cuthullin hath pained

my soul. I must hear of his death, or Lubar's stream shall roll

over me. My pale ghost shall wander near thee, and mourn the

wound of my pride. Pour out the blood of Cuthullin, or pierce this

heaving breast." "Deugala," said the fair-haired youth, "how shall

I slay the son of Semo? He is the friend of my secret thoughts.

Shall I then lift the sword?" She wept three days before the chief;

on the fourth he said he would fight. "I will fight my friend,

Deugala, but may I fall by his sword! Could I wander on the hill

alone? Could I behold the grave of Cuthullin?" We fought on the

plain of Mori. Our swords avoid a wound. They slide on the

helmets of steel, or sound on the slippery shields. Deugala was

near with a smile, and said to the son of Damman: "Thine arm is

feeble, sunbeam of youth! Thy years are not strong for steel. Yield

to the son of Semo. He is a rock on Malmor."

The tear is in the eye of youth. He faltering said to me:

"Cuthullin, raise thy bossy shield. Defend thee from the hand of

thy friend. My soul is laden with grief, for I must slay the chief of

men." I sighed as the wind in the cleft of a rock. I lifted high the

edge of my steel. The sunbeam of battle fell: the first of

Cuthullin's friends! Unhappy is the hand of Cuthullin since the

hero fell!"

""Mournful is thy tale, son of the car," said Carril of other

times. "It sends my soul back to the ages of old, to the days of

other years. Often have I heard of Comal, who slew the friend he

loved; yet victory attended his steel: the battle was consumed in

his presence!"

Comal was the son of Albion, the chief of a hundred hills!

His deer drunk of a thousand streams. A thousand rocks replied

to the voice of his dogs. His face was the mildness of youth; his

hand the death of heroes. One was his love, and fair was she, the

daughter of the mighty Conloch. She appeared like a sunbeam

among women. Her hair was the wing of the raven. Her dogs were

taught to the chase. Her bowstring sounded on the winds. Her

soul was fixed on Comal. Often met their eyes of love. Their

course in the chase was one. Happy were their words in secret.

But Grumal loved the maid, the dark chief of the gloomy Ardven.

He watched her lone steps in the heath, the foe of unhappy

Comal.

One day, tired of the chase, when the mist had concealed

their friends, Comal and the daughter of Conloch met in the cave

of Ronan. It was the wonted haunt of Comal. Its sides were hung

with his arms. A hundred shields of thongs were there; a

hundred helms of sounding steel. "Rest here," he said, "my love,

Galbina: thou light of the cave of Ronan! A deer appears on

Mora's brow. I go; but I will soon return." "I fear," she said, "dark

Grumal, my foe: he haunts the cave of Ronan! I will rest among

the arms; but soon return, my love!"

He went to the deer of Mora. The daughter of Conloch

would try his love. She clothed her fair sides with his armor: she

strode from the cave of Ronan! he thought it was his foe. His

heart beat high. His color changed, and darkness dimmed his

eyes. He drew the bow. The arrow flew. Galbina fell in blood! He

run with wildness in his steps: he called the daughter of Conloch.

No answer in the lonely rock. Where art thou, O my love? He saw

at length her heaving heart, beating around the arrow he threw.

"O Conloch's daughter! is it thou?" He sunk upon her breast! The

hunters found the hapless pair! He afterward walked the hill. But

many and silent were his steps round the dark dwelling of his

love. The fleet of the ocean came. He fought; the strangers fled.

He searched for death along the field. But who could slay the

mighty Coma!? He threw away his dark-brown shield. An arrow

found his manly breast. He sleeps with his loved Galbina at the

noise of the sounding surge! Their green tombs are seen by the

mariner, when he bounds on the waves of the north.

<1> The ancient Scots, well as the present Highlanders, drunk in

shells; hence it is, that we so often meet in the old poetry with

"chief of shells," and "the hall of shells."

<2> Muri: A place in Ulster.

FINGAL -- BOOK III <1>

ARGUMENT.

Cuthullin, pleased with the story of Carril, insists with that bard

for more of his songs. He relates the actions of Fingal in Lochlin,

and death of Agandecca, the beautiful sister of Swaran. He had

scarce finished, when Calmar, the son of Matha, who had advised

the first battle, came wounded from the field, and told them of

Swaran's design to surprise the remains of the Irish army. He

himself proposes to withstand singly the whole force of the

enemy, in a narrow pass, till the Irish should make good their

retreat. Cuthullin, touched with the gallant proposal of Calmar,

resolves to accompany him and orders Carril to carry off the few

that remained of the Irish. Morning comes, Calmar dies of his

wounds; and the ships of the Caledonians appearing, Swaran

gives over the pursuit of the Irish, and returns to oppose Fingal's

landing. Cuthullin, ashamed, after his defeat, to appear before

Fingal re tires to the cave of Tura. Fingal engages the enemy,

puts them to flight: but the coming on of night makes the victory

not decisive. The king, who had observed the gallant behavior of

his grandson Oscar, gives him advice concerning his conduct in

peace and war. He recommends to him to place the example of

his fathers before his eyes, as the best model for his conduct;

which introduces the episode concerning Fainas¢llis, the

daughter of the king of Craca, whom Fingal had taken under his

protection in his youth. Fillan and Oscar are despatched to

observe the motions of the enemy by night: Gaul, the son of

Morni, desires the command of the army in the next battle, which

Fingal promises to give him. Some general reflections of the poet

close the third day.

"PLEASANT are the words of the song! "said Cuthullin,

"lovely the tales of other times! They are like the calm dew of the

morning on the hill of roes! when the sun is faint on its side, and

the lake is settled and blue on the vale. O Carril, raise again thy

voice! let me hear the song of Selma: which was sung in my halls

of joy, when Fingal, king of shields, was there, and glowed at the

deeds of his fathers.

"Fingal! thou dweller of battle," said Carril, "early were thy

deeds in arms. Lochlin was consumed in thy wrath, when thy

youth strove in the beauty of maids. They smiled at the fair-

blooming face of the hero; but death was in his hands. He was

strong as the waters of Lora. His followers were the roar of a

thousand streams. They took the king of Lochlin in war; they

restored him to his ship. His big heart swelled with pride; the

death of the youth was dark in his soul. For none ever but Fingal,

had overcome the strength of the mighty Starno. He sat in the

hall of his shells in Lochlin's woody land. He called the gray-

haired Snivan, that often sung round the circle of Loda; when

the stone of power heard his voice <2>, and battle turned in the

field of the valiant!

"'Go, gray-haired Snivan,' Starno said: 'go to Ardven's sea-

surrounded rocks. Tell to the king of Selma; he the fairest among

his thousands; tell him I give to him my daughter, the loveliest

maid that ever heaved a breast of snow. Her arms are white as

the foam of my waves. Her soul is generous and mild. Let him

come with his bravest heroes to the daughter of the secret hall!'

Snivan came to Selma's hall: fair-haired Fingal attended his

steps. His kindled soul flew to the maid, as he bounded on the

waves of the north. 'Welcome,' said the dark-brown Starno,

'welcome, king of rocky Morven! welcome his heroes of might,

sons of the distant isle! Three days within thy halls shall we

feast; three days pursue my boars; that your fame may reach the

maid who dwells in the secret hall.'

"Starno designed their death. He gave the feast of shells.

Fingal, who doubted the foe, kept on his arms of steel. The sons

of death were afraid: they fled from the eyes of the king. The voice

of sprightly mirth arose. The trembling harps of joy were strung.

Bards sung the battles of heroes; they sung the heaving breast of

love. Ullin, Fingal's bard, was there: the sweet voice of resounding

Cona. He praised the daughter of Lochlin; and Morven's <3>

high-descended chief. The daughter of Lochlin overheard. She left

the hall of her secret sigh! She came in all her beauty, like the

moon from the cloud of the east. Loveliness was round her as

light. Her steps were the music of songs. She saw the youth and

loved him. He was the stolen sigh of her soul. Her blue eyes rolled

on him in secret: she blessed the chief of resounding Morven.

"The third day, with all its beams, shone bright on the

wood of boars. Forth moved the dark-browed Starno; and Fingal,

king of shields. Half the day they spent in the chase; the spear of

Selma was red in blood. It was then the daughter of Starno, with

blue eyes rolling in tears; it was then she came with her voice of

love, and spoke to the king of Morven. 'Fingal, high-descended

chief, trust not Starno's heart of pride. Within that wood he has

placed his chiefs. Beware of the wood of death. But remember,

son of the isle, remember Agandecca; save me from the wrath of

my father, king of the windy Morven!'

"The youth with unconcern went on; his heroes by his side.

The sons of death fell by his hand; and Germal echoed around!

Before the halls of Starno the sons of the chase convened. The

king's dark brows were like clouds; his eyes like meteors of night.

'Bring hither,' he said, 'Agandecca to her lovely king of Morven!

His hand is stained with the blood of my people; her words have

not been in vain!' She came with the red eye of tears. She came

with loosely flowing locks. Her white breast heaved with broken

sighs, like the foam of the streamy Lubar. Starno pierced her side

with steel. She fell, like a wreath of snow, which slides from the

rocks of Ronan, when the woods are still, and echo deepens in

the vale! Then Fingal eyed his valiant chiefs: his valiant chiefs

took arms! The gloom of battle roared: Lochlin fled or died. Pale

in his bounding ship he closed the maid of the softest soul. Her

tomb ascends on Ardven; the sea roars round her narrow

dwelling."

"Blessed be her soul," said Cuthullin; "blessed be the

mouth of the song! Strong was the youth of Fingal; strong is his

arm of age. Lochlin shall fall again before the king of echoing

Morven. Show thy face from a cloud, O moon! light his white sails

on the wave: and if any strong spirit of heaven sits on that low-

hung cloud; turn his dark ships from the rock, thou rider of the

storm!"

Such were the words of Cuthullin at the sound of the

mountain stream; when Calmar ascended the hill, the wounded

son of Matha. From the field he came in his blood. He leaned on

his bending spear. Feeble is the arm of battle! but strong the soul

of the hero! "Welcome! O son of Matha," said Connal, "welcome

art thou to thy friends! Why bursts that broken sigh from the

breast of him who never feared before?" "And never, Connal, will

he fear, chief of the pointed steel! My soul brightens in danger; in

the noise of arms I am of the race of battle. My fathers never

feared.

"Cormar was the first of my race. He sported through the

storms of waves. His black skiff bounded on ocean; he travelled

on the wings of the wind. A spirit once embroiled the night. Seas

swell and rocks resound. Winds drive along the clouds. The

lightning flies on wings of fire. He feared, and came to land, then

blushed that he feared at all. He rushed again among the waves,

to find the son of the wind. Three youths guide the bounding

bark: he stood with sword unsheathed. When the low-hung vapor

passed, he took it by the curling head. He searched its dark

womb with his steel. The son of the wind forsook the air. The

moon and the stars returned! Such was the boldness of my race.

Calmar is like his fathers. Danger flies from the lifted sword. They

best succeed who dare!

"But now, ye sons of green Erin, retire from Lena's bloody

heath. Collect the sad remnant of our friends, and join the sword

of Fingal. I heard the sound of Lochlin's advancing arms: Calmar

will remain and fight. My voice shall be such, my friends, as if

thousands were behind me. But, son of Semo, remember me.

Remember Calmar's lifeless corse. When Fingal shall have wasted

the field, place me by some stone of remembrance, that future

times may hear my fame; that the mother of Calmar may rejoice

in my renown."

"No: son of Matha," said Cuthullin, "I will never leave thee

here. My joy is in an unequal fight: my soul increases in danger.

Connal, and Carril of other times, carry off the sad sons of Erin.

When the battle is over, search for us in this narrow way. For

near this oak we shall fall, in the streams of the battle of

thousands! O Fithal's son, with flying speed rush over the heath

of Lena. Tell to Fingal that Erin is fallen. Bid the king of Morven

come. O let him come like the sun in a storm, to lighten, to

restore the isle!"

Morning is gray on Cromla. The sons of the sea ascend.

Calmar stood forth to meet them in the pride of his kindling soul.

But pale was the face of the chief. He leaned on his father's

spear. That spear which he brought from Lara, when the soul of

his mother was sad; the soul of the lonely Alcletha, waning in the

sorrow of years. But slowly now the hero falls, like a tree on the

plain. Dark Cuthullin stands alone like a rock in a sandy vale.

The sea comes with its waves, and roars on its hardened sides.

Its head is covered with foam; the hills are echoing round.

Now from the gray mist of the ocean the white-sailed ships

of Fingal appear. High is the grove of their masts, as they nod, by

turns, on the rolling wave. Swaran saw them from the hill. He

returned from the sons of Erin. As ebbs the resounding sea,

through the hundred isles of Inistore; so loud, so vast, so

immense, returned the sons of Lochlin against the king. But

bending, weeping, sad, and slow, and dragging his long spear

behind, Cuthullin sunk in Cromla's wood, and mourned his

fallen friends. He feared the face of Fingal, who was wont to greet

him from the fields of renown!

"How many lie there of my heroes! the chiefs of Erin's race!

they that were cheerful in the hall, when the sound of the shells

arose! No more shall I find their steps in the heath! No more shall

I hear their voice in the chase. Pale, silent, low on bloody beds,

are they who were my friends! O spirits of the lately dead, meet

Cuthullin on his heath! Speak to him on the winds, when the

rustling tree of Tura's cave resounds. There, far remote, I shall lie

unknown. No bard shall hear of me. No gray stone shall rise to

my renown. Mourn me with the dead, O Brag‚la! departed is my

fame." Such were the words of Cuthullin, when he sunk in the

woods of Cromla!

Fingal, tall in his ship, stretched his bright lance before

him. Terrible was the gleam of his steel: It was like the green

meteor of death, setting in the heath of Malmor, when the

traveller is alone, and the broad moon is darkened in heaven.

"The battle is past," said the king. "I behold the blood of my

friends. Sad is the heath of Lena! mournful the oaks of Cromla!

The hunters have fallen in their strength: the son of Semo is no

more! Ryno and Fillan, my sons, sound the horn of Fingal!

Ascend that hill on the shore; call the children of the foe. Call

them from the grave of Lamderg, the chief of other times. Be your

voice like that of your father, when he enters the battles of his

strength! I wait for the mighty stranger. I wait on Lena's shore for

Swaran. Let him come with all his race; strong in battle are the

friends of the dead!"

Fair Ryno as lightning gleamed along: dark Fillan rushed

like the shade of autumn. On Lena's heath their voice is heard.

The sons of ocean heard the horn of Fingal. As the roaring eddy

of ocean returning from the kingdom of snows: so strong, so

dark, so sudden, came down the sons of Lochlin. The king in

their front appears, in the dismal pride of his arms! Wrath burns

on his dark-brown face; his eyes roll in the fire of his valor. Fingal

beheld the son of Starno: he remembered Agandecca. For Swaran

with tears of youth had mourned his white-bosomed sister. He

sent Ullin of songs to bid him to the feast of shells: for pleasant

on Fingal's soul returned the memory of the first of his loves!

Ullin came with aged steps, and spoke to Starno's son. "O

thou that dwellest afar, surrounded, like a rock, with thy waves!

come to the feast of the king, and pass the day in rest. To-morrow

let us fight, O Swaran, and break the echoing shields." -- "To-

day," said Starno's wrathful son, "we break the echoing shields:

to-morrow my feast shall be spread; but Fingal shall lie on earth."

-- "To-morrow let his feast be spread," said Fingal, with a smile.

"To-day, O my sons! we shall break the echoing shields. Ossian,

stand thou near my arm. Gaul, lift thy terrible sword. Fergus,

bend thy crooked yew. Throw, Fillan, thy lance through heaven.

Lift your shields, like the darkened moon. Be your spears the

meteors of death. Follow me in the path of my fame. Equal my

deeds in battle."

As a hundred winds on Morven; as the streams of a

hundred hills; as clouds fly successive over heaven; as the dark

ocean assails the shore of the desert: so roaring, so vast, so

terrible, the armies mixed on Lena's echoing heath. The groans of

the people spread over the hills: it was like the thunder of night,

when the cloud bursts on Cona; and a thousand ghosts shriek at

once on the hollow wind. Fingal rushed on in his strength,

terrible as the spirit of Trenmor; when in a whirlwind he comes to

Morven, to see the children of his pride. The oaks resound on

their mountains, and the rocks fall down before him. Dimly seen

as lightens the night, he strides largely from hill to hill. Bloody

was the hand of my father, when he whirled the gleam of his

sword. He remembers the battles of his youth. The field is wasted

in its course!

Ryno went on like a pillar of fire. Dark is the brow of Gaul.

Fergus rushed forward with feet of wind; Fillin like the mist of the

hill. Ossian, like a rock, came down. I exulted in the strength of

the king. Many were the deaths of my arm! dismal the gleam of

my sword! My locks were not then so gray; nor trembled my

hands with age. My eyes were not closed in darkness; my feet

failed not in the race!

Who can relate the deaths of the people? who the deeds of

mighty heroes? when Fingal, burning in his wrath, consumed the

sons of Lochlin? Groans swelled on groans from hill to hill, till

night had covered all. Pale, staring like a herd of deer, the sons of

Lochlin convene on Lena. We sat and heard the sprightly harp, at

Lubar's gentle stream. Fingal himself was next to the foe. He

listened to the tales of his bards. His godlike race were in the

song, the chiefs of other times. Attentive, leaning on his shield,

the king of Morven sat. The wind whistled through his locks; his

thoughts are of the days of other years. Near him, on his bending

spear, my young, my valiant Oscar stood. He admired the king of

Morven: his deeds were swelling in his soul.

"Son of my son," began the king, "O Oscar, pride of youth: I

saw the shining of the sword. I gloried in my race. Pursue the

fame of our fathers; be thou what they have been, when Trenmor

lived, the first of men, and Trathal, the father of heroes! They

fought the battle in their youth. They are the song of bards. O

Oscar! bend the strong in arm; but spare the feeble hand. Be

thou a stream of many tides against the foes of thy people; but

like the gale, that moves the grass. to those who ask thine aid. So

Trenmor lived; such Trathal was; and such has Fingal been. My

arm was the support of the injured; the weak rested behind the

lightning of my steel.

"Oscar! I was young, like thee, when lovely Fainas¢llis

came: that sunbeam! that mild light of love! the daughter of

Craca's <4> king. I then returned from Cona's heath, and few

were in my train. A white-sailed boat appeared far off; we saw it

like a mist that rode on ocean's wind. It soon approached. We

saw the fair. Her white breast heaved with sighs. The wind was

in her loose dark hair; her rosy cheek had tears. 'Daughter of

beauty,' calm I said, 'what sigh is in thy breast? Can I, young as I

am, defend thee, daughter of the sea? My sword is not

unmatched in war, but dauntless is my heart."

"'To thee I fly,' with sighs she said, 'O prince of mighty men!

To thee I fly, chief of the generous shells, supporter of the feeble

hand! The king of Craca's echoing isle owned me the sunbeam of

his race. Cromla's hills have heard the sighs of love for unhappy

Fainas¢llis! Sora's chief beheld me fair; he loved the daughter of

Craca. His sword is a beam of light upon the warrior's side. But

dark is his brow; and tempests are in his soul. I shun him on the

roaring sea; but Sora's chief pursues.'

"'Rest thou,' I said, 'behind my shield! rest in peace, thou

beam of light! The gloomy chief of Sora will fly, if Fingal's arm is

like his soul. In some lone cave I might conceal thee, daughter of

the sea. But Fingal never flies. Where the danger threatens, I

rejoice in the storm of spears.' I saw the tears upon her cheek. I

pitied Craca's fair. Now, like a dreadful wave afar, appeared the

ship of stormy Borbar. His masts high-bended over the sea

behind their sheets of snow. White roll the waters on either side.

The strength of ocean sounds. 'Come thou,' I said, 'from the roar

of ocean, thou rider of the storm. Partake the feast within my

hall. It is the house of strangers.'

"The maid stood trembling by my side. He drew the bow.

She fell. 'Unerring is thy hand,' I said, 'but feeble was the foe.' We

fought, nor weak the strife of death. He sunk beneath my sword.

We laid them in two tombs of stone; the hapless lovers of youth!

Such have I been, in my youth, O Oscar! be thou like the age of

Fingal. Never search thou for battle; nor shun it when it comes.

"Fillan and Oscar of the dark-brown hair! ye that are swift

in the race fly over the heath in my presence. View the sons of

Lochlin. Far off I hear the noise of their feet, like distant sounds

in woods. Go: that they may not fly from my sword, along the

waves of the north. For many chiefs of Erin's race lie here on the

dark bed of death. The children of war are low; the sons of

echoing Cromla."

The heroes flew like two dark clouds: two dark clouds that

are the chariots of ghosts; when air's dark children come forth to

frighten hapless men. It was then that Gaul, the son of Morni,

stood like a rock in night. His spear is glittering to the stars; his

voice like many streams.

"Son of battle," cried the chief, "O Fingal, king of shells! let

the bards of many songs soothe Erin's friends to rest. Fingal,

sheath thou thy sword of death; and let thy people fight. We

wither away without our fame; our king is the only breaker of

shields! When morning rises on our hills, behold at a distance

our deeds. Let Lochlin feel the sword of Morni's son; that bards

may sing of me. Such was the custom heretofore of Fingal's noble

race. Such was thine own, thou king of swords, in battles of the

spear."

O son of Morni," Fingal replied, "I glory in thy fame. Fight;

but my spear shall be near, to aid thee in the midst of danger.

Raise, raise the voice, ye sons of song, and lull me into rest. Here

will Fingal lie, amidst the wind of night. And if thou, Agandecca,

art near, among the children of thy land; if thou sittest on a blast

of wind, among the high-shrouded masts of Lochlin; come to my

dreams, my fair one! Show thy bright face to my soul ."

Many a voice and many a harp, in tuneful sounds arose. Of

Fingal noble deeds they sung; of Fingal's noble race: and

sometimes, on the lovely sound was heard the name of Ossian. I

often fought, and often won in battles of the spear. But blind, and

tearful, and forlorn, I walk with little men! O Fingal, with thy race

of war I now behold thee not. The wild roes feed on the green

tomb of the mighty king of Morven! Blest be thy soul, thou king of

swords, thou most renowned on the hills of Cona!

<1> The second night, since the opening of the poem, continues;

and Cuthullin, Connal, and Carril, still sit in the place described

in the preceding book.

<2> This passage most certainly alludes to the religion of Lochlin,

and "the stone of power," here mentioned, is the image of one of

the deities of Scandinavia.

<3> All the Northwest coast of Scotland probably went, of old

under the name of Morven, which signifies a ridge of very high

hills

<4> What the Craca here mentioned was, it is not, at this

distance of time, easy to determine. The most probable opinion is,

that it was one of the Shetland Isles.

FINGAL -- BOOK IV.

ARGUMENT.

The action of the poem being suspended by night, Ossian takes

the opportunity to relate his own actions at the lake of Lego, and

his courtship of Everallin, who was the mother of Oscar, and had

died some time before the expedition of Fingal into Ireland. Her

ghost appears to him, and tells him that Oscar, who had been

sent, the beginning of the night, to observe the enemy, was

engaged with an advanced party, and almost overpowered.

Ossian relieves his son; and an alarm is given to Fingal of the

approach of Swaran. The king rises, calls his army together, and,

as he had promised the preceding night, devolves the command

on Gaul the son of Morni, while he himself, after charging his

sons to behave gallantly and defend his people, retires to a hill,

from whence he could have a view of the battle. The battle joins;

the poet relates Oscar's great actions. But when Oscar, in

conjunction with his father, conquered in one wing, Gaul, who

was attacked by Swaran in person, was on the point of retreating

in the other. Fingal sends Ullin his bard to encourage them with

a war song, but notwithstanding Swaran prevails; and Gaul and

his army are obliged to give way. Fingal descending from the hill,

rallies them again; Swaran desists from the pursuit, possesses

himself of a rising ground, restores the ranks, and waits the

approach of Fingal. The king, having encouraged his men, gives

the necessary orders, and renews the battle. Cuthullin, who, with

his friend Connal, and Carril his bard, had retired to the cave of

Tura, hearing the noise, came to the brow of the hill, which

overlooked the field of battle, where he saw Fingal engaged with

the enemy. He, being hindered by Connal from joining Fingal,

who was himself upon the point of obtaining a complete victory,

sends Carril to congratulate that hero on success.

Who comes with her songs from the hill, like the bow of the

showery Lena? It is the maid of the voice of love: the white-armed

daughter of Toscar! Often hast thou heard my song; often given

the tear of beauty. Hast thou come to the wars of thy people? to

hear the actions of Oscar? When shall I cease to mourn, by the

streams of resounding Cona? My years have passed away in

battle. My age is darkened with grief!

"Daughter of the hand of snow, I was not so mournful and

blind; I was not so dark and forlorn, when Everallin loved me!

Everallin with the dark-brown hair, the white-bosomed daughter

of Branno. A thousand heroes sought the maid, she refused her

love to a thousand. The sons of the sword were despised: for

graceful in her eyes was Ossian. I went, in suit of the maid, to

Lego's sable surge. Twelve of my people were there, the sons of

streamy Morven! We came to Branno, friend of strangers! Branno

of the sounding mail! 'From whence,' he said, 'are the arms of

steel? Not easy to win is the maid, who has denied the blue-eyed

sons of Erin. But blest be thou, O son of Fingal! Happy is the

maid that waits thee! Though twelve daughters of beauty were

mine, thine were the choice, thou son of fame!'

"He opened the hall of the maid, the dark-haired Everallin.

Joy kindled in our manly breasts. We blest the maid of Branno.

Above us on the hill appeared the people of stately Cormac. Eight

were the heroes of the chief. The heath flamed wide with their

arms. There Colla; there Durra of wounds; there mighty Toscar,

and Tago; there Fresta the victorious stood; Dairo of the happy

deeds; Dala the battle's bulwark in the narrow way! The sword

flamed in the hand of Cormac. Graceful was the look of the hero!

Eight were the heroes of Ossian. Ullin, stormy son of war. Mullo

of the generous deeds. The noble, the graceful Scelacha. Oglan,

and Cerdan the wrathful. Dumariccan's brows of death. And why

should Ogar be the last; so wide-renowned on the hills of Ardven?

"Ogar met Dala the strong face to face, on the field of

heroes. The battle of the chiefs was like wind, on ocean's foamy

waves. The dagger is remembered by Ogar; the weapon which he

loved. Nine times he drowned it in Dala's side. The stormy battle

turned. Three times I broke on Cormac's shield: three times he

broke his spear. But, unhappy youth of love! I cut his head away.

Five times I shook it by the lock. The friends of Cormac fled.

Whoever would have told me, lovely maid, when then I strove in

battle, that blind, forsaken, and forlorn, I now should pass the

night; firm ought his mail to have been; unmatched his arm in

war."

On Lena's gloomy heath the voice of music died away. The

inconstant blast blew hard. The high oak shook its leaves

around. Of Everallin were my thoughts, when in all the light of

beauty she came; her blue eyes rolling in tears. She stood on a

cloud before my sight, and spoke with feeble voice! "Rise, Ossian,

rise, and save my son; save Oscar, prince of men. Near the red

oak of Luba's stream he fights with Lochlin's sons." She sunk

into her cloud again. I covered me with steel. My spear supported

my steps; my rattling armor rung. I hummed, as I was wont in

danger, the songs of heroes of old. Like distant thunder Lochlin

heard. They fled; my son pursued.

I called him like a distant stream. "Oscar, return over Lena.

No further pursue the foe," I said, "though Ossian is behind

thee." He came! and pleasant to my ear was Oscar's sounding

steel. "Why didst thou stop my hand," he said, "till death had

covered all? For dark and dreadful by the stream they met thy

son and Fillin. They watched the terrors of the night. Our swords

have conquered some. But as the winds of night pour the ocean

over the white sands of Mora, so dark advance the sons of

Lochlin, over Lena's rustling heat! The ghosts of night shriek afar:

I have seen the meteors of death. Let me awake the king of

Morven, he that smiles in danger! He that is like the sun of

heaven, rising in a storm!"

Fingal had started from a dream, and leaned on Trenmor's

shield! the dark-brown shield of his fathers, which they had lifted

of old in war. The hero had seen, in his rest, the mournful form of

Agandecca. She came from the way of the ocean. She slowly,

lonely, moved over Lena. Her face was pale, like the mist of

Cromla. Dark were the tears of her cheek. She often raised her

dim hand from her robe, her robe which was of the clouds of the

desert: she raised her dim hand over Fingal, and turned away

silent eyes! "Why weeps the daughter of Starno?" said Fingal with

a sigh; "why is thy face so pale, fair wanderer of the clouds?" She

departed on the wind of Lena. She left him in the midst of the

night. She mourned the sons of her people, that were to fall by

the hand of Fingal.

The hero started from rest. Still he beheld her in his soul.

The sound of Oscar's steps approached. The king saw the gray

shield on his side: for the faint beam of the morning came over

the waters of Ullin. "What do the foes in their fear?" said the

rising king of Morven: "or fly they through ocean's foam, or wait

they the battle of steel? But why should Fingal ask? I hear their

voice on the early wind! Fly over Lena's heath: O Oscar, awake

our friends!"

The king stood by the stone of Lubar. Thrice he reared his

terrible voice. The deer started from the fountains of Cromla. The

rocks shook, on all their hills. Like the noise of a hundred

mountain-streams, that burst, and roar, and foam! like the

clouds, that gather to a tempest on the blue face of the sky! so

met the sons of the desert, round the terrible voice of Fingal.

Pleasant was the voice of the king of Morven to the warriors of his

land. Often had he led them to battle; often returned with the

spoils of the foe.

"Come to battle," said the king, "ye children of echoing

Selma! Come to the death of thousands! Comhal's son will see

the fight. My sword shall wave on the hill, the defence of my

people in war. But never may you need it, warriors; while the son

of Morni fights, the chief of mighty men! He shall lead my battle,

that his fame may rise in song! O ye ghosts of heroes dead! ye

riders of the storm of Cromla! receive my falling people with joy,

and bear them to your hills. And may the blast of Lena carry

them over my seas, that they may come to my silent dreams, and

delight my soul in rest. Fillan and Oscar of the dark-brown hair!

fair Ryno, with the pointed steel! advance with valor to the fight.

Behold the son of Morni! Let your swords be like his in strife:

behold the deeds of his hands. Protect the friends of your father.

Remember the chiefs of old. My children, I will see you yet,

though here you should fall in Erin. Soon shall our cold pale

ghosts meet in a cloud, on Cona's eddying winds."

Now like a dark and stormy cloud, edged round with the

red lightning of heaven, flying westward from the morning's

beam, the king of Selma removed. Terrible is the light of his

armor; two spears are in his hand. His gray hair falls on the

wind. He often looks back on the war. Three bards attend the son

of fame, to bear his words to the chiefs high on Cromla's side he

sat, waving the Lightning of his sword, and as he waved we

moved.

Joy rises in Oscar's face. His cheek is red. His eye sheds

tears. The sword is a beam of fire in his hand. He came, and

smiling, spoke to Ossian. "O ruler of the fight of steel! my father,

hear thy son! Retire with Morven's mighty chief. Give me the fame

of Ossian. If here I fall, O chief, remember that breast of snow,

the lonely sunbeam of my love, the white-handed daughter of

Toscar! For, with red cheek from the rock, bending over the

stream, her soft hair flies about her bosom, as she pours the sigh

for Oscar. Tell her I am on my hills, a lightly-bounding son of the

wind; tell her, that in a cloud I may meet the lovely maid of

Toscar." "Raise, Oscar, rather raise my tomb. I will not yield the

war to thee. The first and bloodiest in the strife, my arm shall

teach thee how to fight. But remember, my son, to place this

sword, this bow, the horn of my deer, within that dark and

narrow house, whose mark is one gray stone! Oscar, I have no

love to leave to the care of my son. Everallin is no more, the lovely

daughter of Branno!"

Such were our words, when Gaul's loud voice came

growing on the wind. He waved on high the sword of his father.

We rushed to death and wounds. As waves, white bubbling over

the deep, come swelling, roaring on; as rocks of ooze meet roaring

waves; so foes attacked and fought. Man met with man, and steel

with steel. Shields sound and warriors fall. As a hundred

hammers on the red son of the furnace, so rose, so rung their

swords!

Gaul rushed on, like a whirlwind in Ardven. The

destruction of heroes is on his sword. Swaran was like the fire of

the desert in the echoing heath of Gormal! How can I give to the

song the death of many spears? My sword rose high, and flamed

in the strife of blood. Oscar, terrible wert thou, my best, my

greatest son! I rejoiced in my secret soul, when his sword flamed

over the slain. They fled amain through Lena's heath. We

pursued and slew. As stones that bound from rock to rock; as

axes in echoing woods; as thunder rolls from hill to hill, in dismal

broken peals; so blow succeeded to blow, and death to death,

from the hand of Oscar and mine.

But Swaran closed round Morni's son, as the strength of

the tide of Inistore. The king half rose from his hill at the sight.

He half-assumed the spear. "Go, Ullin, go, my aged bard," began

the king of Morven. "Remind the mighty Gaul of war. Remind him

of his fathers. Support the yielding fight with song; for song

enlivens war." Tall Ullin went, with step of age, and spoke to the

king of swords. "Son of the chief of generous steeds! high-

bounding king of spears! Strong arm in every perilous toil! Hard

heart that never yields! Chief of the pointed arms of death! Cut

down the foe; let no white sail bound round dark Inistore. Be

thine arm like thunder, thine eyes like fire, thy heart of solid

rock. Whirl round thy sword as a meteor at night: lift thy shield

like the flame of death. Son of the chief of generous steeds, cut

down the foe! Destroy!" The hero's heart beat high. But Swaran

came with battle. He cleft the shield of Gaul in twain. The sons of

Selma fled.

Fingal at once arose in arms. Thrice he reared his dreadful

voice. Cromla answered around. The sons of the desert stood

still. They bent their blushing faces to earth, ashamed at the

presence of the king. He came like a cloud of rain in the day of

the sun, when slow it rolls on the hill, and fields expect the

shower. Silence attends its slow progress aloft; but the tempest is

soon to rise. Swaran beheld the terrible king of Morven. He

stopped in the midst of his course. Dark he leaned on his spear,

rolling his red eyes around. Silent and tall he seemed as an oak

on the banks of Lubar, which had its branches blasted of old by

the lightning of heaven. It bends over the stream: the gray moss

whistles in the wind: so stood the king. Then slowly he retired to

the rising heath of Lena. His thousands pour round the hero.

Darkness gathers on the hill!

Fingal, like a beam of heaven, shone in the midst of his

people. His heroes gather around him. He sends forth the voice of

his power. "Raise my standards on high; spread them on Lena's

wind, like the flames of a hundred hills! Let them sound on the

wind of Erin, and remind us of the fight. Ye sons of the roaring

streams, that pour from a thousand hills be near the king of

Morven! attend to the words of his power! Gaul, strongest arm of

death! O Oscar, of the future fights! Connal, son of the blue

shields of Sora! Dermid, of the dark-brown hair! Ossian, king of

many songs, be near your father's arm!" We reared the sunbeam

<1> of battle; the standard of the king! Each hero exulted with

joy, as, waving, it flew on the wind. It was studded with gold

above, as the blue wide shell of the nightly sky. Each hero had

his standard too, and each his gloomy men!

"Behold," said the king of generous shells, "how Lochlin

divides on Lena! They stand like broken clouds on a hill, or a

half-consumed grove of oaks, when we see the sky through its

branches, and the meteor passing behind! Let every chief among

the friends of Fingal take a dark troop of those that frown so

high: nor let a son of the echoing groves bound on the waves of

Inistore!"

"Mine," said Gaul, "be the seven chiefs that came from

Lano's lake." "Let Inistore's dark king," said Oscar, "come to the

sword of Ossian's son." "To mine the king of Iniscon," said

Connal, heart of steel!" Or Mudan's chief or I," said brown-haired

Dermid, "shall sleep on clay-cold earth." My choice, though now

so weak and dark, was Terman's battling king; I promised with

my hand to win the hero's dark-brown shield, "Blest and

victorious be my chiefs," said Fingal of the mildest look. "Swaran,

king of roaring waves, thou art the choice of Fingal!"

Now, like a hundred different winds that pour through

many vales, divided, dark the sons of Selma advanced. Cromla

echoed around! How can I relate the deaths, when we closed in

the strife of arms? O, daughter of Toscar, bloody were our hands!

The gloomy ranks of Lochlin fell like the banks of roaring Cona!

Our arms were victorious on Lena: each chief fulfilled his

promise. Beside the murmur of Branno thou didst often sit, O

maid! thy white bosom rose frequent, like the down of the swan

when slow she swims on the lake, and sidelong winds blow on

her ruffled wing. Thou hast seen the sun retire, red and slow

behind his cloud: night gathering round on the mountain, while

the unfrequent blast roared in the narrow vales. At length the

rain beats hard: thunder rolls in peals. Lightning glances on the

rocks! Spirits ride on beams of fire! The strength of the mountain

streams comes roaring down the hills. Such was the noise of

battle, maid of the arms of snow! Why. daughter of Toscar, why

that tear? The maids of Lochlin have cause to weep! The people of

their country fell. Bloody were the blue swords of the race of my

heroes! But I am sad, forlorn, and blind: no more the corn ion of

heroes! Give, lovely maid to me thy tears. I have seen the tombs

of all my friends!

It was then, by Fingal's hand, a hero fell, to his grief! Gray-

haired he rolled in the dust. He lifted his faint eyes to the king.

"And is it by me thou hast fallen," said the son of Comhal, "thou

friend of Agandecca? I have seen thy tears for the maid of my love

in the halls of the bloody Starno! Thou hast been the foe of the

foes of my love, and hast thou fallen by my hand? Raise Ullin,

raise the grave of Mathon, and give his name to Agandecca's

song. Dear to my soul hast thou been, thou darkly-dwelling maid

of Ardven!"

Cuthullin, from the cave of Cromla, heard the noise of the

troubled war. He called to Connal, chief of swords: to Carril of

other times. The gray-haired heroes heard his voice. They took

their pointed spears. They came, and saw the tide of battle, like

ocean's crowded waves, when the dark wind blows from the deep,

and rolls the billows through the sandy vale! Cuthullin kindled at

the sight. Darkness gathered on his brow. His hand is on the

sword of his fathers: his red-rolling eyes on the foe. He thrice

attempted to rush to battle. He thrice was stopped by Connal.

"Chief of the isle of mist," he said, "Fingal subdues the foe. Seek

not a part of the fame of the king; himself is like the storm!"

"Then, Carril, go," replied the chief, "go greet the king of

Morven. When Lochlin falls away like a stream after rain; when

the noise of the battle is past; then be thy voice sweet in his ear

to praise the king of Selma! Give him the sword of Caithbat.

Cuthullin is not worthy to lift the arms of his fathers! Come, o ye

ghosts of the lonely Cromla! ye souls of chiefs that are no more!

be near the steps of Cuthullin; talk to him in the cave of his grief.

Never more shall I be renowned among the mighty in the land. I

am a beam that has shone; a mist that has fled away when the

blast of the morning came, and brightened the shaggy side of the

hill. Connal, talk of arms no more! departed is my fame. My sighs

shall be on Cromla's wind, till my footsteps cease to be seen. And

thou, white-bosomed Brag‚la! mourn over the fall of my fame:

vanquished, I will never return to thee, thou sunbeam of my

soul!"

<1> Fingal's standard was distinguished by the name of

"sunbeam", probably on account of its bright colour, and its

being studded with gold. To begin a battle is expressed, in old

composition, by "lifting of the sunbeam."

FINGAL -- BOOK V.

ARGUMENT.

Cuthullin and Connal still remain on the hill. Fingal and Swaran

meet: the combat is described. Swaran is overcome, bound, and

delivered over as a prisoner to the care of Ossian, and Gaul, the

son of Morni; Fingal, his younger sons and Oscar still pursue the

enemy. The episode of Orla, a chief of Lochlin, who was mortally

wounded in the battle, is introduced. Fingal, touched with the

death of Orla, orders the pursuit to be discontinued; and calling

his sons together, he is informed that Ryno, the youngest of

them, was slain. He laments his death, hears the story of

Lamderg and Gelchossa, and returns towards the place where he

had left Swaran. Carril, who had been sent by Cuthullin to

congratulate Fingal on his victory, comes in the mean time to

Ossian. The conversation of the two poets closes the action of the

fourth day.

On Cromla's resounding side Connal spoke to the chief of

the noble car. Why that gloom, son of Semo? Our friends are the

mighty in fight. Renowned art thou, O warrior! many were the

deaths of thy steel. Often has Brag‚la met, with blue-rolling eyes

of joy: often has she met her hero returning in the midst of the

valiant, when his sword was red with slaughter, when his foes

were silent in the fields of the tomb. Pleasant to her ears were thy

bards, when thy deeds, arose in song.

But behold the king of Morven! He moves, below, like a

pillar of fire. His strength is like the stream of Lubar, or the wind

of the echoing Cromla, when the branchy forests of night are torn

from all their rocks. Happy are thy people, O Fingal! thine arm

shall finish their wars. Thou art the first in their dangers: the

wisest in the days of their peace. Thou speakest, and thy

thousands obey: armies tremble at the sound of thy steel. Happy

are thy people, O Fingal! king of resounding Selma. Who is that

so dark and terrible coming in the thunder of his course? who

but Starno's son, to meet the king of Morven? Behold the battle of

the chiefs! it is the storm of the ocean, when two spirits meet far

distant, and contend for the rolling of waves. The hunter hears

the noise on his bill. He sees the high billows advancing to

Ardven's shore.

Such were the words of Connal when the heroes met in

fight. There was the clang of arms! there every blow, like the

hundred hammers of the furnace! Terrible is the battle of the

kings; dreadful the look of their eyes. Their dark-brown shields

are cleft in twain. Their steel flies, broken, from their helms. They

fling their weapons down. Each rushes to his hero's grasp; their

sinewy arms bend round each other: they turn from side to side,

and strain and stretch their large-spreading limbs below. But

when the pride of their strength arose they shook the hill with

their heels. Rocks tumble from their places on high; the green-

headed bushes are overturned. At length the strength of Swaran

fell; the king of the groves is bound. Thus have I seen on Cona;

but Cona I behold no more! thus have I seen two dark hills

removed from their place by the strength of their bursting

stream. They turn from side to side in their fall; their tall oaks

meet one another on high. Then they tumble together with all

their rocks and trees. The streams are turned by their side. The

red ruin is seen afar.

"Sons of distant Morven, "said Fingal, "guard the king of Lochlin.

He is strong as his thousand waves. His hand is taught to war.

His race is of the times of old. Gaul, thou first of my heroes;

Ossian, king of songs attend. He is the friend of Agandecca; raise

to joy his grief. But Oscar, Fillan, and Ryno, ye children of the

race, pursue Lochlin over Lena, that no vessel may hereafter

bound on the dark-rolling waves of Inistore."

They flew sudden across the heath. He slowly moved, like a

cloud of thunder, when the sultry plain of summer is silent and

dark. His sword is before him as a sunbeam; terrible as the

streaming meteor of night. He came towards a chief of Lochlin.

He spoke to the son of the wave. -- "Who is that so dark and sad,

at the rock of the roaring stream? He cannot bound over its

course. How stately is the chief! His bossy shield is on his side;

his spear like the tree f the desert. Youth of the dark-red hair, art

thou of the foes of Fingal?"

"I am a son of Lochlin," he cries; "strong is my arm in war.

My spouse is weeping at home. Orla shall never return!" "Or

fights or yields the hero?" said Fingal of the noble deeds; "foes do

not conquer in my presence: my friends are renowned in the

hall. Son of the wave, follow me: partake the feast of my shells:

pursue the deer of my desert: be thou the friend of Fingal." "No,"

said the hero: "I assist the feeble. My strength is with the weak in

arms. My sword has been always unmatched, O warrior! let the

king of Morven yield!" "I never yielded, Orla. Fingal never yielded

to man. Draw thy sword, and choose thy foe. Many are my

heroes!"

"Does then the king refuse the fight?" said Orla of the dark-

brown shield. "Fingal is a match for Orla; and he alone of all his

race! But, king of Morven, if I shall fall, as one time the warrior

must die; raise my tomb in the midst: let it be the greatest on

Lena. Send over the dark-blue wave, the sword of Orla to the

spouse of his love, that she may show it to her son, with tears to

kindle his soul to war." "Son of the mournful tale," said Fingal,

"why dost thou awaken my tears! One day the warriors must die,

and the children see their useless arms in the hall. But, Orla, thy

tomb shall rise. Thy white-bosomed spouse shall weep over thy

sword."

They fought on the heath of Lena. Feeble was the arm of

Orla. The sword of Fingal descended, and cleft his shield in

twain. It fell and glittered on the ground, as the moon on the

ruffled stream. "King of Morven," said the hero, "lift thy sword

and pierce my breast. Wounded and faint from battle, my friends

have left me here. The mournful tale shall come to my love on the

banks of the streamy Lota, when she is alone in the wood, and

the rustling blast in the leaves!"

"No," said the king of Morven: "I will never wound thee,

Orla. On the banks of Lota let her see thee, escaped from the

hands of war. Let thy gray-haired father, who, perhaps, is blind

with age, let him hear the sound of thy voice, and brighten within

his hall. With joy let the hero rise, and search for the son with his

hands!" "But never will he find him, Fingal," said the youth of the

streamy Lota: "on Lena's heath I must die: foreign bards shall

talk of me. My broad belt covers my wound of death. I give it to

the wind!"

The dark blood poured from his side; he fell pale on the

heath of Lena. Fingal bent over him as he died, and. called his

younger chiefs. "Oscar and Fillan, my sons, raise high the

memory of Orla. Here let the dark-haired hero rest, far from the

spouse of his love. Here let him rest in his narrow house, far from

the sound of Lota. The feeble will find his bow at home, but will

not be able to bend it. His faithful dogs howl on his hills; his

boars which he used to pursue, rejoice. Fallen is the arm of

battle! the mighty among the valiant is low! Exalt the voice, and

blow the horn, ye sons of the king of Morven! Let us go back to

Swaran, to send the night away in song. Fillan, Oscar, and Ryno,

fly over the heath of Lena. Where, Ryno, art thou, young son of

fame? thou art not wont to be the last to answer thy father's

voice!"

"Ryno," said Ullin, first of bards, "is with the awful forms of

his fathers. With Trathal, king of shields; with Trenmor of mighty

deeds. The youth is low, the youth is pale, he lies on Lena's

heath!" "Fell the swiftest of the race," said the king, "the first to

bend the bow? Thou scarce hast been known to me! Why did

young Ryno fall? But sleep thou softly on Lena; Fingal shall soon

behold thee. Soon shall my voice be heard no more, and my

footsteps cease to be seen. The bards will tell of Fingal's name.

The stones will talk of me. But, Ryno, thou art low, indeed: thou

hast not received thy fame. Ullin, strike the harp for Ryno; tell

what the chief would have been. Farewell, thou first in every field.

No more shall I direct thy dart. Thou that hast been so fair! I

behold thee not. Farewell." The tear is on the cheek of the king,

for terrible was his son in war. His son that was like a beam of

fire by night on a hill, when the forests sink down in its course,

and the traveller trembles at the sound. But the winds drive it

beyond the steep. It sinks from sight, and darkness prevails.

"Whose fame is in that dark-green tomb?" began the king of

generous shells: "four stones with their heads of moss stand

there. They mark the narrow house of death. Near it let Ryno

rest. A neighbor to the brave let him lie. Some chief of fame is

here, to fly with my son on clouds. O Ullin! raise the songs of old.

Awake their memory in their tomb. If in the field they never fled,

my son shall rest by their side. He shall rest, far distant from

Morven, on Lena's resounding plains."

"Here," said the bard of song, "here rest the first of heroes.

Silent is Lamderg in this place, dumb is Ullin, king of swords.

And who, soft smiling from her cloud, shows me her face of love?

Why, daughter, why so pale art thou, first of the maids of

Cromla? Dost thou sleep with the foes in battle, white-bosomed

daughter of Tuathal? Thou hast been the love of thousands, but

Lamderg was thy love. He came to Tura's mossy towers, and

striking his dark buckler, spoke: 'Where is Gelchossa, my love,

the daughter of the noble Tuathal? I left her in the hall of Tura,

when I fought with the great Ulfada. Return soon, O Lamderg!

she said, for here I sit in grief. Her white breast rose with sighs.

Her cheek was wet with tears. But I see her not coming to meet

me to soothe my soul after war. Silent is the hull of my joy. I near

not the voice of the bard. Bran does not shake his chains at the

gate, glad at the coming of Lamderg. Where is Gelchossa, my

love, the mild daughter of generous Tuathal?'

"'Lamderg,' says Ferchios, son of Aidon, 'Gelchossa moves

stately on Cromla. She and the maids of the bow pursue the

flying deer!' 'Ferchios!' replied the chief of Cromla, 'no noise meets

the ear of Lamderg! No sound is in the woods of Lena. No deer fly

in my sight. No panting dog pursues. I see not Gelchossa, my

love, fair as the full moon setting on the hills.. Go, Ferchios, go to

Allad, the gray-haired son of the rock. His dwelling is in the circle

of stones He may know of the bright Gelchossa!'

"The son of Aidon went. He spoke to the ear of age. 'Allad,

dweller of rocks, thou that tremblest alone, what saw thine eyes

of age?' 'I saw,' answered Allad the old, 'Ullin the son of Cairbar.

He came, in darkness, from Cromla. He hummed a surly song,

like a blast in a leafless wood. He entered the hall of Tura.

"Lamderg," he said, "most dreadful of men, fight or yield to Ullin."

"Lamderg," replied Gelchossa, "the son of battle is not here. He

fights Ulfada, mighty chief. He is not here, thou first of men! But

Lamderg never yields. He will fight the son of Cairbar!" "Lovely

thou," said terrible Ullin, "daughter of the generous Tuathal. I

carry thee to Cairbar's halls. The valiant shall have Gelchossa.

Three days I remain on Cromla, to wait that son of battle,

Lamderg. On the fourth Gelchossa is mine, if the mighty Lamderg

flies."'

"'Allad,' said the chief of Cromla, 'peace to thy dreams in

the cave! Ferchios, sound the horn of Lamderg, that Ullin may

hear in his halls.' Lamderg, like a roaring storm ascended the hill

from Tura. He hummed a surly song as he went, like the noise of

a falling stream. He darkly stood upon the hill, like a cloud

varying its form to the wind. He rolled a stone, the sign of war.

Ullin heard in Cairbar's hall. The hero heard, with joy, his foe. He

took his father's spear. A smile brightens his dark-brown cheek,

as he places his sword by his side. The dagger glittered in his

hand, he whistled as he went.

"Gelchossa saw the silent chief, as a wreath of mist

ascending the hill. She struck her white and heaving breast; and

silent, tearful, feared for Lamderg. 'Cairbar, hoary chief of shells,'

said the maid of the tender hand, 'I must bend the bow on

Cromla. I see the dark-brown hinds.' She hasted up the hill. In

vain the gloomy heroes fought. Why should I tell to Selma's king

how wrathful heroes fight? Fierce Ullin fell. Young Lamderg came,

all pale, to the daughter of generous Tuathal! 'What blood, my

love;' she trembling said, 'what blood runs down my warrior's

side?' ' It is Ullin's blood,' the chief replied, 'thou fairer than the

snow! Gelchossa, let me rest here a little while.' The mighty

Lamderg died! 'And sleepest thou so soon on earth, O chief of

shady Tura?' Three days she mourned beside her love. The

hunters found her cold. They raised this tomb above the three.

Thy son, O king of Morven, may rest here with heroes!"

"And here my son shall rest," said Fingal. "The voice of

their fame is in mine ears. Fillan and Fergus, bring hither Orla,

the pale youth of the stream of Lota! not unequalled shall Ryno

lie in earth, when Orla is by his side. Weep, ye daughters of

Morven! ye maids of the streamy Lota, weep! Like a tree they grew

on the hills. They have fallen like the oak of the desert, when it

lies across a stream, and withers in the wind. Oscar, chief of

every youth, thou seest how they have fallen. Be thou like them

on earth renowned. Like them the song of bards. Terrible were

their forms in battle; but calm was Ryno in the days of peace. He

was like the bow of the shower seen far distant on the stream,

when the sun is setting on Mora, when silence dwells on the hill

of deer. Rest, youngest of my sons! rest, O Ryno! on Lena. We too

shall be no more. Warriors one day must fall!"

Such was thy grief, thou king of swords, when Ryno lay on

earth. What must the grief of Ossian be, for thou thyself art gone!

I hear not thy distant voice on Cona. My eyes perceive thee not.

Often forlorn and dark I sit at thy tomb, and feel it with my

hands. When I think I hear thy voice, it is but the passing blast.

Fingal has long since fallen asleep, the ruler of the war!

Then Gaul and Ossian sat with Swaran, on the soft green

banks of Lubar. I touched the harp to please the king; but gloomy

was his brow. He rolled his red eyes towards Lena. The hero

mourned his host. I raised mine eyes to Cromla's brow. I saw the

son of generous Semo. Sad and slow he retired from his hilt,

towards the lonely cave of Tura. He saw Fingal victorious, and

mixed his joy with grief. The sun is bright on his armor. Connal

slowly strode behind. They sunk behind the hill, like two pillars

of the fire of night, when winds pursue them over the mountain,

and the flaming death resounds! Beside a stream of roaring foam

his cave is in a rock. One tree bends above it. The rushing winds

echo against its sides. Here rests the chief of Erin, the son of

generous Semo. His thoughts are on the battles he lost. The tear

is on his cheek. He mourned the departure of his fame, that fled

like the mist of Cona. O Brag‚la! thou art too far remote to cheer

the soul of the hero. But let him see thy bright form in his mind,

that his thoughts may return to the lonely sunbeam of his love!

Who comes with the locks of age? It is the son of songs.

"Hail, Carril of other times! Thy voice is like the harp in the halls

of Tura. Thy words are pleasant as the shower which falls on the

sunny field. Carril of the times of old, why comest thou from the

son of the generous Semo?"

"Ossian, king of swords," replied the bard, "thou best canst

raise the song. Long hast thou been known to Carril, thou ruler

of war! Often have I touched the harp to lovely Everallin. Thou

too hast often joined my voice in Branno's hall of generous shells.

And often, amidst our voices, was heard the mildest Everallin.

One day she sung of Cormac's fall, the youth who died for her

love. I saw the tears on her cheek, and on thine, thou chief of

men. Her soul was touched for the unhappy, though she loved

him not. How fair among a thousand maids was the daughter of

generous Branno!"

Bring not, Carril," I replied, "bring not her memory to my

mind. My soul must melt at the remembrance. My eyes must

have their tears. Pale in the earth is she, the softly-blushing fair

of my love! But sit thou on the heath, O bard! and let us hear thy

voice. It is pleasant as the gale of spring, that sighs on the

hunter's ear, when he awakens from dreams of joy, and has

heard the music of the spirits of the hill!"

FINGAL -- BOOK VI.

ARGUMENT.

Night comes on. Fingal gives a feast to his army, at which Swaran

is present. The king commands Ullin his bard to give "the song of

peace;" a custom always observed at the end of a war. Ullin

relates the actions of Trenmor, great-grandfather to Fingal, in

Scandinavia, and his marriage with Inibaca, the daughter of a

king of Lochlin, who was ancestor to Swaran; which

consideration, together with his being brother to Agandecca, with

whom Fingal was in love in his youth, induced the king to release

him, and permit him to return with the remains of his army into

Lochlin, upon his promise of never returning to Ireland in a

hostile manner. The night is spent in settling Swaran's departure,

in songs of bards, and in a conversation in which the story of

Grumal is introduced by Fingal. Morning comes. Swaran departs.

Fingal goes on a hunting party, and finding Cuthullin in the cave

of Tura, comforts him, and sets sail the next day for Scotland,

which concludes the poem.

THE clouds of night came rolling down. Darkness rests on

the steeps of Cromla. The stars of the north arise over the rolling

of Erin's waves; they show their heads of fire through the flying

mist of heaven. A distant wind roars in the wood. Silent and dark

is the plain of death! Still on the dusky Lena arose in my ears the

voice of Carril. He sung of the friends of our youth; the days of

former years; when we met on the banks of Lego; when we sent

round the joy of the shell. Cromla answered to his voice. The

ghosts of those he sung came in their rustling winds. They were

seen to bend with joy, towards the sound of their praise!

Be thy soul blest, O Carril! in the midst of thy eddying

winds. O that thou wouldst come to my hall, when I am alone by

night! And thou dost come, my friend. I hear often thy light hand

on my harp, when it hangs on the distant wall, and the feeble

sound touches my ear. Why dost thou not speak to me in my

grief: and tell when I shall behold my friends? But thou passest

away in thy murmuring blast; the wind whistles through the gray

hair of Ossian!

Now, on the side of Mora, the heroes gathered to the feast.

A thousand aged oaks are burning to the wind. The strength of

the shell goes round. The souls of warriors brighten with joy. But

the king of Lochlin is silent. Sorrow reddens in the eyes of his

pride. He often turned towards Lena. He remembered that he fell.

Fingal leaned on the shield of his fathers. His gray locks slowly

waved on the wind, and glittered to the beam of night. He saw the

grief of Swaran, and spoke to the first of bards.

"Raise, Ullin, raise the song of peace. O soothe my soul

from war! Let mine ear forget, in the sound, the dismal noise of

arms. Let a hundred harps be near to gladden the king of

Lochlin. He must depart from us with joy. None ever went sad

from Fingal. Oscar! the lightning of my sword is against the

strong in fight. Peaceful it lies by my side when warriors yield in

war."

"Trenmor," said the mouth of songs, "lived in the days of

other years. He bounded over the waves of the north; companion

of the storm! The high reeks of the land of Lochlin, its groves of

murmuring sounds, appeared to the hero through mist; he

bound his white. bosomed sails. Trenmor pursued the boar that

roared through the woods of Gormal. Many had fled from its

presence; but it rolled in death on the spear of Trenmor. Three

chiefs, who beheld the deed, told of the mighty stranger. They

told that he stood, like a pillar of fire, in the bright arms of his

valor. The king of Lochlin prepared the feast. He called the

blooming Trenmor. Three days he feasted at Gormal's windy

towers, and received his choice in the combat. The land of

Lochlin had no hero that yielded not to Trenmor. The shell of joy

went round with songs in praise of the king of Morven. He that

came over the waves, the first of mighty men.

"Now when the fourth gray morn arose, the hero launched

his ship. He walked along the silent shore, and called for the

rushing wind; for loud and distant he heard the blast murmuring

behind the groves. Covered over with arms of steel, a son of the

woody Gormal appeared. Red was his cheek, and fair his hair.

His skin was like the snow of Morven. Mild rolled his blue and

smiling eye, when he spoke to the king of swords.

"'Stay, Trenmor, stay, thou first of men; thou hast not

conquered Lonval's son. My sword has often met the brave. The

wise shun the strength of my bow.' 'Thou fair-haired youth,'

Trenmor replied, 'I will not fight with Lonval's son. Thine arm is

feeble, sunbeam of youth! Retire to Gormal's dark-brown hinds.'

'But I will retire,' replied the youth, 'with the sword of Trenmor;

and exult in the sound of my fame. The virgins shall gather with

smiles around him who conquered mighty Trenmor. They shall

sigh with the sighs of love, and admire the length of thy spear:

when I shall carry it among thousands; when I lift the glittering

point to the sun.'

"'Thou shalt never carry my spear,' said the angry king of

Morven. 'Thy mother shall find thee pale on the shore; and

looking over the dark-blue deep, see the sails of him that slew her

son!' 'I will not lift the spear,' replied the youth, 'my arm is not

strong with years. But with the feathered dart I have learned to

pierce a distant foe. Throw down that heavy mail of steel.

Trenmor is covered from death. I first will lay my mail on earth.

Throw now thy dart, thou king of Morven!' He saw the heaving of

her breast. It was the sister of the king. She had seen him in the

hall: and loved his face of youth. The spear dropt from the hand

of Trenmor: he bent his red cheek to the ground. She was to him

a beam of light that meets the sons of the cave; when they revisit

the fields of the sun, and bend their aching eyes!

"'Chief of the windy Morven,' began the maid of the arms of

snow, 'let me rest in thy bounding ship, far from the love of Corlo.

For he, like the thunder of the desert, is terrible to Inibaca. He

loves me in the gloom of pride. He shakes ten thousand spears!' -

- ' Rest thou in peace,' said the mighty Trenmor, 'rest behind the

shield of my fathers. I will not fly from the chief, though he

shakes ten thousand spears.' Three days he waited on the shore.

He sent his horn abroad. He called Corlo to battle, from all his

echoing hills. But Corlo came not to battle. The king of Lochlin

descends from his hall. He feasted on the roaring shore. He gave

the maid to Trenmor!"

"King of Lochlin," said Fingal, "thy blood flows in the veins

of thy foe. Our fathers met in battle, because they loved the strife

of spears. But often did they feast in the hall, and send round the

joy of the shell. Let thy thee brighten with gladness, and thine ear

delight in the harp. Dreadful as the storm of thine ocean, thou

hast poured thy valor forth; thy voice has been like the voice of

thousands when they engage in war. Raise, to-morrow, raise thy

white sails to the wind, thou brother of Agandecca! Bright as the

beam of noon, she comes on my mournful soul. I have seen thy

tears for the fair one. I spared thee in the halls of Starno; when

my sword was red with slaughter: when my eye was full of tears

for the maid. Or dost thou choose the fight? The combat which

thy fathers gave to Trenmor is thine! that thou mayest depart

renowned, like the sun setting in the west!"

"King of the race of Morven!" said the chief of resounding

Lochlin, "never will Swaran fight with thee, first of a thousand

heroes! I have seen thee in the halls of Starno; few were thy years

beyond my own. When shall I, I said to my soul, lift the spear like

the noble Fingal? We have fought heretofore, O warrior, on the

side of the shaggy Malmor; after my waves had carried me to thy

halls, and the feast of a thousand shells was spread. Let the

bards send his name who overcame to future years, for noble was

the strife of Malmor! But many of the ships of Lochlin have lost

their youths on Lena. Take these, thou king of Morven, and be

the friend of Swaran! When thy sons shall come to Gormal, the

feast of shells shall be spread, and the combat offered on the

vale."

"Nor ship," replied the king, "shall Fingal take, nor land of many

hills. The desert is enough to me, with all its deer and woods.

Rise on thy waves again, thou noble friend of Agandecca! Spread

thy white sails to the beam of the morning; return to the echoing

hills of Gormal." -- "Blest be thy soul, thou king of shells," said

Swaran of the dark-brown shield." In peace thou art the gale of

spring; in war the mountain storm. Take now my hand in

friendship, king of echoing Selma! Let thy bards mourn those

who fell. Let Erin give the sons of Lochlin to earth. Raise high the

mossy stones of their fame: that the children of the north

hereafter may behold the place where their fathers fought. The

hunter may say, when he leans on a mossy tomb, Here Fingal

and Swaran fought, the heroes of other years. Thus hereafter

shall he say, and our fame shall last for ever."

"Swaran," said the king of hills, "to-day our fame is

greatest. We shall pass away like a dream. No sound will remain

in our fields of war. Our tombs will be lost in the heath. The

hunter shall not know the place of our rest. Our names may be

heard in song. What avails it, when our strength hath ceased? O

Ossian, Carril, and Ullin! you know of heroes that are no more.

Give us the song of other years. Let the night pass away on the

sound, and morning return with joy."

We gave the song to the kings. A hundred harps mixed

their sound with our voice. The face of Swaran brightened, like

the full moon of heaven; when the clouds vanish away, and leave

her calm and broad in the midst of the sky.

"Where, Carril," said the great Fingal, "Carril of other times!

where is the son of Semo, the king of the isle of mist? Has he

retired like the meteor of death, to the dreary cave of Tura?" --

"Cuthullin," said Carril of other times, "lies in the dreary cave of

Tura. His hand is on the sword of his strength. His thoughts on

the battles he lost. Mournful is the king of spears: till now

unconquered in war. He sends his sword, to rest on the side of

Fingal: for, like the storm of the desert, thou hast scattered all

his foes. Take, O Fingal! the sword of the hero. His fame is

departed like mist, when it flies, before the rustling wind, along

the brightening vale."

"No," replied the king, "Fingal shall never take his sword.

His arm is mighty in war: his fame shall never fail. Many have

been overcome in battle; whose renown arose from their fall. O

Swaran, king of resounding woods, give all thy grief away. The

vanquished, if brave, are renowned. They are like the sun in a

cloud, when he hides his face in the south, but looks again on

the hills of grass."

"Grumal was a chief of Cona. He sought the battle on every

coast. His soul rejoiced in blood; his ear in the din of arms. He

poured his warriors on Craca; Craca's king met him from his

grove; for then, within the circle of Brumo, he spoke to the stone

of power. Fierce was the battle of the heroes, for the maid of the

breast of snow. The fame of the daughter of Craca had reached

Grumal at the streams of Cona; he vowed to have the white-

bosomed maid, or die on echoing Craca. Three days they strove

together, and Grumal on the fourth was bound. Far from his

friends they placed him in the horrid circle of Brumo; where

often, they said, the ghosts of the dead howled round the stone of

their fear. But he afterward shone, like a pillar of the light of

heaven. They fell by his mighty hand. Grumal had all his fame!

"Raise, ye bards of other times," continued the great Fingal,

"raise high the praise of heroes: that my soul may settle on their

fame; that the mind of Swaran may cease to be sad." They lay in

the heath of Mora. The dark winds rustled over the chiefs. A

hundred voices, at once, arose; a hundred harps were strung.

They sung of other times; the mighty chiefs of former years! When

now shall I hear the bard? When rejoice at the fame of my

fathers? The harp is not strung on Morven. The voice of music

ascends not on Cona. Dead, with the mighty, is the bard. Fame is

in the desert no more."

Morning trembles with the beam of the east; it glimmers on

Cromla's side. Over Lena is heard the horn of Swaran. The sons

of the ocean gather around. Silent and sad they rise on the wave.

The blast of Erin is behind their sails. White, as the mist of

Morven, they float along the sea. "Call," said Fingal, "call my

dogs, the long-bounding sons of the chase. Call white-breasted

Bran, and the surly strength of Luath! Fillan, and Ryno; -- but he

is not here! My son rests on the bed of death. Fillan and Fergus!

blow the horn, that the joy of the chase may arise; that the deer

of Cromla may hear, and start at the lake of roes."

The shrill sound spreads along the wood. The sons of

heathy Cromla arise. A thousand dogs fly off at once, gray-

bounding through the heath. A deer fell by every dog; three by

the white-breasted Bran. He brought them, in their flight, to

Fingal, that the joy of the king might be great! One deer fell at the

tomb of Ryno. The grief of Fingal returned. He saw how peaceful

lay the stone of him, who was the first at the chase! "No more

shalt thou rise, O my son! to partake of the feast of Cromla. Soon

will thy tomb be hid, and the grass grow rank on thy grave. The

sons of the feeble shall pass along. They shall not know where

the mighty lie.

"Ossian and Fillan, sons of my strength! Gaul, chief of the

blue steel of war! Let us ascend the hill to the cave of Tura. Let us

find the chief of the battles of Erin. Are these the walls of Tura?

gray and lonely they rise on the heath. The chief of shells is sad,

and the halls are silent and lonely. Come, let us find Cuthullin,

and give him all our joy. But is that Cuthullin, O Fillan, or a

pillar of smoke on the heath? The wind of Cromla is on my eyes. I

distinguish not my friend."

"Fingal!" replied the youth, "it is the son of Semo! Gloomy

and sad is the hero! his hand is on his sword. Hail to the son of

battle, breaker of the shields!" "Hail to thee," replied Cuthullin,

"hail to all the sons of Morven! Delightful is thy presence, O

Fingal! it is the sun on Cromla: when the hunter mourns his

absence for a season, and sees him between the clouds. Thy sons

are like stars that attend thy course. They give light in the night!

It is not thus thou hast seen me, O Fingal! returning from the

wars of thy land: when the kings of the world had fled, and joy

returned to the hills of hinds!"

"Many are thy words, Cuthullin," said Connan of small

renown. "Thy words are many, son of Semo, but where are thy

deeds in arms? Why did we come, over ocean, to aid thy feeble

sword? Thou fliest to thy cave of grief, and Connan fights thy

battles. Resign to me these arms of light. Yield them, thou chief

of Erin." -- "No hero," replied the chief," ever sought the arms of

Cuthullin! and had a thousand heroes sought them, it were in

vain, thou gloomy youth! I fled not to the cave of grief, till Erin

failed at her streams."

"Youth of the feeble arm," said Fingal, "Connan, cease thy

words! Cuthullin is renowned in battle: terrible over the world.

Often have I heard thy fame, thou stormy chief of Inis-fail. Spread

now thy white sails for the isle of mist. See Brag‚la leaning on

her rock. Her tender eye is in tears, the winds lift her long hair

from her heaving breast. She listens to the breeze of night, to

hear the voice of thy rowers; to hear the song of the sea; the

sound of thy distant harps."

"Long shall she listen in vain. Cuthullin shall never return.

How can I behold Brag‚la, to raise the sigh of her breast? Fingal,

I was always victorious, in battles of other spears." -- "And

hereafter thou shalt be victorious," said Fingal of generous shells.

"The fame of Cuthullin shall grow, like the branchy tree of

Cromla. Many battles await thee, O chief! Many shall be the

wounds of thy hand! Bring hither, Oscar, the deer! Prepare the

feast of shells; Let our souls rejoice after danger, and our friends

delight in our presence."

We sat. We feasted. We sung. The soul of Cuthullin rose.

The strength of his arm returned. Gladness brightened along his

face. Ullin gave the song; Carril raised the voice. I joined the

bards, and sung of battles of the spear. Battles! where I often

fought. Now I fight no more! The fame of my former deeds is

ceased. I sit forlorn at the tombs of my friends!

Thus the night passed away in song. We brought back the

morning with joy. Fingal arose on the heath, and shook his

glittering spear. He moved first to wards the plains of Lena. We

followed in all our arms.

"Spread the sail," said the king, "seize the winds as they pour

from Lena." We rose on the wave with songs. We rushed, with joy,

through the foam of the deep.

LATHMON.

ARGUMENT.

Lathmon, a British prince, taking advantage of Fingal's absence

on an expedition to Ireland, made a descent on Morven, and

advanced within sight of Selma, the royal residence. Fingal

arrived in the mean time, and Lathmon retreated to a hill, where

his army was surprised by night, and himself taken prisoner by

Ossian and Gaul the son of Morni. The poem opens with the first

appearance of Fingal on the coast of Morven, and ends, it may be

supposed, about noon the next day.

SELMA, thy halls are silent. There is no sound in the

woods of Morven. The wave tumbles along on the coast. The

silent beam of the sun is on the field. The daughters of Morven

come forth, like the bow of the shower; they look towards green

Erin for the white sails of the king. He had promised to return,

but the winds of the north arose!

Who pours from the eastern hill, like a stream of darkness?

It is the host of Lathmon. He has heard of the absence of Fingal.

He trusts in the winds of the north. His soul brightens with joy.

Why dost thou come, O Lathmon? The mighty are not in Selma.

Why comest thou with thy forward spear? Will the daughters of

Morven fight? But stop, O mighty stream, in thy course! Does not

Lathmon behold these sails? Why dost thou vanish, Lathmon,

like the mist of the lake? But the squally storm is behind thee;

Fingal pursues thy steps!

The king of Morven had started from sleep, as we rolled on

the dark-blue wave. He stretched his hand to his spear, his

heroes rose around. We knew that he had seen his fathers, for

they often descended to his dreams, when the sword of the foe

rose over the land and the battle darkened before us. "Whither

hast thou fled, O wind?" said the king of Morven. "Dost thou

rustle in the chambers of the south? pursuest thou the shower in

other lands? Why dost thou not come to my sails? to the blue

face of my seas? The foe is in the land of Morven, and the king is

absent far. But let each bind on his mail, and each assume his

shield. Stretch every spear over the wave; let every sword be

unsheathed. Lathmon is before us with his host; he that fled

from Fingal on the plains of Lona. But he returns like a collected

stream, and his roar is between our hills."

Such were the words of Fingal. We rushed into Carmon's

bay. Ossian ascended the hill! he thrice struck his bossy shield.

The rock of Morven replied: the bounding roes came forth. The

foe was troubled in my presence: he collected his darkened host.

I stood like a cloud on the hill, rejoicing in the arms of my youth.

Morni sat beneath a tree on the roaring waters of Strumon:

his locks of age are gray: he leans forward on his staff; young

Gaul is near the hero, hearing the battles of his father. Often did

he rise in the fire of his soul, at the mighty deeds of Morni. The

aged heard the sound of Ossian's shield; he knew the sign of war.

He started at once from his place. His gray hair parted on his

back. lie remembered the deeds of other years.

"My son," he said, to fair-haired Gaul, "I hear the sound of

war. The king of Morven is returned; his signals are spread on

the wind. Go to the halls of Strumon; bring his arms to Morni.

Bring the shield of my father's latter years, for my arm begins to

fail. Take thou thy armor, O Gaul! and rush to the first of thy

battles. Let thine arm reach to the renown of thy fathers. Be thy

course in the field like the eagle's wing. Why shouldst thou fear

death, my son? the valiant fall with fame; their shields turn the

dark stream of danger away; renown dwells on their aged hairs.

Dost thou not see, O Gaul! low the steps of my age are honored?

Morni moves forth. and the young men meet him, with silent joy,

on his course. But I never fled from danger, my son! my sword

lightened through the darkness of war. The stranger melted

before me; the mighty were blasted in my presence."

Gaul brought the arms to Morni: the aged warrior is

covered with steel. He took the spear in his hand, which was

stained with the blood of the valiant. He came towards Fingal; his

son attended his steps. The son of Comhal arose before him with

joy, when he came in his locks of age.

"Chief of the roaring Strumon!" said the rising soul of

Fingal; "do I behold thee in arms, after thy strength has failed?

Often has Morni shone in fight, like the beam of the ascending

sun; when he disperses the storms of the hill, and brings peace

to the glittering fields. But why didst thou not rest in thine age?

Thy renown is in the song. The people behold thee, and bless the

departure of mighty Morni. Why didst thou not rest in thine age?

The foe will vanish before Fingal!"

"Son of Comhal," replied the chief, "the strength of Morni's arm

has failed. I attempt to draw the sword of my youth, but it

remains in its place. I throw the spear, but it falls short of the

mark. I feel the weight of my shield. We decay like the grass of

the hill; our strength returns no more. I have a son, O Fingal! his

soul has delighted in Morni's deeds; but his sword has not been

lifted against a foe, neither has his fame begun. I come with him

to the war; to direct his arm in fight. His renown will be a light to

my soul in the dark hour of my departure. O that the name of

Morni were forgot among the people! that the heroes would only

say, 'Behold the father of Gaul!'"

"King of Strumon," Fingal replied, "Gaul shall lift the sword

in fight. But he shall lift it before Fingal; my arm shall defend his

youth. But rest thou in the halls of Selma, and hear of our

renown. Bid the harp to be strung, and the voice of the bard to

arise, that those who fall may rejoice in their fame, and the soul

of Morni brighten with joy. Ossian, thou hast fought in battles:

the blood of strangers is on thy spear: thy course be with Gaul in

the strife; but depart not from the side of Fingal, lest the foe

should find you alone, and your fame fail in my presence."

[Ossian speaks ] "I saw Gaul in his arms; my soul was

mixed with his. The fire of the battle was in his eyes! he looked to

the foe with joy. We spoke the words of friendship in secret; the

lightning of our swords poured together; for we drew them behind

the wood, and tried the strength of our arms on the empty air!"

Night came down on Morven. Fingal sat at the beam of the

oak. Morni sat by his side with all his gray-waving locks. Their

words were of other times, of the mighty deeds of their fathers.

Three bards, at times, touched the harp: Ullin was near with his

song. He sung of the mighty Comhal; but darkness gathered on

Morni's brow. He rolled his red eye on Ullin: at once ceased the

song of the bard. Fingal observed the aged hero, and he mildly

spoke: "Chief of Strumon, why that darkness? Let the days of

other years be forgot. Our fathers contended in war; but we meet

together at the feast. Our swords are turned on the foe of our

land: he melts before us on the field. Let the days of our fathers

be forgot, hero of mossy Strumon!"

King of Morven," replied the chief, "I remember thy father

with joy. He was terrible in battle, the rage of the chief was

deadly. My eyes were full of tears when the king of heroes fell.

The valiant fall, O Fingal! the feeble remain on the hills! How

many heroes have passed away in the days of Morni! Yet I did not

shun the battle; neither did I fly from the strife of the valiant.

Now let the friends of Fingal rest, for the night is around, that

they may rise with strength to battle against car-borne Lathmon.

I hear the sound of his host, like thunder moving on the hills.

Ossian! and fair-haired Gaul! ye are young and swift in the race.

Observe the foes of Fingal from that woody hill. But approach

them not: your fathers are near to shield you. Let not your fame

fall at once. The valor of youth may fail!"

We heard the words of the chief with joy. We moved in the

clang of our arms. Our steps are on the woody hill. Heaven burns

with all its stars. The meteors of death fly over the field. The

distant noise of the foe reached our ears. It was than Gaul spoke,

in his valor: his hand half unsheathed his sword.

"Son of Fingal!" he said, "why burns the soul of Gaul? my

heart beats high. My steps are disordered; my hand trembles on

my sword. When I look towards the foe, my soul lightens before

me. I see their sleeping host. Tremble thus the souls of the

valiant in battles of the spear? How would the soul of Morni rise

if we should rush on the foe? Our renown should grow in song:

our steps would be stately in the eyes of the brave."

"Son of Morni," I replied, "my soul delights in war. I delight

to shine in battle alone, to give my name to the bards. But what if

the foe should prevail? can I behold the eyes of the king? They

are terrible in his displeasure, and like the flames of death. But I

will not behold them in his wrath! Ossian shall prevail or fall. But

shall the fame of the vanquished rise? They pass like a shade

away. But the fame of Ossian shall rise! His deeds shall be like

his father's. Let us rush in our arms; son of Morni, let us rush to

fight. Gaul, if thou shouldst return, go to Selma's lofty hall. Tell

to Everallin that I fell with fame; carry this sword to Branno's

daughter. Let her give it to Oscar, when the years of his youth

shall arise."

"Son of Fingal," Gaul replied with a sigh, "shall I return

after Ossian is low? What would my father say? what Fingal, the

king of men? The feeble would turn their eyes and say, 'Behold

Gaul, who left his friend in his blood!' Ye shall not behold me, ye

feeble, but in the midst of my renown! Ossian, I have heard from

my father the mighty deeds of heroes; their mighty deeds when

alone! for the soul increases in danger!"

"Son of Morni," I replied, and strode before him on the

heath, "our fathers shall praise our valor when they mourn our

fall. A beam of gladness shall rise on their souls, when their eyes

are full of tears. They will, say, 'Our sons have not fallen

unknown: they spread death around them.' But why should we

think of the narrow house? The sword defends the brave. But

death pursues the flight of the feeble; their renown is never

heard."

We rushed forward through night; we came to the roar of a

stream, which bent its blue course round the foe, through trees

that echoed to its sound. We came to the bank of the stream, and

saw the sleeping host. Their fires were decayed on the plain: the

lonely steps of their scouts were distant far. I stretched my spear

before me, to support my steps over the stream. But Gaul took

my hand, and spoke the words of the brave. "Shall the son of

Fingal rush on the sleeping foe? Shall he come like a blast by

night, when it overturns the young trees in secret? Fingal did no

receive his fame, nor dwells renown on the gray hairs of Morni,

for actions like these. Strike, Ossian, strike the shield, and let

their thousands rise! Let them meet Gaul in his first battle, that

he may try the strength of his arm."

My soul rejoiced over the warrior; my bursting tears came

down. "And the foe shall meet thee, Gaul," I said: "the fame of

Morni's son shall arise. But rush not too far, my hero: let the

gleam of thy steel be near to Ossian. Let our hands join in

slaughter. Gaul! dost thou not behold that rock? Its gray side

dimly gleams to the stars. Should the foe prevail, let our back be

towards the rock. Then shall they fear to approach our spears; for

death is in our hands!"

I struck thrice my echoing shield. The startling foe arose.

We rushed on in the sound of our arms. Their crowded steps fly

over the heath. They thought that the mighty Fingal was come.

The strength of their arms withered away. The sound of their

flight was like that of flame, when it rushes through the blasted

groves. It was then the spear of Gaul flew in its strength; it was

then his sword arose. Cramo fell; and mighty Leth! Dunthormo

struggled in his blood. The steel rushed through Crotho's side, as

bent he rose on his spear; the black stream poured from the

wound, and hissed on the half-extinguished oak. Cathmin saw

the steps of the hero behind him: he ascended a blasted tree; but

the spear pierced him from behind. Shrieking, panting, he fell.

Moss and withered branches pursue his fall, and strew the blue

arms of Gaul.

Such were thy deeds, son of Morni, in the first of thy

battles. Nor slept the sword by thy side, thou last of Fingal's race!

Ossian rushed forward in his strength; the people fell before him;

as the grass by the stall of the boy, when he whistles along the

field, and the gray beard of the thistle falls. But careless the

youth moves on; his steps are towards the desert. Gray morning

rose around us; the winding streams are bright along the heath.

The foe gathered on a bill; and the rage of Lathmon rose. He bent

the red eye of his wrath: he is silent in his rising grief. He often

struck his bossy shield: and his steps are unequal on the heath. I

saw the distant darkness of the hero, and I spoke to Morni's son.

"Car-borne chief of Strumon, dost thou behold the foe?

'They gather on the hill in their wrath. Let our steps be toward

the king. <1> He shall rise in his strength, and the host of

Lathmon vanish. Our fame is around us, warrior; the eyes of the

aged <2> will rejoice. But let us fly, son of Morni, Lathmon

descends the hill." "Then let our steps be slow," replied the fair-

haired Gaul;" lest the foe say with a smile, 'Behold the warriors of

night! They are, like ghosts, terrible in darkness; they melt away

before the beam of the east.' Ossian, take the shield of Gormar,

who fell beneath thy spear. The aged heroes will rejoice,

beholding the deeds of their sons."

Such were our words on the plain, when Sulmath came to

car-borne Lathmon: Sulmath chief of Datha, at the dark-rolling

stream of Duvranna." Why dost thou not rush, son of Nu„th, with

a thousand of thy heroes? Why dost thou not descend with thy

host before the warriors fly? Their blue arms are beaming to the

rising light, and their steps are before us on the heath!"

"Son of the feeble hand," said Lathmon," shall my host descend?

They are but two, son of Dutha! shall a thousand lift the steel?

Nu„th would mourn in his hall, for the departure of his fame. His

eyes would turn from Lathmon, when the tread of his feet

approached. Go thou to the heroes, chief of Dutha! I behold the

stately steps of Ossian. His fame is worthy of my steel! let us

contend in fight."

The noble Sulmath came. I rejoiced in the words of the

king. I raised the shield on my arm: Gaul placed in my hand the

sword of Morni. We returned to the murmuring stream; Lathmon

came down in his strength. His dark host rolled, like clouds,

behind him; but the son of Nu„th was bright in his steel.

"Son of Fingal," said the hero, "thy fame has grown on our

fall. How many lie there of my people by thy hand, thou king of

men! Lift now thy spear against Lathmon; lay the son of Nu„th

low! Lay him low among his warriors, or thou thyself must fall! It

shall never be told in my halls, that my people fell in my

presence: that they fell in the presence of Lathmon when his

sword rested by his side: the blue eyes of Couth would roll in

tears; her steps be lonely in the vales of Dunlathmon!"

"Neither shall it be told," I replied, "that the son of Fingal

fled. Were his steps covered with darkness, yet would not Ossian

fly! His soul would meet him and say, 'Does the bard of Selma

fear the foe?" No: he does not fear the foe. His joy is in the midst

of battle."

Lathmon came on with his spear. He pierced the shield of

Ossian. I felt the cold steel by my side. I drew the sword of Morni.

I cut the spear in twain. The bright point fell glittering on earth.

The son of Nu„th burnt in his wrath. He lifted high his sounding

shield. His dark eyes rolled above it, as bending forward, it shone

like a gate of brass. But Ossian's spear pierced the brightness of

its bosses, and sunk in a tree that rose behind. The shield hung

on the quivering lance! But Lathmon still advanced! Gaul foresaw

the fall of the chief. He stretched his buckler before my sword,

when it descended, in a stream of light, over the king of

Dunlathmon!

Lathmon beheld the son of Morni. The tear started from his

eye. He threw the sword of his fathers on the earth, and, spoke

the words of the brave.

"Why should Lathmon fight against the first of men? Your

souls are beams from heaven; your swords the flames of death!

Who can equal the renown of the heroes, whose deeds are so

great in youth? O that ye were in the halls of Nu„th, in the green

dwelling of Lathmon! Then would my father say that his son did

not yield to the weak. But who comes, a mighty stream, along the

echoing heath? The little hills are troubled before him. A

thousand ghosts are on the beams of his steel; the ghosts of

those who are to fall by the king of resounding Morven. Happy art

thou, O Fingal! thy son shall fight thy wars. They go forth before

thee: they return with the steps of their renown!"

Fingal came in his mildness, rejoicing in secret over the

deeds of his son. Morni's face brightened with gladness. His aged

eyes look faintly through tears of joy. We came to the halls of

Selma. We sat around the feasts of shells. The maids of song

came in to our presence, and the mildly-blushing Everallin! Her

hair spreads on her neck of snow, her eye rolls in secret on

Ossian. She touched the harp of music! we blessed the daughter

of Branno!

Fingal rose in his place, and spoke to Lathmon, king of

spears. The sword of Trenmor shook by his side, as high he

raised his mighty arm Son of Nu„th," he said, "why dost thou

search for fame in Morven? We are not of the race of the feeble;

our swords gleam not over the weak. When did we rouse thee, O

Lathmon, with the sound of war? Fingal does not delight in

battle, though his arm is strong! My renown grows on the fall of

the haughty. The light of my steel pours on the proud in arms.

The battle comes! and the tombs of the valiant rise; the tombs of

my people rise, O my fathers! I at last must remain alone! But I

will remain renowned: the departure of my soul shall be a stream

of light. Lathmon! retire to thy place! Turn thy battles to other

lands! The race of Morven are renowned; their foes are the sons

of the unhappy."

DAR-THULA

ARGUMENT.

It may not be improper here to give the story which is the

foundation of this poem, as it is handed down by tradition.

Usnoth, lord of Etha, which is probably that part of Argyleshire

which is near Loch Eta, an arm of the sea in Lorn, had three

sons, Nathos, Althos, and Ardan, by Sliss ma, the daughter of

Semo, and sister to the celebrated Cuthullin. The three brothers,

when very young, were sent over to Ireland by their father, to

learn the use of arms under their uncle Cuthullin, who made a

great figure in that kingdom. They were just landed in Ulster,

when the news of Cuthullin's death arrived. Nathos, though very

young, took the command of Cuthullin's army, made head

against Cairbar the usurper, and defeated him in several battles.

Cairbar at last, having found means to murder Cormac, the

lawful king, the army of Nathos shifted sides, and he himself was

obliged to return into Ulster, in order to pass over into Scotland.

Dar-thula, the daughter of Colla, with whom Cairbar was

in love, resided at that time in Sel ma, a castle in Ulster. She

saw, fell in love, and fled with Nathos; but a storm rising at sea,

they were unfortunately driven back on that part of the coast of

Ulster, where Cairbar was encamped with his army. The three

brothers, after having defended themselves for some time with

great bravery, were overpowered and slain, and the unfortunate

Dar-thula killed herself upon the body of her beloved Nathos.

The poem opens, on the night preceding the death of the sons of

Usnoth, and brings in, by way of episode, what passed before. it

relates the death of Dar-thula differently from the common

tradition. This account, is the most probable, as suicide seems to

have been unknown in those early times, for no traces of it are

found in the old poetry.

DAUGHTER of heaven, fair art thou! the silence of thy face

is pleasant! Thou comest forth in loveliness. The stars attend thy

blue course in the east. The clouds rejoice in thy presence, O

moon! They brighten their dark-brown sides. Who is like thee in

heaven, light of the silent night? The stars are shamed in thy

presence. They turn away their sparkling eyes. Whither dost thou

retire from thy course when the darkness of thy countenance

grows? Hast thou thy hall, like Ossian? Dwellest thou in the

shadow of grief? Have thy sisters fallen from heaven? Are they

who rejoiced with thee, at night, no more? Yes, they have fallen,

fair light! and thou dost often retire to mourn. But thou thyself

shalt fail one night and leave thy blue path in heaven. The stars

will then lift their heads: they who were ashamed in thy presence,

will rejoice. Thou art now clothed with thy brightness. Look from

thy gates in the sky. Burst the cloud, O wind! that the daughters

of night may look forth; that the shaggy mountains may brighten,

and the ocean roll its white waves in light!

Nathos is on the deep, and Althos, that beam of youth!

Ardan is near his brothers. They move in the gloom of their

course. The sons of Usnoth move in darkness, from the wrath of

Cairbar of Erin. Who is that, dim by their side? The night has

covered her beauty! Her hair sighs on ocean's wind. Her robe

streams in dusky wreaths. She is like the fair spirit of heaven in

the midst of the shadowy mist. Who is it but Dar-thula, the first

of Erin's maids? She has fled from the love of Cairbar, with blue-

shielded Nathos. But the winds deceive thee, O Dar-thula! They

deny the woody Etha to thy sails. These are not the mountains of

Nathos; nor is that the roar of his climbing waves. The halls of

Cairbar are near: the towers of the foe lift their heads! Erin

stretches its green head into the sea. Tura's bay receives the

ship. Where have ye been, ye southern Winds, when the sons of

my love were deceived? But ye have been sporting on the plains,

pursuing the thistle's beard. O that ye had been rustling in the

sails of Nathos, till the hills of Etha arose! till they arose in their

clouds, and saw their returning chief! Long hast thou been

absent, Nathos! the day of thy return is past!

But the land of strangers saw thee lovely! thou wast lovely

in the eyes of Dar-thula. Thy face was like the light of the

morning. Thy hair like the raven's wing. Thy soul was generous

and mild, like tho hour of the setting sun. Thy words were the

gale of the reeds; the gliding stream of Lora! But when the rage of

battle rose, thou wast a sea in a storm. The clang of thy arms

was terrible: the host vanished at the sound of thy course. It was

then Dar-thula beheld thee, from the top of her mossy tower;

from the tower of Sel ma, where her fathers dwelt.

"Lovely art thou, O stranger!" she said, for her trembling

soul arose. "Fair art thou in thy battles, friend of the fallen

Cormac! Why dost thou rush on in thy valor, youth of the ruddy

look? Few are thy hands in fight against the dark-brown Cairbar!

O that I might be freed from his love, that I might rejoice in the

presence of Nathos! Blest are the rocks of Etha! they will behold

his steps at the chase; they will see his white bosom, when the

winds lift his flowing hair!" Such were thy words, Dar-thula, in

Sel ma's mossy towers. But now the night is around thee. The

winds have deceived thy sails- -- the winds have deceived thy

sails, Dar-thula! Their blustering sound is high. Cease a little

while, O north wind! Let me hear the voice of the lovely. Thy voice

is lovely, Dar-thula, between the rustling blasts!

"Are these the rocks of Nathos?" she said, "this the roaring

of his mountain streams? Comes that beam of light from

Usnoth's nightly hall? The mist spreads around; the beam is

feeble and distant far. But the light of Dar-thula's soul dwells in

the chief of Etha! Son of the generous Usnoth, why that broken

sigh? Are we in the land of strangers, chief of echoing Etha?"

"These are not the rocks of Nathos," he replied, "nor this

the roar of his stream. No light comes from Etha's hall, for they

are distant far. We are in the land of strangers, in the land of

cruel Cairbar. The winds have deceived us, Dar-thula. Erin lifts

here her hills. Go towards the north, Althos: be thy steps, Ardan,

along the coast; that the foe may not come in darkness, and our

hopes of Etha fail. I will go towards that mossy tower, to see who

dwells about the beam. Rest, Dar-thula, on the shore! rest in

peace, thou lovely light! the sword of Nathos is around thee, like

the lightning of heaven!"

He went. She sat alone: she heard the roiling of the wave.

The big tear is in her eye. She looks for returning Nathos. Her

soul trembles at the bast. She turns her ear towards the tread of

his feet. The tread of his feet is not heard. "Where art thou, son of

my love! The roar of the blast is around me. Dark is the cloudy

night. But Nathos does not return. What detains thee, chief of

Etha? Have the foes met the hero in the strife of the night?"

He returned; but his face was dark. He had seen his

departed friend! it was the wall of Tura. The ghost of Cuthullin

stalked there alone; the sighing of his breast was frequent. The

decayed flame of his eyes was terrible! His spear was a column of

mist. The stars looked dim through his form. His voice was like

hollow wind in a cave: his eye a light seen afar. He told the tale of

grief. The soul of Nathos was sad, like the sun in the day of mist,

when his face watery and dim.

"Why art thou sad, O Nathos!" said the lovely daughter of

Colla. "Thou art a pillow of light to Dar-thula. The joy of her eyes

is in Etha's chief. Where is my friend, but Nathos? My father, my

brother is fallen! Silence dwells on Sel ma. Sadness spreads on

the blue streams of my land. My friends have fallen with Cormac.

The mighty were slain in the battles of Erin. Hear, son of Usnoth!

hear, O Nathos! my tale of grief.

"Evening darkened on the plain. The blue streams failed

before mine eyes. The unfrequent blast came rustling in the tops

of Sel ma's groves. My seat was beneath a tree, on the walls of

my fathers. Truthil past before my soul; the brother of my love:

he that was absent in battle against the haughty Cairbar!

Bending on his spear, the gray-haired Colla came. His downcast

face is dark, and sorrow dwells in his soul. His sword is on the

side of the hero; the helmet of his fathers on his head. The battle

grows in his breast. He strives to hide the tear.

"'Dar-thula, my daughter,' he said, 'thou art the last of

Colla's race! Truthil is fallen in battle. The chief of Sel ma is no

more! Cairbar comes, with his thousands, towards Sel ma's

walls. Colla will meet his pride, and revenge his son. But where

shall I find thy safety, Dar-thula with the dark-brown hair! thou

art lovely as the sunbeam of heaven, and thy friends are low!' 'Is

the son of battle fallen?' I said, with a bursting sigh. 'Ceased the

generous soul of Truthil to lighten through the field? My safety,

Colla, is in that bow. I have learned to pierce the deer. Is not

Cairbar like the hart of the desert, father of fallen Truthil?'

"The face of age brightened with joy. The crowded tears of

his eyes poured down. The lips of Colla trembled. His gray beard

whistled in the blast. 'Thou art the sister of Truthil,' he said;

'thou burnest in the fire of his soul. Take, Dar-thula, take that

spear, that brazen shield, that burnished helm; they are the

spoils of a warrior, a son of early youth! When the light rises on

Sel ma, we go to meet the car-borne Cairbar. But keep thou near

the arm of Colla, beneath the shadow of my shield. Thy father,

Dar-thula, could once defend thee; but age is trembling On his

hand. The strength of his arm has failed. His soul is darkened

with grief.'

"We passed the night in sorrow. The light of morning rose. I

shone in the arms of battle. The gray haired hero moved before.

The sons of Sel ma convened around the sounding shield of

Colla. But few were they in the plain, and their locks were gray.

The youths had fallen with Truthil, in the battle of car-borne

Cormac. 'Friends of my youth,' said Colla, 'it was not thus you

have seen me in arms. It was not thus I strode to battle when the

great Confaden fell. But ye are laden with grief. The darkness of

age comes like the mist of the desert. My shield is worn with

years! my sword is fixed in its place! <1> I said to my soul, Thy

evening shall be calm; thy departure like a fading light. But the

storm has returned. I bend like an aged oak. My boughs are

fallen on Sel ma. I tremble in my place. Where art thou, with thy

fallen heroes, O my beloved Truthil! Thou answerest not from thy

rushing blast. The soul of thy father is sad. But I will be sad no

more! Cairbar or Colla must fall! I feel the returning strength of

my arm. My heart leaps at the sound of war.'

"The hero drew his sword. The gleaming blades of his

people rose. They moved along the plain. Their gray hair

streamed in the wind. Cairbar sat at the feast, in the silent plain

of Lena. He saw the coming of the heroes. He called his chiefs to

war. Why should I tell to Nathos how the strife of battle grew? I

have seen thee in the midst of thousands, like the beam of

heaven's fire: it is beautiful, but terrible; the people fall in its

dreadful course. The spear of Colla flew. He remembered the

battles of his youth. An arrow came with its sound. It pierced the

hero's side. He fell on his echoing shield. My soul started with

fear. I stretched my buckler over him: but my heaving breast was

seen! Cairbar came with his spear. He beheld Sel ma's maid. Joy

rose on his dark-brown Taco. He stayed his lifted steel. He raised

the tomb of Colla. He brought me weeping to Sel ma. He spoke

the words of love, but my soul was sad. I saw the shields of my

fathers; the sword of car-borne Truthil. I saw the arms of the

dead; the tear was on my cheek! Then thou didst come, O

Nathos! and gloomy Cairbar fled. He fled like the ghost of the

desert before the morning's beam. His host was not near; and

feeble was his arm against thy steel! Why art thou sad, O

Nathos?" said the lovely daughter of Colla.

"I have met," replied the hero, "the battle in my youth. My

arm could not lift the spear when danger first arose. My soul

brightened in the presence of war, as the green narrow vale,

when the sun pours his streamy beams, before he hides his head

in a storm. The lonely traveller feels a mournful joy. He sees the

darkness that slowly comes. My soul brightened in danger before

I saw Sel ma's fair; before I saw thee, like a star that shines on

the hill at night; the cloud advances, and threatens the lovely

light! We are in the land of foes. The winds have deceived us,

Dar-thula! The strength of our friends is not near, nor the

mountains of Etha. Where shall I find thy peace, daughter of

mighty Colla! The brothers of Nathos are brave, and his own

sword has shone in fight. But what are the sons of Usnoth to the

host of dark-brown Cairbar! O that the winds had brought thy

sails, Oscar king of men! Thou didst promise to come to the

battles of fallen Cormac! Then would my hand be strong as the

flaming arm of death. Cairbar would tremble in his halls, and

peace dwell round the lovely Dar-thula. But why dost thou fall,

my soul? The sons of Usnoth may prevail!"

"And they will prevail, O Nathos!" said the rising soul of the

maid. "Never shall Dar-thula behold the halls of gloomy Cairbar.

Give me those arms of brass, that glitter to the passing meteor. I

see them dimly in the dark-bosomed ship. Dar-thula will enter

the battles of steel. Ghost of the noble Colla! do I behold thee on

that cloud! Who is that dim beside thee? Is it the car-borne

Truthil? Shall I behold the halls of him that slew Sel ma's chief?

No: I will not behold them, spirits of my love!"

Joy rose in the face of Nathos when he heard the white-

bosomed maid. "Daughter of Sel ma! thou shinest along my soul.

Come, with thy thousands, Cairbar! the strength of Nathos is

returned! Thou O aged Usnoth! shalt not hear that thy son has

fled. I remembered thy words on Etha, when my sails began to

rise: when I spread them towards Erin, towards the mossy walls

of Tura! 'Thou goest,' he said, 'O Nathos, to the king of shields!

Thou goest to Cuthullin, chief of men, who never fled from

danger. Let not thine arm be feeble: neither be thy thoughts of

flight; lest the son of Semo should say that Etha's race are weak.

His words may come to Usnoth, and sadden his soul in the hall.'

The tear was on my father's cheek. He gave this shining sword!

"I came to Tura's bay; but the halls of Tara were silent. I

looked around, and there was none to tell of the son of generous

Semo. I went to the hall of shells, where the arms of his fathers

hung. But the arms were gone, and aged Lamhor sat in tears.

'Whence are the arms of steel?' said the rising Lamhor. 'The light

of the spear has long been absent from Tura's dusky walls. Come

ye from the rolling sea? or from Temora's mournful halls?'

"'We come from the sea,' I said, 'from Usnoth's rising

towers. We are the sons of Sliss ma, the daughter of car-borne

Semo. Where is Tura's chief, son of the silent hall? But why

should Nathos ask? for I behold thy tears. How did the mighty

fall, son of the lonely Tura?' 'He fell not,' Lamhor replied, 'like the

silent star of night, when it flies through darkness and is no

more. But he was like a meteor that shoots into a distant land.

Death attends its dreary course. Itself is the sign of wars.

Mournful are the banks of Lego; and the roar of streamy Lara!

There the hero fell, son of the noble Usnoth!' 'The hero fell in the

midst of slaughter,' I said with a bursting sigh. 'His hand was

strong in war. Death dimly sat behind his sword.'

"We came to Lego's sounding banks. We found his rising

tomb. His friends in battle are there: his bards of many songs.

Three days we mourned over the hero: on the fourth I struck the

shield of Caithbat. The heroes gathered around with joy, and

shook their beamy spears. Corlath was near with his host, the

friend of car-borne Cairbar. We came like a stream by night. His

heroes fell before us. When the people of the valley rose, they saw

their blood with morning's light. But we rolled away, like wreaths

of mist, to Cormac's echoing hall. Our swords rose to defend the

king. But Temora's halls were empty. Cormac had fallen in his

youth. The king of Erin was no more!

"Sadness seized the sons of Erin. They slowly gloomily

retired: like clouds that long having threatened rain, vanish

behind the hills. The sons of Usnoth moved, in their grief,

towards Tura's sounding bay. We passed by Sel ma. Cairbar

retired like Lena's mist, when driven before the winds. It was

then I beheld thee, O Dar-thula! like the light of Etha's sun.

'Lovely is that beam!' I said. The crowded sigh of my bosom rose.

Thou camest in thy beauty, Dar-thula, to Etha's mournful chief.

But the winds have deceived us, daughter of Colla, and the foe is

near!"

"Yes, the foe is near," said the rushing strength of Althos." I

heard their clanging arms on the coast. I saw the dark wreaths of

Erin's standard. Distinct is the voice of Cairbar; loud as Cromla's

falling stream. He had seen the dark ship on the sea, before the

dusky night came down. His people watch on Lena's plain. They

lift ten thousand swords." "And let them lift ten thousand

swords," said Nathos with a smile." The sons of car-borne Usnoth

will never tremble in danger! Why dost thou roll with all thy foam,

thou roaring sea of Erin? Why do ye rustle on your dark wings, ye

whistling storms of the sky? Do ye think, ye storms, that ye keep

Nathos on the coast? No: his soul detains him, children of the

night! Althos, bring my father's arms: thou seest them beaming

to the stars. Bring the spear of Semo. It stands in the dark-

bosomed ship!"

He brought the arms. Nathos covered his limbs in all their

shining steel. The stride of the chief is lovely. The joy of' his eyes

was terrible. He looks towards the coming of Cairbar. The wind is

rustling in his hair. Dar-thula is silent at his side. Her look is

fixed on the chief. She strives to hide the rising sigh. Two tears

swell in her radiant eyes!

"Althos!" said the child of Etha, "I see a cave in that rock. Place

Dar-thula there. Let thy arm, my brother, be strong. Ardan! we

meet the foe; call to battle gloomy Cairbar. O that he came in his

sounding steel, to meet the son of Usnoth! Dar-thula, if thou

shalt escape, look not on the fallen Nathos! Lift thy sails, O

Althos! towards the echoing groves of my land.

"Tell the chief that his son fell with fame; that my sword did

not shun the fight. Tell him I fell in the midst of thousands. Let

the joy of his grief be great. Daughter of Colla! call the maids to

Etha's echoing hall! Let their songs arise for Nathos, when

shadowy autumn returns. O that the voice of Cona, that Ossian

might be heard in my praise! then would my spirit rejoice in the

midst of the rushing winds." "And my voice shall praise thee,

Nathos, chief of the woody Etha! The voice of Ossian shall rise in

thy praise, son of the generous Usnoth! Why was I not on Lena

when the battle rose? Then would the sword of Ossian defend

thee, or himself fall low!"

We sat that night in Selma, round the strength of the shell.

The wind was abroad in the oaks. The spirit of the mountain <2>

roared. The blast came rustling through the hall, and gently

touched my harp. The sound was mournful and low, like the

song of the tomb. Fingal heard it the first. The crowded sighs of

his bosom rose. "Some of my heroes are low," said the gray-

haired king of Morven. "I hear the sound of death on the harp.

Ossian, touch the trembling string. Bid the sorrow rise, that their

spirits may fly with joy to Morven's woody hills!" I touched the

harp before the king; the sound was mournful and low. "Bend

forward from your clouds," I said, "ghosts of my fathers! bend.

Lay by the red terror of your course. Receive the fallen chief;

whether he comes from a distant land, or rises from the rolling

sea. Let his robe of mist be near; his spear that is formed of a

cloud. Place an half-extinguished meteor by his side, in the form

of the hero's sword. And, oh! let his countenance be lovely, that

his friends may delight in his presence. Bend from your clouds," I

said, "ghosts of my fathers! bend!"

Such was my song in Selma, to the lightly-trembling harp.

But Nathos was on Erin's shore, surrounded by the night. He

heard the voice of the foe, amidst the roar of tumbling waves.

Silent he heard their voice, and rested on his spear! Morning

rose, with its beams. The sons of Erin appear: like gray rocks,

with all their trees, they spread along the coast. Cairbar stood in

the midst. He grimly smiled when he saw the foe. Nathos rushed

forward in his strength: nor could Dar-thula stay behind. She

came with the hero, lifting her shining spear. "And who are these,

in their armor, in the pride of youth? Who but the sons of

Usnoth, Althos and dark-haired Ardan?"

"Come," said Nathos, "come, chief of high Temora! Let our

battle be on the coast, for the white bosomed maid. His people

are not with Nathos: they are behind these rolling seas. Why dost

thou bring thy thousands against the chief of Etha? Thou didst

fly from him in battle, when his friends were around his spear."

"Youth of the heart of pride, shall Erin's king fight with thee? Thy

fathers were not among the renowned, nor of the kings of men.

Are the arms of foes in their halls? or the shields of other times?

Cairbar is renowned in Temora, nor does he fight with feeble men

The tear started from car-borne Nathos. He turned his eyes

to his brothers. Their spears flew at once. Three heroes lay on

earth. Then the light of their swords gleamed on high. The ranks

of Erin yield, as a ridge of dark clouds before a blast of wind!

Then Cairbar ordered his people, and they drew a thousand

bows. A thousand arrows flew. The sons of Usnoth fell in blood.

They fell like three young oaks, which stood alone on the hill: the

traveller saw the lovely trees, and wondered how they grew so

lonely: the blast of the desert came by night, and laid their green

heads low. Next day he returned, but they were withered, and the

heath was bare!

Dar-thula stood in silent grief, and beheld their fall! No tear

is in her eye. But her look is wildly sad. Pale was her cheek. Her

trembling lips broke short an half-formed word. Her dark hair

flew on wind. The gloomy Cairbar came. "Where is thy lover now?

the car-borne chief of Etha? Hast thou beheld the halls of

Usnoth? or the dark-brown hills of Fingal? My battle would have

roared on Morven, had not the winds met Dar-thula. Fingal

himself would have been low, and sorrow dwelling in Selma!" Her

shield fell from Dar-thula's arm. Her breast of snow appeared. It

appeared; but it was stained with blood. An arrow was fixed in

her side. She fell on the fallen Nathos, like a wreath of snow! Her

hair spreads wide on his face. Their blood is mixing round!

"Daughter of Colla! thou art low!" said Cairbar's hundred

bards. "Silence is at the blue streams of Sel ma. Truthil's race

have failed. When wilt thou rise in thy beauty, first of Erin's

maids? Thy sleep is long in the tomb. The morning distant far.

The sun shall not come to thy bed and say, Awake, Dar-thula!

awake, thou first of women! the wind of spring is abroad. The

flowers shake their heads on the green hills. The woods wave

their growing leaves. Retire, O sun! the daughter of Colla is

asleep. She will not come forth in her beauty. She will not move

in the steps of her loveliness."

Such was the song of the bards, when they raised the

tomb. I sung over the grave, when the king of Morven came: when

he came to green Erin to fight with car-borne Cairbar!

<1> It was the custom of ancient times, that every warrior, at a

certain age, or when he became unfit for the field, fixed his arms

in the great ball, where the tribes feasted upon joyful occasions.

He was afterward never to appear in battle; and this stage of life

was called "the time of fixing the arms."

<2> By the spirit of the mountain, is meant that deep and

melancholy sound which precedes a storm, well known to those

who live

in a high country.

THE DEATH OF CUTHULLIN.

ARGUMENT.

Cuthullin, after the arms of Fingal had expelled Swaran from

Ireland, continued to manage the affairs of that kingdom as the

guardian of Cormac the young king. In the third year of

Cuthullin's administration, Torlath, the son of Cantela, rebelled

in Connaught: and advanced to Temora to dethrone Cormac.

Cuthullin marched against him, came up with him at the lake of

Lego, and totally defeated his forces. Torlath fell in battle by

Cuthullin's hand; but as he too eagerly pressed on the enemy, he

was mortally wounded. The affairs of Cormac, though for some

time supported by Nathos, as mentioned in the preceding poem,

fell into confusion at the death of Cuthullin. Cormac himself was

slain by the rebel Cairbar; and the re-establishment of the royal

family of Ireland, by Fingal, furnishes the subject of the epic

poem of Temora.

Is the wind on the shield of Fingal? Or is the voice of past

times in my hall? Sing on, sweet voice! for thou art pleasant.

Thou carriest away my night with joy. Sing on, O Brag‚la,

daughter of car-borne Sorglan!

"It is the white wave of the rock, and not Cuthullin's sails.

Often do the mists deceive me for the ship of my love! when they

rise round some ghost, and spread their gray skirts on the wind.

Why dost thou delay thy coming, son of the generous Semo? Four

times has autumn returned with its winds, and raised the seas of

Togorma, <1> since thou hast been in the roar of battles, and

Brag‚la distant far! Hills of the isle of mist! when will ye answer

to his hounds? But ye are dark in your clouds. Sad Brag‚la calls

in vain! Night comes rolling down. The face of ocean falls. The

heath-cock's head is beneath his wing. The hind sleeps with the

hart of the desert. They shall rise with morning's light, and feed

by the mossy stream. But my tears return with the sun. My sighs

come on with the night. When wilt thou come in thine arms, O

chief of Erin's wars?"

Pleasant is thy voice in Ossian's ear, daughter of car-borne

Sorglan! But retire to the hall of shells, to the beam of the

burning oak. Attend to the murmur of the sea: it rolls at

Dunsc„i's walls: let sleep descend on thy blue eyes. Let the hero

arise in thy dreams!

Cuthullin sits at Lego's lake, at the dark rolling of waters.

Night is around the hero. His thousands spread on the heath. A

hundred oaks burn in the midst. The feast of shells is smoking

wide. Carril strikes the harp beneath a tree. His gray locks glitter

in the beam. The rustling blast of night is near, and lifts his aged

hair. His song is of the blue Togorma, and of its chief, Cuthullin's

friend! "Why art thou absent, Connal, in the days of the gloomy

storm? The chiefs of the south have convened against the car-

borne Cormac. The winds detain thy sails. Thy blue waters roll

around thee. But Cormac is not alone. The son of Semo fights his

wars! Semo's son his battles fights! the terror of the stranger! He

that is like the vapor of death, slowly borne by sultry winds. The

sun reddens in its presence; the people fall around."

Such was the song of Carril, when a son of the foe

appeared. He threw down his pointless spear. He spoke the words

of Torlath; Torlath chief of heroes, from Lego's sable surge! He

that led his thousands to battle, against car-borne Cormac.

Cormac, who was distant far, in Temora's echoing halls: he

learned to bend the bow of his fathers; and to lift the spear. Nor

long didst thou lift the spear, mildly-shining beam of youth!

death stands dim behind thee, like the darkened half of the moon

behind its growing light. Cuthullin rose before the bard, that

came from generous Torlath. He offered him the shell of joy. He

honored the son of songs. "Sweet voice of Lego!" he said, "what

are the words of Torlath? Comes he to our feast or battle, the car-

borne son of Cantela?"

"He comes to thy battle," replied the bard, "to the sounding

strife of spears. When morning is gray on Lego, Torlath will fight

on the plain. Wilt thou meet him, in thine arms, king of the isle of

mist? Terrible is the spear of Torlath! it is a meteor of night. He

lifts it, and the people fall! death sits in the lightning of his

sword!" -- "Do I fear," replied Cuthullin, "the spear of car-borne

Torlath? He is brave as a thousand heroes: but my soul delights

in war! The sword rests not by the side of Cuthullin, bard of the

times of old! Morning shall meet me on the plain, and gleam on

the blue arms of Semo's son. But sit thou on the heath, O bard,

and let us hear thy voice. Partake of the joyful shell: and hear the

songs of Temora!"

"This is no time," replied the bard, "to hear the song of joy:

when the mighty are to meet in battle, like the strength of the

waves of Lego. Why art thou so dark, Slimora! with all thy silent

woods? No star trembles on thy top. No moonbeam on thy side.

But the meteors of death are there: the gray watery forms of

ghosts. Why art thou dark, Slimora! why thy silent woods?" He

retired, in the sound of his song. Carril joined his voice. The

music was like the memory of joys that are past, pleasant and

mournful to the soul. The ghosts of departed bards heard on

Slimora's side. Soft sounds spread along the wood. The silent

valleys of night rejoice. So when he sits in the silence of the day,

in the valley of his breeze, the humming of the mountain bee

comes to Ossian's ear: the gale drowns it in its course: but the

pleasant sound returns again! Slant looks the sun on the field!

gradual grows the shade of the hill!

"Raise," said Cuthullin to his hundred bards, "the song of

the noble Fingal: that song which he hears at night, when the

dreams of his rest descend; when the bards strike the distant

harp, and the faint light gleams on Selma's walls. Or let the grief

of Lara rise: the sighs of the mother of Calmar, when he was

sought, in vain, on his hills; when she beheld his bow in the hall.

Carril, place the shield of Caithbat on that branch. Let the spear

of Cuthullin be near; that the sound of my battle may rise, with

the gray beam of the east."

The hero leaned on his father's shield: the song of Lara

rose! The hundred bards were distant far: Carril alone is near the

chief. The words of the song were his: the sound of his harp was

mournful.

"Alcletha with the aged locks! mother of car-borne Calmar!

why dost thou look towards the desert, to behold the return of

thy son? These are not his heroes, dark on the heath: nor is that

the voice of Calmar. It is but the distant grove, Alcletha! but the

roar of the mountain-wind -- [Alcletha speaks] 'Who bounds over

Lara's stream, sister of the noble Calmar? Does not Alcletha

behold his spear? But her eyes are dim! Is it not the son of

Matha, daughter of my love?'

"'It is but an aged oak, Alcletha!' replied the lovely weeping

Alona. 'It is but an oak, Alcletha, bent over Lara's stream. But

who comes along the plain? sorrow is in his speed. He lifts high

the spear of Calmar. Alcletha, it is covered with blood!' --

"[Alcletha speaks] 'But it is covered with the blood of foes,

sister of car-borne Calmar! His spear never returned unstained

with blood: nor his bow from the strife of the mighty. The battle is

consumed in his presence: he is a flame of death, Alona! -- Youth

of the mournful speed! where is the son of Alcletha! Does he

return with his fame, in the midst of his echoing shields? Thou

art dark and silent! Calmar is then no more! Tell me not, warrior,

how he fell. I must not hear of his wound!' Why dost thou look

towards the desert, mother of low-laid Calmar?"

Such was the song of Carril, when Cuthullin lay on his

shield. The bards rested on their harps. Sleep fell softly around.

The son of Semo was awake alone. His soul fixed on war. The

burning oaks began to decay. Faint red light is spread around. A

feeble voice is heard! The ghost of Calmar came! He stalked dimly

along the beam. Dark is the wound in his side. His hair is

disordered and loose. Joy sits pale on his face. He seems to invite

Cuthullin to his cave.

"Son of the cloudy night!" said the rising chief of Erin; "why

dost thou bend thy dark eyes on me, ghost of the noble Calmar?

wouldst thou frighten me, O Matha's son! from the battles of

Cormac? Thy hand was not feeble in war: neither was thy voice

for peace. How art thou changed, chief of Lara! if thou now dost

advise to fly! But, Calmar, I never fled. I never feared the ghosts

of night. Small is their knowledge, weak their hands; their

dwelling is in the wind. But my soul grows in danger, and rejoices

in the noise of steel. Retire thou to thy cave. Thou art not

Calmar's ghost. He delighted in battle. His arm was like the

thunder of heaven! He retired in his blast with joy, for he had

heard the voice of his praise."

The faint beam of the morning rose. The sound of

Caithbat's buckler spread. Green Erin's warriors convened, like

the roar of many streams. The horn of war is heard over Lego.

The mighty Torlath came! "Why dost thou come with thy

thousands, Cuthullin," said the chief of Lego." I know the

strength of thy arm. Thy soul is an unextinguished fire. Why fight

we not on the plain, and let our hosts behold our deeds? Let

them behold us like roaring waves, that tumble round a rock; the

mariners hasten away, and look on their strife with fear."

"Thou risest like the sun, on my soul, replied the son of

Semo. Thine arm is mighty, O Torlath! and worthy of my wrath.

Retire, ye men of Ullin, to Slimora's shady side. Behold the chief

of Erin, in the day of his fame. Carril, tell to mighty Connal, if

Cuthullin must fall, tell him I accused the winds, which roar on

Togorma's waves. Never was he absent in battle, when the strife

of my fame arose. Let his sword be before Cormac, like the beam

of heaven. Let his counsel sound in Temora, in the day of

danger!"

He rushed, in the sound of his arms, like the terrible spirit

of Loda, when he comes, in the roar of a thousand storms, and

scatters battles from his eyes. He sits on a cloud over Lochlin's

seas. His mighty hand is on his sword. Winds lift his flaming

locks! The waning moon half lights his dreadful face. His features

blended in darkness arise to view. So terrible was Cuthullin in

the day of his fame. Torlath fell by his hand. Lego's heroes

mourned. They gather around the chief, like the clouds of the

desert. A thousand swords rose at once; a thousand arrows flew;

but he stood like a rock in the midst of a roaring sea. They fell

around. He strode in blood. Dark Slimora echoed wide. The sons

of Ullin came on. The battle spread over Lego. The chief of Erin

overcame. He returned over the field with his fame. But pale he

returned! The joy of his face was dark. He rolled his eyes in

silence. The sword hung, unsheathed, in his hand. His spear

bent at every step!

"Carril," said the chief in secret, "the strength of Cuthullin

fails. My days are with the years that are past. No morning of

mine shall arise. They shall seek me at Temora, but I shall not be

found. Cormac will weep in his hall, and say, Where is Erin's

chief? But my name is renowned! my fame in the song of bards.

The youth will say, in secret, O let me die as Cuthullin died!

Renown clothed him like a robe. The light of his fame is great. --

Draw the arrow from my side. Lay Cuthullin beneath that oak.

Place the shield of Caithbat near, that they may behold me

amidst the arms of my fathers!"

"And is the son of Semo fallen?" said Carril with a sigh."

Mournful are Tura's walls. Sorrow dwells at Dunsc„i. Thy spouse

is left alone in her youth. The son of thy love is alone! He shall

come to Brag‚la and ask her why she weeps! He shalt lift his eyes

to the wall, and see his father's sword. Whose sword is that? he

will say. The soul of his mother is sad. Who is that, like the hart

of the desert, in the murmur of his course? His eyes look wildly

round in search of his friend. Connal, son of Colgar, where hast

thou been, when the mighty fell? Did the seas of Togorma roll

around thee? Was the wind of the south in thy sails? The mighty

have fallen in battle, and thou wast not there. Let none tell it in

Selma, nor in Morven's woody land. Fingal will be sad, and the

sons of the desert mourn!"

By the dark-rolling waves of Lego they raised the hero's

tomb. Luath, at a distance, lies. The song of bards rose over the

dead.

<2> Blest be thy soul, son of Semo! Thou wert mighty in

battle. Thy strength was like the strength of a stream; thy speed

like the eagle's wing. Thy path in battle was terrible: the steps of

death were behind thy sword. Blest be thy soul, son of Semo, car-

borne chief of Dunsc„i! Thou hast not fallen by the sword of the

mighty, neither was thy blood on the spear of the brave. The

arrow came, like the sting of death in a blast: nor did the feeble

hand, which drew the bow, perceive it. Peace to thy soul, in thy

cave, chief of the isle of mist!

"The mighty are dispersed at Temora; there is none in

Cormac's hall. The king mourns in his youth. He does not behold

thy return. The sound of thy shield is ceased: his foes are

gathering round. Soft be thy rest in thy cave, chief of Erin's wars!

Brag‚la will not hope for thy return, or see thy sails in ocean's

foam. Her steps are not on the shore: nor her ear open to the

voice of thy rowers. She sits in the hall of shells. She sees the

arms of him that is no more. Thine eyes are full of tears,

daughter of car-borne Sorglan! Blest be thy soul in death, O chief

of shady Tura!"

<1> Togorma, i. e. "the island of blue waves," one of the Hebrides.

<2> This is the song of the bards over Cuthullin's tomb.

THE BATTLE OF LORA.

ARGUMENT

Fingal, at his return from Ireland, after he had expelled Swaran

from that kingdom, made a feast to all his heroes: he forgot to

invite Ma-Ronnan and Aldo, two chiefs, who had not been along

with him in his expedition. They resented his neglect; and went

over to Erragon, king of Sora, a country of Scandinavia, the

declared enemy of Fingal. The valor of Aldo soon gained him a

great reputation in Sora; and Lorma, the beautiful wife of

Erragon, fell in love with him. He found means to escape with

her, and to come to Fingal, who resided then in Selma, on the

western coast. Erragon invaded Scotland, and was slain in battle

by Gaul the son of Morni, after he had rejected terms of peace

offered him by Fingal. In this war Aldo fell, in a single combat, by

the hands of his rival Erragon, and the unfortunate Lorma

afterward died of grief.

SON of the distant land, who dwellest in the secret cell; do I

hear the sound of thy grove? or is it thy voice of songs? The

torrent was loud in my ear; but I heard a tuneful voice. Dost thou

praise the chiefs of thy land: or the spirits of the wind? But,

lonely dweller of rocks! look thou on that heathy plain. Thou

seest green tombs, with their rank, whistling grass, with their

stones of mossy heads. Thou seest them, son of the rock, but

Ossian's eyes have failed!

A mountain-stream comes roaring down, and sends its

waters round a green hill. Four mossy stones, in the midst of

withered grass, rear their heads on the top. Two trees which the

storms have bent, spread their whistling branches around. This

is thy dwelling, Erragon; this thy narrow house; the sound of thy

shells has been long forgot in Sora. Thy shield is become dark in

thy hall. Erragon, king of ships, chief of distant Sora! how hast

thou fallen on our mountains? How is the mighty low? Son of the

secret cell! dost thou delight in songs? Hear the battle of Lora.

The sound of its steel is long since past. So thunder on the

darkened hill roars and is no more. The sun returns with his

silent beams. The glittering rocks, and the green heads of the

mountains, smile.

The bay of Cona received our ships from Erin's rolling

waves. Our white sheets hung loose to the masts. The boisterous

winds roared behind the groves of Morven. The horn of the king is

sounded; the deer start from their rocks. Our arrows flew in the

woods. The feast of the hill is spread. Our joy was great on our

rocks, for the fall of the terrible Swaran. Two heroes were forgot

at our feast. The rage of their bosoms burned. They rolled their

red eyes in secret. The sigh bursts from their breasts. They were

seen to talk together, and to throw their spears on earth. They

were two dark clouds in the midst of our joy; like pillars of mist

on the settled sea: they glitter to the sun, but the mariners fear a

storm.

"Raise my white sails," said Ma-Ronnan, "raise them to the

winds of the west. Let us rush, O Aldo! through the foam of the

northern wave. We are forgot at the feast: but our arms have

been red in blood. Let us leave the hills of Fingal, and serve the

king of Sora. His countenance is fierce. War darkens around his

spear. Let us be renowned, O Aldo, in the battles of other lands!"

They took their swords, their shields of thongs. They

rushed to Lumar's resounding bay. They came to Sora's haughty

king, the chief of bounding steeds. Erragon had returned from

the chase. His spear was red in blood. He bent his dark face to

the ground; and whistled as he went. He took the strangers to his

feast: they fought and conquered in his wars.

Aldo returned with his fame towards Sora's lofty walls.

From her tower looked the spouse of Erragon, the humid, rolling

eyes of Lorma. Her yellow hair flies on the wind of ocean. Her

white breast heaves, like snow on heath; when the gentle winds

arise, and slowly move it in the light. She saw young Aldo, like

the beam of Sora's setting sun. Her soft heart sighed. Tears filled

her eyes. Her white arm supported her head. Three days she sat

within the hall, and covered her grief with joy. On the fourth she

fled with the hero, along the troubled sea. They came to Cona's

mossy towers, to Fingal king of spears.

"Aldo of the heart of pride!" said Fingal, rising in wrath;

"shall I defend thee from the rage of Sora's injured king? Who will

now receive my people into their halls? Who will give the feast of

strangers, since Aldo of the little soul has dishonored my name in

Sora? Go to thy hills, thou feeble hand! Go: hide thee in thy

caves. Mournful is the battle we must fight with Sora's gloomy

king. Spirit of the noble Trenmor! when will Fingal cease to fight?

I was born in the midst of battles, <1> and my steps must move

in blood to the tomb. But my hand did not injure the weak, my

steel did not touch the feeble in arms. I behold thy tempests, O

Morven! which will overturn my halls! when my children are dead

in battle, and none remains to dwell in Selma. Then will the

feeble come, but they will not know my tomb. My renown is only

in song. My deeds shall be as a dream to future times!"

His people gathered around Erragon, as the storms round

the ghosts of night; when he calls them from the top of Morven,

and prepares to pour them on the land of the stranger. He came

to the shore of Cona. He sent his bard to the king to demand the

combat of thousands: or the land of many hills! Fingal sat in his

hall with the friends of his youth around him. The young heroes

were at the chase, far distant in the desert. The gray-haired

chiefs talked of other times; of the actions of their youth; when

the aged Nartmor came, the chief of streamy Lora.

"This is no time," said Nartmor, "to hear the songs of other

years: Erragon frowns on the coast, and lifts ten thousand

swords. Gloomy is the king among his chiefs! he is like the

darkened moon amidst the meteors of night; when they sail along

her skirts, and give the light that has failed o'er her orb." "Come,"

said Fingal, "from thy hall, come, daughter of my love: come from

thy hall, Bosmina, maid of streamy Morven! Nartmor, take the

steeds of the strangers. Attend the daughter of Fingal! Let her bid

the king of Sora to our feast, to Selma's shaded wall. Offer him, O

Bosmina! the peace of heroes, and the wealth of generous Aldo.

Our youths are far distant. Age is on our trembling hands!"

She came to the host of Erragon, like a beam of light to a

cloud. In her right hand was seen, a sparkling shell. In her left an

arrow of gold. The first, the joyful mark of peace! The latter, the

sign of war. Erragon brightened in her presence, as a rock before

the sudden beams of the sun; when they issue from a broken

cloud divided by the roaring wind!

"Son of the distant Sora," began the mildly-blushing maid,"

come to the feast of Morven's king, to Selma's shaded walls. Take

the peace of heroes, O warrior! Let the dark sword rest by thy

side. Choosest thou the wealth of kings? Then hear the words of

generous Aldo. He gives to Erragon a hundred steeds, the

children of the rein; a hundred maids from distant lands; a

hundred hawks with fluttering wing, that fly across the sky. A

hundred girdles <2> shall also be thine, to bind high-bosomed

maids. The friends of the births of heroes. The cure of the sons of

toil. Ten shells, studded with gems, shall shine in Sora's towers:

the bright water trembles on their stars, and seems to be

sparkling wine. They gladdened once the kings of the world, <3>

in the midst of their echoing halls. These, O hero! shall be thine;

or thy white bosomed spouse. Lorma shall roll her bright eyes in

thy halls; though Fingal loves the generous Aldo: Fingal, who

never injured a hero, though his arm is strong!"

"Soft voice of Cona!" replied the king, "tell him, he spreads

his feast in vain. Let Fingal pour his spoils around me. Let him

bend beneath my power. Let him give me the swords of his

fathers: the shields of other times; that my children may behold

them in my halls, and say, 'These are the arms of Fingal!'" "Never

shall they behold them in thy halls," said the rising pride of the

maid. "They are in the hands of heroes, who never yield in war.

King of echoing Sora! the storm is gathering on our hills. Dost

thou not foresee the fall of thy people, son of the distant land?"

She came to Selma's silent halls. The king beheld her

downcast eyes. He rose from his place, in his strength. He shook

his aged locks. He took the sounding mail of Trenmor. The dark-

brown shield of his fathers. Darkness filled Selma's hall, when he

stretched his hand to the spear: the ghosts of thousands were

near, and foresaw the death of the people. Terrible joy rose in the

face of the aged heroes. They rushed to meet the foe. Their

thoughts are on the deeds of other years: and on the fame that

rises from death!

Now at Trathal's ancient tomb the dogs of the chase

appeared. Fingal knew that his young heroes followed. He

stopped in the midst of his course. Oscar appeared the first; then

Morni's son, and N‚mi's race. Fercuth showed his gloomy form.

Dermid spread his dark hair on wind. Ossian came the last. I

hummed the song of other times. My spear supported my steps

over the little streams. My thoughts were of mighty men. Fingal

struck his bossy shield, and gave the dismal sign of war. A

thousand swords at once, unsheathed, gleam on the waving

heath. Three gray-haired sons of the song raise the tuneful,

mournful voice. Deep and dark, with sounding steps, we rush, a

gloomy ridge, along; like the shower of the storm when it pours

on a narrow vale.

The king of Morven sat on his hill. The sunbeam of battle

flew on the wind. The friends of his youth are near, with all their

waving locks of age. Joy rose in the hero's eyes when he beheld

his sons in war; when he saw us amidst the lightning of swords,

mindful of the deeds of our fathers. Erragon came on, in his

strength, like the roar of a winter stream. The battle falls around

his steps: death dimly stalks along by his side.

"Who comes," said Fingal, "like the bounding roe!; like the

hart of echoing Cona? His shield glitters on his side. The clang of

his armor is mournful. He meets with Erragon in the strife.

Behold the battle of the chiefs! It is like the contending of ghosts

in a gloomy storm. But fallest thou, son of the hill, and is thy

white bosom stained with blood? Weep, unhappy Lorma! Aldo is

no more!" The king took the spear of his strength. He was sad for

the fall at Aldo. He bent his deathful eyes on the foe: but Gaul

met the king of Sora. Who can relate the light of the chiefs? The

mighty stranger fell! "Sons of Cona!' Fingal cried aloud, "stop the

hand of death. Mighty was he that is low. Much is he mourned in

Sora! The stranger will come towards his hall, and wonder why it

is so silent. The king is fallen, O stranger! The joy of his house is

ceased. Listen to the sound of his woods! Perhaps his ghost is

murmuring there! But he is far distant, on Morven, beneath the

sword of a foreign foe." Such were the words of Fingal, when the

bard raised the song of peace. We stopped our uplifted swords.

We spared the feeble foe. We laid Erragon in a tomb. I raised the

voice of grief. The clouds of night came rolling down. The ghost of

Erragon appeared to some. His face was cloudy and dark; a half-

formed sigh in his breast. "Blest be thy soul, O king of Sora! thine

arm was terrible in war!"

Lorma sat in Aldo's hall. She sat at the light of a flaming

oak. The night came down, but he did not return. The soul of

Lorma is sad! "What detains thee, hunter of Cona? Thou didst

promise to return. Has the deer been distant far? Do the dark

winds sigh, round! thee, on the heath? I am in the land of

strangers; who is my friend, but Aldo? Come from thy sounding

hills, O my best beloved!"

Her eyes are turned towards the gate. She listens to the

rustling blast. She thinks it is Aldo's tread. Joy rises in her face!

But sorrow returns again, like a thin cloud on the moon. "Wilt

thou not return, my love? Let me behold the face of the hill. The

moon is in the east. Calm and bright is the breast of the lake!

When shall I behold his dogs, returning from the chase? When

shall I hear his voice, loud and distant on the wind? Come from

thy sounding hills, hunter of woody Cona!" His thin ghost

appeared, on a rock, like a watery beam of feeble light: when the

moon rushes sudden from between two clouds, and the midnight

shower is on the field. She followed the empty form over the

heath. She knew that her hero fell. I heard her approaching cries

on the wind, like the mournful voice of the breeze, when it sighs

on the grass of the cave

She came. She found her hero! Her voice was heard no

more. Silent she rolled her eyes. She was pale and wildly sad!

Few were her days on Cona. She sunk into the tomb. Fingal

commanded his bards; they sung over the death of Lorma. The

daughters of Morven mourned her, for one day in the year, when

the dark winds of autumn returned!

Son of the distant land! Thou dwellest in the field of fame!

O let the song arise, at times, in praise of those who fell! Let their

thin ghosts rejoice around thee; and the soul of Lorma come on a

feeble beam; when thou liest down to rest, and the moon looks

into thy cave. Then shalt thou see her lovely; but the tear is still

on her cheek!

<1> Comhal, the Father of Fingal, was slain in battle, against the

tribe of Morni, the very day that Fingal was born; so that he may

with propriety, be said to have been "born in the midst of battles."

<2> Sanctified girdles, till very lately were kept in many families

in the north of Scotland; they were bound about women in labor,

and were supposed to alleviate their pains, and to accelerate the

birth. They were impressed with several mystical figures, and the

ceremony of binding them about the woman's waist, was

accompanied with words and gestures, which showed the custom

to have come originally from the Druids.

<3> The kings of the world: the Roman emperors.

TEMORA.

AN EPIC POEM.

TEMORA -- BOOK I.

ARGUMENT.

Cairbar, the son of Borbar-duthul, lord of Atha, in Connaught,

the most Potent chief of the race of the Fir-bolg, 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 behavior 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 invaders

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 Moi-lena. 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 Moi-lena in Ulster.

THE blue waves of Erin roll in light. The mountains are

covered with day. Trees shake their dusky heads in the breeze.

Gray torrents pour their noisy streams. Two green hills, with

aged oaks, surround a narrow plain. The blue course of a stream

is there. On its banks stood Cairbar of Atha. His spear supports

the king: the red eye of his fear is sad. Cormac rises in his soul,

with all his ghastly wounds. The gray form of the youth appears

in darkness. Blood pours from his airy side. Cairbar thrice threw

his spear on earth. Thrice he stroked his beard. His steps are

short. He often stops. He tosses his sinewy arms. He is like a

cloud in the desert, varying its form to every blast. The valleys are

sad around, and fear, by turns, the shower! The king at length

resumed his soul. He took his pointed spear. He turned his eye 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. He called his gloomy chiefs.

The sounding steps of his warriors came. They drew at

once their swords. There Morlath stood with darkened face.

Hidalla's long hair sighs in the wind. Red-haired Cormar bends

on his spear, and rolls his sidelong-looking eyes. Wild is the look

of Malthos, from beneath two shaggy brows. Foldath stands, like

an oozy rock, that covers its dark sides with foam. His spear is

like Slimora's fir, that meets the wind of heaven. His shield is

marked with the strokes of battle. His red eye despises danger.

These, and a thousand other chiefs, surrounded the king of Erin,

when the scout of ocean came, Mor-annal, from streamy Moi-

lena, His eyes hang forward from his face. His lips are trembling

pale!

"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 be comes not, king of Erin; I have

seen his forward spear. <1> It is a meteor of death. The blood of

thousands is on its steel. He came first to the shore, strong in the

gray hair of age. Full rose his sinewy limbs, as he strode in his

might. That sword is by his side, which gives no second wound.

His shield is terrible, like the bloody moon, ascending through a

storm. Then came Ossian, king of songs. Then Morni's son, the

first of men. Connal leaps forward on his spear. Dermid spreads

his dark-brown locks. Fillan bends his bow, the young hunter of

streamy Moruth. But who is that before them, like the terrible

course of a stream? It is the son of Ossian, bright between his

locks! His long hair falls on his back. His dark brows are half

enclosed in steel. His sword hangs loose on his side. His spear

glitters as he moves. I fled from his terrible eyes, king of high

Temora!"

"Then fly, thou feeble man," said Foldath's gloomy wrath.

"Fly to the gray 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 his strength. Let me stop this mighty stream. My

spear is covered with blood. My shield is like the wall of Tura!"

"Shall Foldath alone meet the foe?" replied the dark-browed

Malthos? "Are they not on our coast, like the waters of many

streams? Are not these the chiefs who vanquished Swaran, when

the sons of green Erin fled? Shall Foldath meet their bravest

hero? Foldath of the heart of pride! Take the strength of the

people! and let Malthos come. My sword is red with slaughter,

but who has heard my words?"

"Sons of green Erin," said Hidalla, "let not Fingal hear your

words. The foe might rejoice, and his arm be strong in the land.

Ye are brave, O warriors! Ye are tempests in war. Ye are like

storms, which meet the rocks without fear, and overturn the

woods! But let us move in our strength, slow as a gathered cloud!

Then shall the mighty tremble; the spear shall fall from the hand

of the valiant. We see the cloud of death, they will say, while

shadows fly over their face. Fingal will mourn in his age. He shall

behold his flying fame. The steps of his chiefs will cease in

Morven. The moss of years shall grow in Selma!"

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 heaven's flame; the spirits of the

storm rejoice. So stood the silent king of Temora; at length his

words broke forth. "Spread the feast on Moi-lena. Let my hundred

bards attend. Thou red-haired Olla, take the harp of the king. Go

to Oscar, chief of swords. Bid Oscar to our joy. To-day we feast

and hear the song; to-morrow break the spears! Tell him that I

have raised the tomb of Cathol; that bards gave his friend to the

winds. Tell him that Cairbar has heard of his fame, at the stream

of resounding Carun. Cathmor, my brother, is not here. He is not

here with his thousands, and our arms are weak. Cathmor is a

foe to strife at the feast! His soul is bright as that sun! But

Cairbar must fight with Oscar, chiefs of woody Temora, His words

for Cathol were many! the wrath of Cairbar burns! He shall fall

on Moi-lena. My fame shall rise in blood!"

Their faces brightened round with joy. They spread over

Moi-lena. The feast of shells is prepared. The songs of bards

arise. The chiefs of Selma heard their joy. We thought that

mighty Cathmor came. Cathmor, the friend of strangers! the

brother of red-haired Cairbar. Their souls were not the same. The

light of heaven was in the bosom of Cathmor. His towers rose on

the banks of Atha: seven paths led to his halls. Seven chiefs

stood on the paths, and called the stranger to the feast! But

Cathmor dwelt in the wood, to shun the voice of praise!

Olla came with his songs. Oscar went to Cairbar's feast.

Three hundred warriors strode along Moi-lena of the streams.

The gray 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. A 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 rises in his arms. Darkness gathers on his brow.

The hundred harps cease at once. The clang of shields <2> is

heard. Far distant on the heath Olla raised a song of wo. My son

knew the sign of death; and rising seized his spear. "Oscar," said

the dark-red Cairbar, "I behold the spear of Erin. The spear of

Temora glitters in thy hand, son of woody Morven! It was the

pride of a hundred kings. The death of heroes of old. Yield it, son

of Ossian, yield it to car-borne Cairbar!"

"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: neither to the weak in soul. The

darkness of thy face is no storm to me: nor are thine eyes the

flame of death. Do I fear thy clanging shield? Tremble I at Olla's

song? No Cairbar, frighten the feeble; Oscar is a rock!"

"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 Atha!" -- "Were he who fought

with little men, near Atha's haughty chief, Atha's chief would

yield green Erin to avoid his rage! Speak not of the mighty, O

Cairbar! 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. Their eyes roll in fire. A thousand swords are

half unsheathed. Red-haired Olla raised the song of battle. The

trembling joy of Oscar's soul arose: the wonted joy of his soul

when Fingal's horn was heard. Dark as the swelling wave of

ocean before the rising winds, when it bends its head near the

coast, came on the host of Cairbar!

Daughter of Toscar! why that tear? He is not fallen yet.

Many were the deaths of his arm before my hero fell!

Behold they fall before my son, like groves in the desert;

when an angry ghost rushes through night, and takes their green

heads in his hand! Morlath falls. Maronnan dies. Conachar

trembles in his blood. Cairbar shrinks before Oscar's sword! He

creeps in darkness behind a stone. He lifts the spear in secret, he

pierces my Oscar's side! He falls forward on his shield, his knee

sustains the chief. But still his spear is in his hand! See, gloomy

Cairbar falls! The steel pierced his forehead, and divided his red

hair behind. He lay like a shattered rock, which Cromla shakes

from its shaggy side, when the green-valleyed Erin shakes its

mountains from sea to sea!

But never more shall Oscar rise! He leans on his bossy

shield. His spear is in his terrible hand. Erin's sons stand distant

and dark. Their shouts arise, like crowded streams. Moi-lena

echoes wide. Fingal heard the sound. He took the spear of Selma.

His steps are before us on the heath. He spoke the words of wo. "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. The light of his shield is

terrible. The sons of Erin saw it far distant. They trembled in

their souls. They knew that the wrath of the king arose: and they

foresaw their death. We first arrived. We fought. Erin's chiefs

withstood our rage. But when the king came, in the sound of his

course, what heart of steel could stand? Erin fled over Moi-lena.

Death pursued their flight. We saw Oscar on his shield. We saw

his blood around. Silence darkened on every face. Each turned

his back and wept. The king strove to hide his tears. His gray

beard whistled in the wind. He bends his head above the chief.

His words are mixed with sighs.

"Art thou fallen, O 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 sees! 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 is the last of his

race. My fame begins to pass away. Mine age will be without

friends. I shall sit a gray cloud in my hall. I shall not hear the

return of a son, in his sounding arms. Weep, ye heroes of

Morven! never more 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 is low! Bran is howling at his feet: gloomy

Luath is sad; for he had often led them to the chase; to the

bounding roe of the desert!

When Oscar saw his friends around, his heaving breast

arose. "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 a deer: place my sword by my side; The

torrent hereafter may raise the earth: the hunter may find the

steel, and say, 'This has been Oscar's sword, the pride of other

years!'" "Fallest thou, son of my fame? shall I never see thee,

Oscar? When others hear of their sons, shall I not hear of thee?

The moss is on thy four gray stones. The mournful wind is there.

The battle shall be fought without thee. Thou shalt 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. A

beam of joy will rise in my soul."

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? How long pour in

Erin our tears? The mighty will not return. Oscar shall not rise in

his strength. The valiant must fall in their day, and be no more

known on their 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 years: the terror of other times. Thus shall we

pass away, 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. The traveller

mourns his absence, thinking of the flame of his beams. Ullin,

my aged bard! take thou the ship of the king. Carry Oscar to

Selma of harps. Let the daughters of Morven weep. We must 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 gray-haired son. But before I go hence,

one beam of fame shall rise. My days shall end, as my years

began, in fame. My life shall be one stream of light to bards of

other times!"

Ullin raised his white sails. The wind of the south came

forth. He bounded on the waves towards Selma. I remained in my

grief, but my words were not heard. The feast is spread on Moi-

lena. A hundred heroes reared the tomb of Cairbar. No song is

raised over the chief. His soul has been dark and bloody. The

bards remembered the fall of Cormac! what could they say in

Cairbar's praise?

Night came rolling down. The light of a hundred oaks

arose. Fingal sat beneath a tree. Old Althan stood in the midst.

He told the tale of fallen Cormac. Althan the son of Conachar, the

friend of car-borne Cuthullin. He dwelt with Cormac in windy

Temora, when Semo's son fell at Lego's stream. The tale of Althan

was mournful. The tear was in his eye when he spoke.

"The setting sun was yellow on Dora. Gray evening began

to descend. Temora's woods shook with the blast of the

inconstant wind. A cloud gathered in the west. A red star looked

from behind its edge. I stood in the wood alone. I saw a ghost on

the darkening air! His stride extended from hill to hill. His shield

was dim on his side. It was the son of Semo! I knew the warrior's

face. But he passed away in his blast; and all was dark around!

My soul was sad. I went to the hall of shells. A thousand lights

arose. The hundred bards had strung the harp. Cormac stood in

the midst, like the morning star, when it rejoices on the eastern

hill, and its young beams are bathed in showers. Bright and

silent is its progress aloft, but the cloud that shall hide it is near!

The sword of Artho was in the hand of the king. He looked with

joy on its polished studs; thrice he attempted to draw it, and

thrice he failed; his yellow locks are spread on his shoulders! his

cheeks of youth are red. I mourned over the beam of youth, for he

was soon to set!

"'Althan!' He said with a smile, ' didst thou behold my

father? Heavy is the sword of the king; surely his arm was strong.

O that I were like him in battle, when the rage of his wrath arose!

then would I have met, with Cuthullin, the car-borne son of

Cant‚la! But years may come on, O Althan! and my arm be

strong. Hast thou heard of Semo's son, the ruler of high Temora?

he might have returned with his fame. He promised to return to-

night. My bards wait him with songs. My feast is spread in the

hall of kings.'

"I heard Cormac in silence. My tears began to flow. I hid

them with my aged locks. The king perceived my grief. 'Son of

Conachar!' he said, 'is the son of Semo low? Why bursts the sigh

in secret? Why descends the tear? Comes the car-borne Torlath?

Comes the sounds of red-haired Cairbar? They come! for I behold

thy grief. Mossy Tura's chief is low! Shall I not rush to battle? But

I cannot lift the spear! O had mine arm the strength of Cuthullin,

soon would Cairbar fly; the fame of my fathers would be renewed;

and the deeds of other times!'

"He took his bow. The tears flow down from both his

sparkling eyes. Grief saddens round. The bards bend forward,

from their hundred harps. The lone blast touched their trembling

strings. <3> The sound is sad and low! a voice is heard at a

distance, as of one in grief. It was Carril of other times, who came

from dark Slimora. He told of the fall of Cuthullin. He told of his

mighty deeds. The people were scattered round his tomb. Their

arms lay on the ground. They had forgot the war, for he their sire,

was seen no more!

"'But who,' said the soft-voiced Carril, 'who come like

bounding roes? Their stature is like young trees in the valley,

growing in a shower! Soft and ruddy are their cheeks! Fearless

souls look forth from their eyes? Who but the sons of Usnoth,

chief of streamy Etha? The people rise on every side, like the

strength of an half-extinguished fire, when the winds come,

sudden, from the desert, on their rustling wings. Sudden glows

the dark brow of the hill; the passing mariner lags, on his winds.

The sound of Caithbat's shield was heard. The warriors saw

Cuthullin in Nathos. So rolled his sparkling eyes! his steps were

such on the heath. Battles are fought at Lego. The sword of

Nathos prevails. Soon shalt thou behold him in thy halls, king of

Temora of groves!'

"'Soon may I behold the chief!' replied the blue-eyed king.

But my soul is sad for Cuthullin His voice was pleasant in mine

ear. Often have we moved, on Dora, to the chase of the dark-

brown hinds. His bow was unerring on the hills. He spoke of

mighty men. He told of the deeds of my fathers. I felt my rising

joy. But sit thou at thy feast, O Carril! I have often heard thy

voice. Sing in praise of Cuthullin. Sing of Nathos of Etha!'

"Day rose on Temora, with all the beams of the east.

Crathin came to the hall, the son of old Gell ma. 'I behold,' he

said, 'a cloud in the desert, king of Erin! a cloud it seemed at

first, but now a crowd of men! One strides before them in his

strength. His red hair flies in the wind. His shield glitters to the

beam of the east. His spear is in his hand.' -- 'Call him to the

feast of Temora,' replied the brightening king. 'My hall is in the

house of strangers, son of generous Gell ma! It is perhaps the

chief of Etha, coming in all his renown. Hail, mighty stranger! art

thou of the friends of Cormac? But, Carril, he is dark and

unlovely. He draws his sword. Is that the son of Usnoth, bard of

the times of old?'

"' It is not the son of Usnoth!' said Carril. 'It is Cairbar, thy

foe.' 'Why comest thou in thy arms to Temora? chief of the gloomy

brow. Let not thy sword rise against Cormac! 'Whither dost thou

turn thy speed?' he passed on in darkness.. He seized the hand of

the king. Cormac foresaw his death; the rage of his eyes arose.

'Retire, thou chief of Atha! Nathos comes with war. Thou art bold

in Cormac's hall, for his arm is weak.' The sword entered the side

of the king. He fell in the halls of his father. His fair hair is in the

dust. His blood is smoking round.

"'Art thou fallen in thy halls?' said Carril, 'O son of noble

Artho! The shield of Cuthullin was not near. Nor the spear of thy

father. Mournful are the mountains of Erin, for the chief of the

people is low! Blest be thy soul, O Cormac! Thou art darkened in

thy youth!'"

"His words came to the ears of Cairbar. He closed us in the

midst of darkness. He feared to stretch his sword to the bards,

though his soul was dark. Long we pined alone! At length the

noble Cathmor came. He heard our voice from the cave. He

turned the eye of his wrath on Cairbar.

"'Brother of Cathmor,' he said, 'how long wilt thou pain my

soul? Thy heart is a rock. Thy thoughts are dark and bloody! But

thou art the brother of Cathmor; and Cathmor shall shine in thy

war. But my soul is not like thine; thou feeble hand in fight! The

light of my bosom is stained with thy deeds. 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 silence. My fame

shall not be heard. Cairbar! loose the bards. They are the sons of

future times. Their voice shall be heard in other years; after the

kings of Temora have failed. 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 aid the red-haired

Cairbar. Now he comes to revenge his death, O king of woody

Morven!'

"Let Cathmor come," replied the king," I love a foe so great.

His soul is bright. His arm is strong. His battles are full of fame.

But the little soul is a vapor 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 song. Fingal is

amid 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 says, and,

whistling, strides along. Raise the song of' joy, ye bards of

Morven! Let our souls forget the past. The red stars look on us

from the clouds, and silently descend. Soon shall the gray beam

of the morning rise, and show us the foes of Cormac. Fillan! my

son, take thou the spear of the king. Go to Mora's dark-brown

side. Let thine eyes travel over the heath. Observe the foes of

Fingal; observe the course of generous Cathmor. I hear a distant

sound, like falling rocks in the desert. But strike thou thy shield,

at times, that they may not come through night, and the fame of

Morven cease. I begin to be alone, my son. I dread the fall of my

renown!"

The voice of bards arose. The king leaned on the shield of

Trenmor. Sleep descended on his eyes. His future battles arose in

his dreams. The host are sleeping around. Dark-haired Fillan

observes the foe. His steps are on the distant hill. We hear, at

time; his clanging shield.

<1> Mor-annal here alludes to the particular appearance of

Fingal's spear. If a man upon his first landing in a strange

country, kept the point of his spear forward, it denoted, in those

days, that he came in a hostile manner, and accordingly he was

treated as an enemy; if he kept the point behind him, it was a

token of friendship, and ht was immediately invited to the feast,

according to the hospitality of the times.

<2> The clang of shields: when a chief was determined to kill a

person already in his power, it was usual to signify that his death

was intended, by the pound of a shield struck with the blunt end

of a spear: at the same time that a bard at a distance raised the

death-song.

<3> The lone blast touched their trembling strings: that prophetic

sound mentioned in other poems, which the harps of the bards

emitted before the death of a person worthy and renowned.

TEMORA -- BOOK II

ARGUMENT.

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 Gael and

the Fir-bolg, 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 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 Kinfena, sends that bard, with a

funeral song, to the tomb of Cairbar.

FATHER of heroes! O Trenmor! High dweller of eddying

winds! where the dark-red thunder marks the troubled clouds!

Open thou thy stormy halls. Let the bards of old be near. Let

them draw near with songs and their half viewless harps. No

dweller of misty valley comes! No hunter unknown at his

streams! It is the car-borne Oscar, from the field of war. Sudden

is thy change, my son, from what thou wert on dark Moi-lena!

The blast folds thee in its skirt, and rustles through the sky! 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 resounding 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 Selma is

alone. Alone thou shalt not be, my father, while I can lift the

spear!

I rose in all my arms. I rose and listened to the wind. The

shield of Fillan is not heard. I tremble for the son of Fingal. "Why

should the foe come by night? Why should the dark-haired

warrior fall?" Distant, sullen murmurs rise; like the noise of the

lake of Lego, when its waters shrink, in the days of frost, and all

its bursting ice resounds. The people of Lara look to heaven, and

foresee the storm! My steps are forward on the heath. The spear

of Oscar is in my hand? Red stars looked from high. I gleamed

along the night.

I saw Fillan silent before me, bending forward from Mora's

rock. He heard the shout of the foe. The joy of his soul arose. He

heard my sounding tread, and turned his lifted spear. "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 mayest 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 two sons

who ought to shine in war. Who ought to be two beams of light,

near the steps of his departure."

"Son of Fingal," replied the youth, "it is not long since I

raised the spear. Few are the marks of my sword in war. But

Fillan's soul is fire! The chiefs of Bolga <1> crowd around the

shield of generous Cathmor. Their gathering is on the heath.

Shall my steps approach their host? I yielded to Oscar alone in

the strife of the race of Cona!"

"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 them over all their

gleaming tribes. Why, Fillan, didst thou speak of Oscar? Why

awake my sigh! I must forget the warrior, till the storm is rolled

away. Sadness ought not to dwell in danger, nor the tear in the

eye of war. Our fathers forgot their fallen sons, till the noise of

arms was past. Then sorrow returned to the tomb, and the song

of bards arose. The memory of those who fell quickly followed the

departure of war: when the tumult of battle is past, the soul in

silence melts away for the dead.

"Conar was the brother of Trathal, first of mortal men. His

battles were on every coast. A thousand streams rolled down the

blood of. his foes. His fame filled green Erin, like a pleasant gale.

The nations gathered in Ullin, and they blessed the king; the king

of the race of their fathers, from the land of Selma.

"The chiefs of the south were gathered, in the darkness of

their pride. In the horrid cave of Moma they mixed their secret

words. Thither often, they said, the spirits of their fathers came;

showing their pale forms from the chinky rocks; reminding them

of the honor of Bolga. 'Why should Conar reign,' they said, 'the

son of resounding Morven?'

"They came forth, like the streams of the desert, with the

roar of their hundred tribes. Cona was a rock before them:

broken, they rolled on every side. But often they returned, and

the sons of Selma fell. The king stood, among the tombs of his

warriors. He darkly bent his mournful face. His soul was rolled

into itself: and he had marked the place where he was to fall:

when Trathal came, in his strength, his brother from cloudy

Morven. Nor did he come alone. Colgar was at his side: Colgar the

son of the king and of white-bosomed Solin-corma.

"As Trenmor, clothed 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: when 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. 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

on the field. I go forth with the crowd. I return without my fame.

But the foe approaches, Ossian! I hear their murmur on the

heath. The sound of their steps is like thunder, in the bosom of

the ground, when the rocking hills shake their groves, and not a

blast pours from the darkened sky!"

Ossian turned sudden on his spear. He 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 blasts; which seize its echoing streams, and clothe

them with ice. So stood the friend of strangers! The winds lift his

heavy locks. Thou art the tallest of the race of Erin, king of

streamy Atha!

"First of bards" said Cathmor, "Fonar, call the chiefs of

Erin. Call red-haired Cormar: dark-browed Malthos: the sidelong-

looking gloom of Maronnan. Let the pride of Foldath appear. The

red-rolling eye of Turlotho. Nor let Hidalla be forgot; his voice, in

danger, is the sound of a shower, when it falls in the blasted vale,

near Atha's falling stream. Pleasant is its sound on the plain,

whilst broken thunder travels over the sky!"

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.

Dreadful shone they to the light, like the fall of the stream of

Bruno, <2> when the meteor lights it, before the nightly stranger.

Shuddering he stops in his journey, and looks up for the beam of

the morn!

"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 shades? 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 was he that is

low, the race of Borbar-duthul!"

"Not unmarked," said Foldath, "were my steps be. fare thy

race. In light, I met the foes of Cairbar. The warrior praised my

deeds. But his stone was raised without a tear! No bard sung

over Erin's king. Shall his foes rejoice along their mossy hills? No

they must not rejoice! He was the friend of Foldath. Our words

were mixed, in secret, in Moma's silent cave; whilst thou, a boy in

the field, pursued'st the thistle's beard. With Moma's sons I shall

rush abroad, and find the foe on his dusky hills. Fingal shall die

without his song, the gray-haired king of Selma."

" Dost thou think, thou feeble man," replied Cathmor, half

enraged: "Dost thou think Fingal can fail, without his fame, in

Erin? Could the bards be silent at the tomb of Selma's king; the

song would burst in secret! the spirit of the king would rejoice! It

is when thou shalt fall, that the bard shall forget the song. Thou

art dark, chief of Moma, though 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 a 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

fair stranger <3> of Inis-huna: that beam of light, with wandering

locks, from Lumon of the roes. At a distance rose the voice of

Fonar, with the deeds of the days of old. The song fails, at times,

in Lubar's growing roar.

"Crothar," began the bard, first dwelt at Atha's mossy

stream! A thousand oaks, from the mountains, formed his

echoing hail. The gathering of the people

was there, around the feast of the blue-eyed king. But who,

among his chiefs, was like the stately Crothar? Warriors kindled

in his presence. The young sigh of the virgins rose. In Alnecma

<4> was the warrior honored: the first of the race of Bolga.

"He pursued the chase in Ullin: on the moss-covered top of

Drumardo. From the wood looked the daughter of Cathmin, the

blue-rolling eye of Con-l ma. Her sigh rose in secret. She bent

her head, amidst 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 dreams.

"Three days feasted Crothar with Cathmin. On the fourth

they awaked the hinds. Con-l ma moved to the chase, 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. Joy dwelt round the daughter of Cathmin.

"The pride of Turloch rose, a youth who loved the white-

handed Con-l ma. 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. The sigh of his people rose.

Silent and tall across the stream, came the darkening strength of

Crothar: he rolled the foe from Alnecma. He returned midst the

joy of Con-l ma.

"Battle on battle comes. Blood is poured on blood. The

tombs of the valiant rise. Erin's clouds arc 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. The

virgins wept, by the streams of Ullin. They looked the mist of the

hill: no hunter descended from its folds. Silence darkened in the

land. Blasts sighed lonely on grassy tombs.

"Descending like the eagle of heaven, with all his rustling

winds, when he forsakes the blast with joy, the son of Trenmor

came; Conar, arm of death, from Morven of the groves, lie 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 desert, rolls the fields together, with all

their echoing woods Crothar met him in battle: but Alnecma's

warriors fled. The king of Atha slowly retired, in the grief of his

soul. He afterward shone in the south; but dim as the sun of

autumn, when he visits, in his robes of mist, Lara of dark

streams. 'The withered grass is covered with dew; the field,

though bright, is sad."

"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 skirts of night, your

voice is but a blast to me; which takes the gray thistle's head,

and strews its beard on streams. Within my bosom is a voice.

Others hear it not. His soul forbids the king of Erin to shrink

back from war."

Abashed, the bard sinks back on night; retired, lie bends

above a stream. His thoughts are on the days of Atha, when

Cathmor heard his song with joy. His tears came 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's mossy brow.

"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 should pour; then be thy buckler heard.

Awake the king on his heath, lest his fame should fly away." 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 through 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?" At once he dropt the gleaming lance. Growing before me

seemed the form. He stretched his hand in night. He spoke the

words of kings.

"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

joy. 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 ."

"Shall it then 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 fields of their war. 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: when Lubar's stream shall roll 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 his place. But

why turnest thou so dark away; son of Borbar-duthul?"

"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 was

a beam towards Cathmor, from his stormy soul; like the moon in

a cloud, amidst the dark-red course of thunder."

"Son of Erin," I replied, "my wrath dwells not in his earth.

My hatred flies on eagle wings, from the foe that is low. He shall

hear the song of bards. Cairbar shall rejoice on his winds."

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!

Who comes from Luba's vale? from the skirts of the

morning mist? The drops of heaven are on his head. His steps are

in the paths of the sad. It is Carril of other times. He comes from

Tura's silent cave. I behold it dark in the rock, through the thin

folds of mist. There, perhaps, Cuthullin sits, on the blast which

bends its trees. Pleasant is the song of the morning from the bard

of Erin.

"The waves crowd away," said Carril." They crowd away for

fear. They hear the sound of thy coming forth, O sun! Terrible is

thy beauty, son of heaven, when death is descending on 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 showest thyself from the parted cloud, and

brightenest his dewy locks he looks down on the streamy vale,

and beholds the de. scent of roes! How long shalt thou rise on

war, and roll, a bloody shield, through heaven? I see the death of

heroes, dark wandering over thy face!"

"Why wander the words of Carril?" I said. "Does the son of

heaven mourn? lie is unstained in his course, ever rejoicing in his

fire. Roll on, thou careless light. Thou too, perhaps, must fall.

Thy darkening hour may seize thee, struggling as thou rollest

through thy sky. But pleasant is the voice of the bard: pleasant to

Ossian's soul! It is like the shower of the morning, when it comes

through the rustling vale, on which the sun looks through 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. Thou

seest the flaming shield of the king. His face darkens between his

locks. He beholds the wide rolling of Erin. Does not Carril behold

that tomb, beside the roaring stream? Three stones lift their gray

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!"

TEMORA -- BOOK III.

ARGUMENT.

Morning coming on, Fingal, after a speech to his people, devolved

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 valor and conduct. The king and

Ossian retire to the hill 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 valor. 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

Ire land. Carril is despatched 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? Who, by the bending

hill of 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 gray hair is on the breeze. He half unsheathes the

sword of Luno. His eyes are turned to Moi-lena, to the dark

moving of foes. Dost thou hear the voice of the king? it is like the

bursting of a stream in the desert, when it comes, between its

echoing rocks, to the blasted field of the sun!

Wide-skirted comes down the foe! Sons of woody Selma,

arise! Be ye like the rocks of our land, in whose brown sides are

the rolling of streams. A beam of joy comes on my soul. I see the

foe mighty before me. It is when he 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

shalt shine. Such was the custom, heretofore, of Trenmor the

ruler of winds! and thus descended to battle the blue-shielded

Trathal!"

The chiefs bend towards the king. Each darkly seems to

claim the war. They tell, by halves, their mighty deeds. They turn

their eyes on Erin. But far before the rest the son of Morni

stands. Silent he stands, 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 failed. On his spear leans Fillan of Selma, in

the wandering of his locks. Thrice he raises his eyes to Fingal: his

voice thrice fails him as he speaks. My brother could not boast of

battles: at once he strides away. Bent over a distant stream he

stands: the tear hangs in his eye. He strikes, at times, the

thistle's head, with his inverted spear. Nor is he unseen of Fingal.

Sidelong he beholds his son. He beholds him with bursting joy;

and turns, amid his crowded soul. In silence turns the king

towards Mora of woods. He hides 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 chief! He is strong as Lubar's stream, but

never foams and roars. High on cloudy Mora, Fingal shall behold

the war. Stand, Ossian, near thy father, by the falling stream.

Raise the voice, O bards! Selma, move beneath the sound. It is

my latter field. Clothe it over with light."

As the sudden rising of winds; or distant rolling of troubled

seas, when some dark ghost in wrath heaves the billows over an

isle: 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. Gaul is tall before them. The streams glitter within his

strides. The bards raise the song by his side. He strikes his shield

between. On the skirts of the blast the tuneful voices rise.

"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 sportful ghost: when

he scatters the clouds and rides the eddying winds! It is Morni of

bounding steeds! Be like thy father, O Gaul!

"Selma is opened wide. Bards take the trembling harps.

Ten youths bear the oak of the feast. A distant sunbeam marks

the hill. The dusky waves of the blast fly over the fields of grass.

Why art thou silent, O Selma? 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, O Fillan!"

They move beneath the song. High wave their arms, as

rushy fields beneath autumnal winds. On Mora stands the king

in arms. Mist flies round his buckler abroad; 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 wood: lest I should behold the host,

and rush amid my swelling soul. My foot is forward on the heath.

I glittered, tall in steel: like the falling stream of Tromo, which

nightly winds bind over with ice. The boy sees it on high gleaming

to the early beam: towards it he turns his ear, wonders why it is

so silent.

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 issues Foldath of Moma, like a cloud, the robe of

ghosts. He drew his sword, a flame from his side. He bade the

battle move. The tribes, like ridgy waves, dark pour their strength

around. Haughty is his stride before them. His red eye rolls in

wrath. He calls Cormul, chief of Dun-ratho; and his words were

heard.

"Cormul, thou beholdest that path. It winds green behind

the foe. Place thy people there; lest Selma 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 Selma; as his

eye pursued the course of the dark-eyed chief of Dun-ratho.

"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 baffle, amid the ridge of shields!"

The sign of death ascends: the dreadful sound of Morni's

shield. Gaul pours his voice between. Fingal rises on Mora. He

saw them from wing to wing, bending at once in strife. Gleaming

on his own dark hill, stood Cathmor, of streamy Atha. The kings

were like two spirits of heaven, standing each on his gloomy

cloud: when they pour abroad the winds, and lift the roaring

seas. The blue tumbling of waves is before them, marked with the

paths of whales. They themselves are calm and bright. The gale

lifts slowly their locks of mist.

What beam of light hangs high in air? What beam but

Morni's dreadful sword? Death is strewed on thy paths, O Gaul!

Thou foldest them together in thy rage. Like a young oak falls

Tur-lathon, with his branches round him. His high-bosomed

spouse stretches her white arms, in dreams, to the returning

chief, as she sleeps by gurgling Moruth, in her disordered locks.

It is his ghost, Oichoma. The chief is lowly laid. Hearken not to

the winds for Tur-lathon's echoing shield. It is pierced, by his

streams. Its sound is passed away.

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 gray!

Thou wert the friend of strangers, at the moss-covered rock of

Dun-Ion. 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 near. Thy

blood mixes with the stream, thou breaker of the shields!

Ossian took the spear, in his wrath. But Gaul rushed

forward on Foldath. 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 came, with Cormul's

shield! lie stretched it large before the chief. Foldath sent his

shouts abroad, and kindled all the field: as a blast that lifts the

wide-winged flame over Lumon's echoing groves.

"Son of blue-eyed Clatho," said Gaul, "O Fillan! 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 Selma shall hear, and remember my

former deeds."

His terrible voice rose on the wind. The host bends forward

in fight. Often had they heard him at Strumon, when he called

them to the chase of the hinds. He stands tall amid the war, as

an oak in the skins of a storm, which now is clothed on high, in

mist: then shows its broad waving head. The musing hunter lifts

his eye, from his own rushy field!

My soul pursues thee, O Fillan! through the path of thy

fame. Thou rollest the foe before thee. Now Foldath, perhaps, may

fly: but night comes down with its clouds. Cathmor's horn is

heard on high. The sons of Selma hear the voice of Fingal, from

Mora's gathered mist. The bards pour their song, like den, on the

returning war.

"Who comes from Strumon," they said, "amid her

wandering locks? She is mournful in her steps, and lifts her blue

eyes towards Erin. Why art thou sad, Evir-choma? Who is like

thy chief in renown? He descended dreadful to battle; he returns,

like a light from a cloud. He raised the sword in wrath: they

shrunk before blue-shielded Gaul!

"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 sons. As the sun rejoices, from his cloud, over

the tree his beams have raised, as it shades its lonely head on

the heath; so 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 Selma, 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

the bounding hind. Your fathers rejoice from their clouds, sons of

streamy Selma!"

Such was the nightly voice of bards, on Mora of the hinds.

A flame rose, from a hundred oaks, which winds had torn from

Cormul's steep. The feast is spread in the midst; around sat the

gleaming chiefs. Fingal is there in his strength. The eagle wing of

his helmet sounds. The rustling blasts of the west unequal rush

through night. Long looks the king in silence round; at length his

words are heard.

"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 Connal 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, along the roaring 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

gray. His days of youth were mixed with mine.. In one day Duth-

caron first strung bows against the roes of Dun-lora."

"Many," I said, "are our paths to battle in green valleyed

Erin. Often did our sails arise, over tho blue tumbling waves;

when we came in other days, to aid the race of Cona. The strife

roared once in Alnecma, at the foam-covered streams of Duth-

ula. With Cormac descended to battle Duth-caron, from cloudy

Selma. Nor descended Duth-caron alone; his son was by his side,

the long-haired youth of Connal, lifting the first of his spears.

Thou didst command them, O Fingal! to aid the king of Erin.

"Like the bursting strength of ocean, the sons of Bolga

rushed to war. Colc-ulla was before them, the chief of blue

stream Atha. The battle was mixed on the plain. Cormac shone in

his own strife, bright as the forms of his fathers. But, far before

the rest, Duth-caron hewed down the foe. Nor slept the arm of

Connal by his father's side. Colc-ulla prevailed on the plain: like

scattered mist fled the people of Cormac.

"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 his father. The mighty Duth-caron dies!

"Day rose, and night returned. No lonely ban appeared,

deep musing on the heath: and could Connal leave the tomb of

his father, till lie should receive his fame? He bent the bow

against the roes of Duth-ula. He spread the lonely feast. Seven

nights he laid his head on the tomb, and saw his father in his

dreams. lie saw him rolled, dark in a blast, like the vapor of reedy

Lego. At length the steps of Colgan came, the bard of high

Temora. Duth-caron received his fame and brightened, as he rose

on the wind."

"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 the

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 at Moi-lena, through the broad-

headed groves of the hill! Raise stones, beneath its beam, to all

the fallen in war. Though 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, from the hundred bards, rose the song of

the tomb. Carril strode before them; they are the murmur of

streams behind his steps. Silence dwells in the vales of Moi-lena,

where each, with its owl: dark rib, is winding between the hills. I

heard the voice of the bards, lessening, as they moved along. I

leaned forward from my shield, and felt the kindling of my soul.

Half formed, the words of my song burst forth upon the wind. So

hears a tree, on the vale, the voice of spring around. It pours its

green leaves to the sun. it shakes its lonely head. The hum of the

mountain bee is near it; the hunter sees it with joy, from the

blasted heath.

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. He

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

gathering cloud. Thou art brave, son of Clatho! but headlong in

the strife. So did not Fingal advance, though 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

the old. 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 gray-skirted mist is near: the dwelling

of the ghosts!

<1> The southern parts of Ireland went, for some time, under the

name of Bolga, from the Fir-bolg or Belgae of Britain, who settled

a colony there. "Bolg" signifies a "quiver," from which proceeds

"Fir-bolg," i. e., "bowmen:" so called from their using bows more

than any of the neighboring nations.

<2> Bruno was a place of worship, (Fing. b. 6.) in Craca, which is

supposed to be one of the isles of Shetland

<3> By "the stranger of Inis-huna," is meant Sul-malla. -- B iv.

<4> Alnecma, or Alnecmacht, was the ancient name of

Connaught. Ullin is still the Irish name of the province of Ulster

TEMORA -- BOOK IV

ARGUMENT

The second night continues. Fingal relates, at the feast, his own

first expedition into Ireland, and his marriage with Ros-cranna,

the daughter of Cormac, king of that island. The Irish chiefs

convene in the presence of Cathmor. 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, hath

followed Cathmor to the war. The sullen behavior 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

foretells the issue of the war. The soliloquy of the king. He

discovers Sul-malla. Morning comes. Her soliloquy closes the

book.

"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. He turned

away his eyes. He remembered the steps of his father, on his own

green hill. I darkened in my place. Dusky thoughts flew over my

soul. The kings of Erin rose before me. I half unsheathed the

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. My voice 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 night came down, I struck, at times, the

warning boss: I struck, and looked on high, for fiery-haired Ul-

erin. <1> Nor absent 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 halls, avoids the

strength of Colc-ulla. Nor he alone, avoids the foe. The blue eye of

Ros-cranna is there: Ros-cranna, white-handed maid, the

daughter of the king!

"Gray, 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

is thy fame, my son: but strong are the foes of Erin. They are like

the roar of streams in the land, son of car-borne Comhal!' 'Yet

they may be rolled away,' I said, in my rising soul. 'We are not of

the race of the feeble, king of blue-shielded hosts! Why should

fear come amongst us, like a ghost of night? The soul of the

valiant grows when foes increase in the field. Roll no darkness,

king of Erin, on the young in war!'

"The bursting tears of the king came down. He seized my

hand in silence. 'Race of the daring Trenmor!' at length he said, 'I

roll no cloud before thee. Thou burnest in the fire of thy fathers. I

behold thy fame. It marks thy course in battle, like a stream of

light. But wait the coming of Cairbar; my so must join thy sword.

He calls the sons of Erin from all their distant streams.'

"We came to the hall of the king, where it rose in the midst

of rocks, on whose dark sides were the marks of streams of old.

Broad oaks bend around with their moss. The thick birch is

waving near. Half hid, in her shadowy grove, Ros-cranna raises

the song. Her white hands move on the harp. I beheld her blues

rolling eyes. She was like a spirit of heaven half folded in the skirt

of a cloud!

Three days we feasted at Moi-lena. She rises bright in my

troubled soul. Cormac beheld me dark. He gave the white-

bosomed maid. She comes with bending eye, amid the wandering

of her heavy locks. She came! Straight the battle roared. Colc-ulla

appeared: I took my spear. My sword rose, with my people

against the ridgy foe. Alnecma fled. Colc-ulla fell. Fingal returned

with fame.

"Renowned is he, O Fillan, who fights in the strength of his

host. The bard pursues his steps through 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 one dark field. He is forgot; but where his

tomb sends forth the tufted grass."

Such are the words of Fingal, on Mora of the roes. Three

bards, from the rock of Cormul, pour down the pleasing song.

Sleep descends in the sound, on the broad-skirted host. Carril

returned with the bards, from the tomb of Dunlora's chief. The

voice of morning shall not come to the dusky bed of Duth-caron.

No more shalt thou hear the tread of roes around thy narrow

house!

As roll the troubled clouds, around a meteor of night, when

they brighten their sides with its light along the heaving sea; so

gathers Erin around the gleaming form of Cathmor. 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-malla of blue eyes, the white-bosomed daughter of Conmor,

king of Inis-huna. To his aid came blue-shielded Cathmor, and

rolled his foes away. Sul-malla beheld him stately in the hail of

feasts. Nor careless rolled the eyes of Cathmor on the long-haired

maid!

''The third day arose, when Fithil came, from Erin of the

streams. He told of the lifting up of the shield in Selma: he told of

the danger of Cairbar. Cathmor raised the sail at Cluba; but the

winds were in other lands. Three days he remained on the coast,

and turned his eyes on Conmor's halls. He remembered the

daughter of strangers, and his sigh arose. Now when the winds

awaked the wave: from the hill came a youth in arms; to lift the

sword with Cathmor, in his echoing fields. It was the white-

armed Sul-malla. Secret she dwelt beneath her helmet. Her steps

were in the path of the king: on him her blue eyes rolled with joy,

when he lay by his rolling streams: But Cathmor thought that on

Lumon she still pursued the roes. He thought, that fair on a rock,

she stretched her white hand to the wind; to feel its course from

Erin, the green dwelling of her love. He had promised to return,

with his white-bosomed sails. The maid is near thee, O Cathmor:

leaning on her rock.

The tall forms of the chiefs stand around; all but dark-

browed Foldath. He leaned against a distant tree, rolled into his

haughty soul. His bushy hair whistles in the wind. At times,

bursts the hum of a song. He struck the tree at length, in wrath;

and rushed before the king! Calm and stately, to the beam of the

oak, arose the form of young Hidalla. His hair falls round his

blushing cheek, in the wreaths of waving light. Soft was his voice

in Clonra, in the valley of his fathers. Soft was his voice when he

touched the harp, in the hall near his roaring stream!

"King of Erin," said Hidalla, "now is the time to feast. Bid

the voice of bards arise. Bid them roll the night away. The soul

returns, from song, more terrible to war. Darkness settles on

Erin. From hill to hill bend the skirted clouds. Far and gray, on

the heath, the dreadful strides of ghosts are seen: the ghosts of

those who fell bend forward to their song. Bid, O Cathmor! the

harps to rise, to brighten the dead, on their wandering blasts."

"Be all the dead forgot," said Foldath's bursting wrath. "Did

not I fail in the field? Shall I then hear the song? Yet was not my

course harmless in war. Blood was a stream around my steps.

But the feeble were behind me. 'The foe has escaped from my

sword. In Conra's vale touch thou the harp. Let Dura answer to

the voice of Hidalla. Let some maid look, from the wood, on thy

long yellow locks. Fly from Lubar's echoing plain. This is the field

of heroes!"

"King of Erin," Malthos said, "it is thine to lead in war.

Thou art a fire to our eyes, on the dark-brown field. Like a blast

thou hast passed over hosts. Thou hast laid them low in blood.

But who has heard thy words returning from the field? The

wrathful delight in death; their remembrance rests on the

wounds of their spear. Strife is folded in their thoughts: their

words are ever heard. Thy course, chief of Moma, was like a

troubled stream. The dead were rolled on thy path: but others

also lift the spear. We were not feeble behind thee: but the foe

was strong."

Cathmor 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 through 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 two columns of

morning mist, when the sun rises, between them, on his

glittering rocks. Dark is their rolling on either side: each towards

its reedy pool!

Silent sat the chiefs at the feast. They look, at times, on

Atha's king, where he strode, on his rock, amid his settling soul.

The host lie along the field. Sleep descends on Moi-lena. The

voice of Fonar ascends alone, beneath his distant tree. It ascends

in the praise of Cathmor, son of Larthon of Lumon. But Cathmor

did not hear his praise. He lay at the roar of a stream. The

rustling breeze of night flew over his whistling locks.

His brother came to his dreams, half seen from his low-

hung cloud. Joy rose darkly in his face. He had heard the song of

Carril . <2> A blast sustained his dark-skirted cloud: which he

seized in the bosom of night, as he rose, with his fame, towards

his airy hail. Half mixed with the noise of the stream, he poured

his feeble words.

"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 darts across the desert, 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! Aid soon is

Cathmor low!" Rolled into himself he flew, wide on the bosom of

winds. The old oak felt his departure, and shook its whistling

head. Cathmor starts from rest. He takes his deathful spear. He

lifts his eyes around. He sees but dark-skirted night.

"It was the voice of the king," he said. "But now his form is

gone. Unmarked is your path in the air, ye children of the night.

Often, like a reflected beam, are ye seen in the desert wild: but ye

retire in your blasts, before our steps approach. Go, then, ye

feeble race! Knowledge with you there is none! Your joys are

weak, and like the dreams of our rest, or the light winged

thought, that flies across the soul. Shall Cathmor soon be low?

Darkly laid in his narrow house! Where no morning comes, with

her half-opened eyes? Away, thou shade! to fight is mine! All

further thought away! I rush forth on eagles' wings, to seize my

beam of flame. In the lonely vale of streams, abides the narrow

soul. Years roll on, seasons return, but he is still unknown. In a

blast comes cloudy death, and lays his gray head low. His ghost

is folded in the vapor of the fenny field. Its course is never on

hills, nor mossy vales of wind. So shall not Cathmor depart. No

boy in the field was he, who only marks the bed of roes, upon the

echoing hills. My issuing forth was with kings. My joy in dreadful

plains: where broken hosts are rolled away, like seas before the

wind."

So spoke the king of Alnecma, brightening in his rising

soul. Valor, 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 gray host on the field, wide spreading their

ridges in light. He rejoiced, like a spirit of heaven, whose steps

came forth on the 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 shore.

On the rushy bank of a stream slept the daughter of Inis-

huna. The helmet had fallen from her head. Her dreams were in

the lands of her fathers. There morning is on the field. Gray

streams leap down from the rocks. The breezes, in shadowy

waves, fly over the rushy fields. There is the sound that prepares

for the chase. There the moving of warriors from the hall. But tall

above the rest is seen the hero of streamy Atha. He bends his eye

of love on Sul-malla, from his stately steps. She turns, with pride,

her face away, and careless bends the bow.

Such were the dreams of the maid when Cathmor of Atha

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 sighs arise. His tears come down. But straight

he turns away. "This is no time, king of Atha, to awake thy secret

soul. The battle is rolled before thee like a troubled stream."

He struck that warning boss, <3> wherein dwelt the voice

of war. Erin rose around him, like the sound of eagle wing. Sul-

malla started from sleep, in her disordered locks. She seized the

helmet from earth. She trembled in her place. "Why should they

know in Erin of the daughter of Inis-huna?" She remembered the

race of kings. The pride of her soul arose! Her steps are behind a

rock, by the blue-winding stream of a vale; where dwelt the dark-

brown hind ere yet the war arose, thither came the voice of

Cathmor, at times, to Sul-malla's ear. Her soul is darkly sad. She

pours her words on wind.

"The dreams of Inis-huna departed. They are dispersed

from my soul. I hear not the chase in my land. I am concealed in

the skirt of war. I look forth from my cloud. No beam appears to

light my path. I behold my warriors low; for the broad-shielded

king is near. He that overcomes in danger, Fingal, from Selma of

spears! Spirit of departed Conmor! are thy steps on the bosom of

winds? Comest thou, at times, to other lands, father of sad Sul-

malla? Thou dost come! I have heard thy voice at night; while yet

I rose on the wave to Erin of the streams. The ghosts of fathers,

they say, call away the souls of their race, while they behold them

lonely in the midst of wo. Call me, my father, away! When

Cathmor is low on earth, then shall Sul-malla be lonely in the

midst of wo!

<1> Ul-erin, "the guide to Ireland," was a star known by that

name in the days of Fingal

<2> The song of Carril: the funeral elegy at the tomb of Cairbar.

<3> He struck that warning boss: in order to understand this

passage, it is necessary to look to the description of Cathmor's

shield in the seventh book. This shield had seven principal

bosses, the sound of each of which, when struck with a spear,

conveyed a particular order from the king to his tribes. The

sound of one of them, as here, was the signal for the army to

assemble.

TEMORA -- BOOK V

ARGUMENT.

The poet, 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 behavior 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 awake the

soul of the bard. The murmur of Lora's stream has rolled the tale

away. I stand in the cloud of years. Few are its openings towards

the' past; and when the vision comes, it is but dim and dark. I

hear thee, harp of Selma! my soul returns like a breeze, which

the sun brings back to the vale, where dwelt the lazy mist.

Lubar is bright before me in the windings of its vale. On

either side, on their hills, arise the tall forms of the kings. Their

people are poured around them, bending forward to their words:

as if their fathers spoke, descending from the winds. But they

themselves are like two rocks in the midst; each with its dark

head of pines, when they are seen in the desert, above low-sailing

mist. High on their face are streams which spread their foam on

blasts of wind!

Beneath the voice of Cathmor pours Erin, like the sound of

flame. Wide they come down to Lubar. Before them is the stride

of Foldath. But Cathmor retires to his hill, beneath his bending

oak. The tumbling of a stream is near the king. He lifts, at times,

his gleaming spear. It is a flame to his people, in the midst of

war. Near him stands the daughter of Conmor, leaning on a rock.

She did not rejoice at the strife. Her soul delighted not in blood. A

valley spreads green behind the hill, with its three, blue streams.

The sun is there in silence. The dun mountain roes come down.

On these are turned the eyes of Sul-malla in her thoughtful

mood.

Fingal beholds Cathmor, on high, the son of Borbar-

duthul! he beholds the deep rolling of Erin, on the darkened

plain. He strikes that warning boss, which bids the people to

obey, when he sends his chief before them, to the field of renown.

Wide rise their spears to the sun. Their echoing shields reply

around. Fear, like a vapor, winds not among the host: for he, the

king, is near, the strength of streamy Selma. Gladness brightens

the hero. We hear his words with joy.

"Like the coming forth of winds, is the sound of Selma's

sons! They are mountain waters, determined in their course.

Hence is Fingal renowned. Hence is his name in other lands. He

was not a lonely beam in danger: for your steps were always near!

But never was Fingal a dreadful form, in your presence, darkened

into wrath. My voice was no thunder to your ears. Mine eyes sent

forth no death. When the haughty appeared, I beheld them not.

They were forgot at my feasts. Like mist they melted away. A

young beam is before you! Few are his paths to war! They are

few, but he is valiant. Defend my dark-haired son. Bring Fillan

back with joy. Hereafter he may stand alone. His form is like his

fathers. His soul is a flame of their fire. Son of car-borne Morni,

move behind the youth. Let thy voice reach his ear, from the

skirts of war. Not unobserved rolls battle before thee, breaker of

the shields."

The king strode, at once, away to Cormul's lofty rock.

Intermitting darts the light from his shield, as slow the king of

heroes moves. Sidelong rolls his eye o'er the heath, as forming

advance the lines. Graceful fly his half-gray locks round his

kingly features, now lightened with dreadful joy. Wholly mighty is

the chief! Behind him dark and slow I moved. Straight came

forward the strength of Gaul. His shield hung loose on its thong.

He spoke, in haste, to Ossian. "Bind, son of Fingal, this shield!

Bind it high to the side of Gaul. The foe may behold it, and think

I lift the spear. If I should fall, let my tomb be hid in the field; for

fall I must without fame. Mine arm cannot lift the steel. Let not

Evir-choma hear it, to blush between her locks. Fillan, the mighty

behold us! Let us not forget the strife. Why should they come

from their hills, to aid our flying field!"

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 are forgot by

themselves. They rush carless 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, amid the mountain wind!

In two dark ridges bend the host towards each other, at

Lubar Here Foldath rises a pillar of darkness: there brightens the

youth of Fillan. Each, with his spear in the stream, sent forth the

voice of war. Gaul struck, the shield of Selma. At once they

plunge in battle! Steel pours 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!

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.

The hero's soul arose. But as the stone of Loda <1> falls, shook,

at once, from rocking Drumanard, when spirits heave the earth

in their wrath; so fell blue-shielded Rothmar.

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 sunbeam flew over the fern. Why, son of Cul-allin!

why, Culmin, dost thou rush on that beam of light? <2> It is a

fire that consumes. Son of Cul-allin, retire. Your fathers were not

equal in the glittering strife of the field. 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 <3> are howling in their place. His shield is

bloody in the hall. "Art thou fallen, my fair-haired son, in Erin's

dismal war?"

As a roe, pierced in secret, lies panting, by her wonted

streams; the hunter surveys her feet of wind! He 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

wanders on his shield. Still his hand holds 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 of thy deeds. He is gray, perhaps, at his streams. His eyes

are towards Moi-lena. But thou shalt not return with the spoil of

the fallen foe!"

Fillan pours the flight of Erin before him, over the

resounding 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. Dermid stands before him in wrath. The sons of Selma

gathered around. But his shield is cleft by Foldath. His people fly

over the heath.

Then said the foe in his pride, "They have fled. My fame

begins! Go, Malthos, go bid Cathmor guard the dark rolling of

ocean; that Fingal may not escape from my sword. He must lie on

earth. Beside some fen shall his tomb be seen. It shall rise

without a song. His ghost shall hover, in mist, over the reedy

pool."

Malthos heard, with darkening doubt. He rolled his silent

eyes. He knew the pride of Foldath. He looked up to Fingal on his

hills; then darkly turning, in doubtful mood, he plunged his

sword in war.

In Clono's narrow vale, where bend two trees above the

stream, dark, in his grief, stood Duthno's silent son. The blood

pours from the side of Dermid. His shield is broken near. His

spear leans against a stone. Why, Dermid, why so sad? "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?" -- "Son of Morni, give thou thy shield. It has often

rolled back the war! I shall stop the chief in his course. Son of

Morni, behold that stone! It lifts its gray head through grass.

There dwells a chief of the race of Dermid. Place me there in

night."

He slowly rose against the hill. He saw the troubled field:

the gleaming ridges of battle, disjointed and broken around. As

distant fires, on heath by night, now seem as lost in smoke: now

rearing their red streams on the hill, as blow or cease the winds;

so met the intermitting war the eye of broad-shielded Dermid.

Through the host are the strides of Foldath, like some dark ship

on wintry waves, when she issues from between two isles to sport

on resounding ocean!

Dermid with rage beholds his course. He strives to rush

along. But he fails amid his steps; and the big tear comes down.

He sounds his father's horn. He thrice strikes his bossy shield.

He calls thrice the name of Foldath, from his roaring tribes.

Foldath, with joy, beholds the chief. He lifts aloft 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

chief of Moma! The host on either side withdraw from the

contending kings. They raise, at once, their gleaming points.

Rushing comes Fillan of Selma. Three paces back Foldath

withdraws, dazzled with that beam of light, which came, as

issuing from a cloud, to save the wounded chief. Growing in his

pride he stands. He calls forth all his steel.

As meet two broad-winged eagles, in their sounding strife,

in winds: so rush the two chiefs, on Moi-lena, into gloomy fight.

By turns are the steps of the kings [Fingal and Cathmor] forward

on their rocks above; for now the dusky war seems to descend on

their swords. Cathmor feels the joy of warriors!, on his mossy hill:

their joy in secret, when dangers rise to match their souls. His

eye is not turned on Lubar, but on Selma's dreadful king. He

beholds him, on Mora, rising in his arms.

Foldath falls on his shield. The spear of Fillan pierced the

king. Nor looks the youth on the fallen, but onward rolls the war.

The hundred voices of death arise. "Stay, son of Fingal, stay thy

speed. Beholdest thou not that gleaming form, a dreadful sign of

death? Awaken not the king of Erin. Return, son of blue-eyed

Clatho."

Malthos beholds Foldath low. He darkly stands above the

chief. Hatred is rolled from his soul. He seems a rock in a desert,

on whose dark side are the trickling of waters; when the slow-

sailing mist has left it, and all its trees are blasted with winds. He

spoke to the dying hero about the narrow house. "Whether shall

thy gray stones rise in Ullin, or in Moma's woody land; where the

sun looks, in secret, on the blue streams of Dalrutho? Them are

the steps of thy daughter, blue-eyed Dardu-lena!"

"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 vale of Moma, to Dardu-lena's

dreams, where she slept, by Dalrutho's stream, returning from

the chase of the hinds. Her bow is near the maid, unstrung. The

breezes fold her long hair on her breasts. Clothed in the beauty of

youth, the love of heroes lay. Dark bending, from the skirts of the

wood, her wounded father seemed to come. He appears, at times,

then hid himself in mist. Bursting into tears she arose. 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, O blue-eyed

Dardu-lena.

Wide spreading over echoing Lubar, the flight of Bolga is

rolled along. Fillan hangs forward on their steps. He strews, with

dead, the heath. Fingal rejoices over his son. Blue-shielded

Cathmor rose.

Son of Alpin, bring the harp. Give Fillan's praise to the

wind. Raise high his praise in mine ear, while yet he shines in

war.

"Leave, blue-eyed Clatho, leave thy hail! 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; nor sends his

gray arrow abroad.

"Deep folded in red war! See battle roll against his side.

Striding amid the ridgy strife, he pours the death of thousands

forth. Fillan is like a spirit of heaven, hat descends from the skirt

of winds. 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! Leave, blue-eyed Clatho, leave thy

hall!"

<1> By "the stone of Loda" is meant a place of worship among the

Scandinavians.

<2> The poet metaphorically calls Fillan a beam of light.

<3> Dogs were thought to be sensible of the death of their

master, let it happen at ever so great a distance. It was also the

opinion of the times, that the arms, which warriors left at home,

became bloody when they themselves fell in battle.

TEMORA -- BOOK VI.

ARGUMENT

This book opens with a speech of Fingal, who sees Cathmor

descending to the assistance of his flying army. The king

despatches 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 pre

vents 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 neighboring 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 reflection thereupon. He returns, in a melancholy mood, to

his army. Malthos endeavors 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.

"Cathmor rises on his hill! Shall Fingal take the sword of

Luna? But what shall become of thy fame, son of white-bosomed

Clatho? Turn not thine eyes from Fingal, fair daughter of Inis-

tore. I shall not quench thy early beam. It shines along my soul.

Rise, wood-skirted Mora, rise between the war and me! Why

should Fingal behold the strife, lest his dark -haired warrior

should fall? Amidst the song, O Carril, pour the sound of the

trembling harp! Here are the voices of rocks! and there the bright

tumbling of waters. Father of Oscar! lift the spear! defend the

young in arms. Conceal thy steps from Fillan. He must not know

that I doubt his steel. No cloud of mine shall rise, my son, upon

thy soul of fire!"

He sunk behind his rock, amid the sound of Carril's song.

Brightening in my growing soul, I took the spear of Temora. I

saw, along Moi-lena, the wild tumbling of battle; the strife of

death, in gleaming rows, disjointed and broken round. Fillan is a

beam of fire. From wing to wing is his wasteful course. The ridges

of war melt before him. They are rolled, in smoke, from the fields!

Now is the coming forth of Cathmor, in the armor of kings!

Dark waves the eagle's wing, above his helmet of fire.

Unconcerned are his steps, as if they were to the chase of Erin.

He raises, at times, his terrible voice. Erin, abashed, gathers

round. Their souls return back, like a stream. They wonder at the

steps of their fear. 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 takes the spear from her

hand. Half bent she looses the lance. But then are her eyes on

the king, from amid her wandering locks! No friendly strife is

before thee! No light contending of bows, as when the youth of

Inis-huna come forth beneath the eye of Conmor!

As the rock of Runo, which takes the passing clouds as

they fly, seems growing, in gathered darkness, over the streamy

heath; so seems the chief of Atha taller, as gather his people

around. As different blasts fly over the sea, each behind its dark-

blue wave; so Cathmor's words, on every side, pour his warriors

forth. Nor silent on his hill is Fillan. He mixes his words with his

echoing shield. An eagle be seemed, with sounding wings, calling

the wind to his rock, when he sees the coming forth of the roes,

on Lutha's rushy field!

Now they bend forward in battle. Death's hundred voices

arise. The kings, on either side, were like fires on the souls of the

host. Ossian bounded along. High rocks and trees rush tall

between the war and me. But I hear the noise of steel, between

my clanging arms. Rising, gleaming on the hill, I behold 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, through gleams of steel, are

seen the striving heroes! I rush. My fears for Fillan fly, burning,

across my soul!

I come. Nor Cathmor flies; nor yet comes on; he sidelong

stalks along. An icy rock, cold, tall, he seems. I call forth all my

steel. Silent awhile we stride, on either side of a rushing stream:

then, sudden turning, all at once, we raise our pointed spears.

We raise our spears, but night comes down. It is dark and silent

round; but where the distant steps of hosts are sounding over the

heath.

I come to the place where Fillan fought. Nor voice nor

sound is there. A broken helmet lies on earth, a buckler cleft in

twain. Where, Fillan, where art thou, young chief of echoing

Morven? He hears me, leaning on a rock, which bends its gray

head over the stream. He hears; but sullen, dark he stands. At

length. I saw the hero.

"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 mists he sits, and hears the sound 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 shall not behold the king! Why should the hero

mourn?"

"Son of blue-eyed Clatho! O Fillan, awake not my soul!

Wert thou not a burning fire before him? Shall he not rejoice?

Such fame belongs not to Ossian; yet is the king still a sun to me.

He looks on my steps with joy. Shadows never rise on his face.

Ascend, O Fillan, to Mora! His feast is spread in the folds of

mist."

"Ossian! give me that broken shield: those 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 lost beam of Clatho?"

"Is thy spirit on the eddying winds, O Fillan, young breaker

of shields. Joy pursue my hero, through 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

wreaths. Joy meet thee, my brother! But we are dark and sad! I

behold the foe round the aged. I behold the wasting away of his

fame. Thou art left alone in the field, O gray-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 listen. No sound is heard. The warrior slept! as

lightning on a cloud, a thought came rushing along my soul. My

eyes roll in fire: my stride was in the clang of steel. "I will find

thee, king of Erin! in the gathering of thy thousands find thee.

Why should that cloud escape, that quenched our early beam?

Kindle your meteors on your hills, my fathers. Light my daring

steps. I will consume in wrath. <1> -- But should not I return?

The king is without a son, gray-haired among his foes! His arm is

not as in the days of old. His fame grows dim in Erin. Let me not

behold him, laid low in his latter field -- But can I return to the

king? Will he not ask about his son?" Thou oughtest to defend

young Fillan." -- Ossian will meet the foe! Green Erin, thy

sounding tread is pleasant to my ear. I rush on thy ridgy host, to

shun the eyes of Fingal. I hear the voice of the king, on Mora's

misty top! He calls his two sons! I come, my father, in my grief. I

come like an eagle, which the flame of night met in the desert,

and spoiled of half his wings!

Distant, round the king, on Mora, the broken ridges of

Morven are rolled. They turned their eyes: each darkly bends, on

his own ashen spear. Silent stood the king in the midst. Thought

on thought rolled over his soul: as waves on a secret mountain

lake, each with its back of foam. He looked; no son appeared,

with his long-beaming spear. The sighs rose, crowding, from his

soul; but he concealed his grief. At length I stood beneath an oak.

No voice of mine was heard.! What could I say to Fingal in this

hour of wo? His words rose, at length, in the midst: the people

shrunk backward as he spoke.

"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 cleft in twain. Let his armor be

near to Fingal; and the sword of dark-brown Luno. I am waked

on my hills; with morning I descend to war!"

High on Cormul's rock, an oak is flaming to the wind. The

gray skirts of mist are rolled around; thither strode the king in

his wrath. Distant from the host he always lay, when battle burnt

within his soul. On two spears hung his shield on high; the

gleaming sign of death! that shield, which he was wont to strike,

by night, before he rushed to war. It was then his warriors knew

when the king was to lead in strife; for never was his buckler

heard, till the wrath of Fingal arose. Unequal were his steps on

high, as ho shone on the beam of the oak; he was dreadful as the

form of the spirit of night, when he clothes, on his wild gestures

with mist, and, issuing forth, on the troubled ocean, mounts the

car of winds.

Nor settled, from the storm, is Erin's sea of war! they

glitter, beneath the moon, and, low humming, still roll on the

field. Alone are the steps of Cathmor, before them on the heath:

he hangs 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 Bran. He had missed the chief

on Mora, and searched him along the wind. He thought that the

blue-eyed hunter slept; he lay upon his shield. No blast came

over the heath unknown to bounding Bran.

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 came, a stream; are rolled away;

another race succeeds. But some mark the fields, as they pass,

with their own mighty names. The heath, through 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.

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; Lubar winds

again in their host. Cathmor was that beam from heaven, which

shone when his people were dark. He was honored in the midst.

Their souls arose with ardor around! The king alone no gladness

showed; no stranger he to war!

"Why is the king so sad?" said Malthos, eagle-eyed.

"Remains there a foe at Lubar t Lives there among them who can

lift the spear? Not so peaceful was thy father, Borbar-duthul,

king of spears. His rage was a fire that always burned: his joy

over fallen foes was great. Three days feasted the gray-haired

hero, when he heard that Calmar fell: Calmar who aided the race

of Ullin, from Lara of the streams. Often did he feel, with his

hands, the steel which they said had pierced his foe. He felt it

with his hands, for Borbar-duthul's eyes had failed. Yet was the

king a sun to his friends; a gale to lift their branches round. Joy

was around him in his halls: he loved the sons of Bolga. His

name remains in Atha, like the awful memory of ghosts whose

presence was terrible; but they blew the storm away. Now let the

voices of Erin <2> raise the soul of the king; he that shone when

war was dark, and laid the mighty low. Fonar, from that gray-

browed rock pour the tale of other times: pour it on wide-skirted

Erin, as it settles round.

"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,

each bard sat down with his harp. They raised the song, and

touched the string: each to the chief he loved. Before a burning

oak Sul-malla touched, at times, the harp. She touched the harp,

and heard, between, the breezes in her hair. In darkness near lay

the king of Atha, beneath an aged tree. The beam of the oak was

turned from him; he saw the maid, but was not seen. His soul

poured forth, in secret, when he beheld her fearful eye. "But

battle is before thee, son of Borbar-duthul."

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.

"Clun-galo <3> came; she missed the maid. Where art

thou, beam of light? Hunters from the mossy rock, saw ye the

blue-eyed fair? Are her steps on grassy Lumon; near the bed of

roes? Ah, me! I behold her bow in the hail. Where art thou, beam

of light?

"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 mist. Filled with

dew are my locks: look thou from thy cloud, O sun of Sul-malla's

soul!"

<1> "I will consume in wrath --" Here the sentence is designedly

left unfinished. The sense is, that he was resolved, like a

destroying fire, to consume Cathmor, who had killed his brother.

In the midst of this resolution, the situation of Fingal suggests

itself to him in a very strong light. He resolves to return to assist

the king in prosecuting the war. But then his shame for not

defending his brother recurs to him. He is determined again to go

and find out Cathmor. We may consider him as in the act of

advancing towards the enemy, when the horn of Fingal sounded

on Mora, and called back his people to his presence.

<2> The voices of Erin: A poetical expression for the bards of

Ireland.

<3> Clun-galo: 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.

TEMORA -- BOOK VII.

ARGUMENT.

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 neighboring 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 Fir-bolg in Ireland, under their

leader Larthon. Morning comes. Sul-malla retires to the valley of

Lona. A lyric song concludes the book.

From the wood-skirted waters of Lego ascend, at times,

gray-bosomed mists; when the gates of the west are closed, on

the sun's eagle eye. Wide, over Lara's stream, is poured the vapor

dark and deep: the moon, like a dim shield, lay swimming

through its folds. With this, clothe the spirits of old their sudden

gestures on the wind, when they stride, from blast to blast, along

the dusky night. Often, blended with the gale, to some warrior's

grave, they roll the mist a gray dwelling to his ghost, until the

songs arise.

A sound came from the desert; 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 gray ridge of

smoke. 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 was dark. The sleeping host were still in the skirts of

night. The flame decayed, on the hill of Fingal; the king lay lonely

on his shield. His eyes were half clothed in sleep: the voice of

Fillan came. "Sleeps the husband of Clatho? Dwells the father of

the fallen in rest? Am I forgot in the folds of darkness; lonely in

the season of night?"

"Why dost thou mix," said the king, "with the dreams of my

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 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 shield, that hung high in night, the dismal

sign of war. Ghosts fled on every side, and rolled their gathered

forms on the wind. Thrice from the winding vales arose the voice

of deaths. The harps of the bards, untouched, sound mournful

over the hill.

He struck again the shield; battles rose in the dreams of

his host. The wide-tumbling strife is gleaming over their souls.

Blue-shielded kings descended 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 desert,

as each flew frightened on his blast. The sons of Selma 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.

No sleep was thine in darkness, blue-eyed daughter of

Conmor! Sul-malla heard the dreadful shield, and rose, amid the

night. Her steps are towards the king of Atha. "Can danger shake

his daring soul?" In doubt, she stands with bending eyes. Heaven

burns with all its stars.

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 a dream to his rest,

daughter of Inis-huna."

More dreadful rings the shield. Sul-malla starts. Her

helmet fails. Loud echoes Lubar's rock, as over it rolls 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 beams, looked through her floating hair.

"Who comes through night to Cathmor in the season of his

dreams? Bring'st thou aught 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 the danger of Erin?"

"Nor lonely scout am I, nor voice from folded cloud," she

said, "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," he replied, "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! Lie, who never yields,

comes forth: O send the bard of peace!"

Like a dropping rock in the desert, 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, as thou bid'st 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 loud

stream; gray in his locks of age, dwells Clonmal king of harps.

Above him is his echoing tree, and the dun bounding of roes. The

noise of our strife reaches his ear, as he bends in the thoughts of

years. There let thy rest be, Sul-malla, until our battle cease.

Until I return, in my arms, from the skirts of the evening mist,

that rises on Lona, round the dwelling of my love."

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. "Sooner shall the eagle of heaven be torn from the

stream of his roaring wind, when he sees the dun prey before

him, the young sons of the bounding roe, than thou, O Cathmor,

be turned from the strife of renown. Soon may I see thee, warrior,

from the skirts of the evening mist, when it is rolled around me,

on Lona of the streams. While yet thou art distant far, strike,

Cathmor, strike the shield, that joy may return to my darkened

soul, as I lean on the mossy rock. But if thou shouldst fall, I am

in the land of strangers; O send thy voice from thy cloud, to the

midst of Inis-huna!"

"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 rattled along 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-mor, of Clunar, who was slain by Cormac

in fight. Three days darkened Son-mor, over his brother's fall. His

spouse beheld the silent king and foresaw his steps in war. She

prepared the bow, in secret, to attend her blue-shielded hero. To

her dwelt darkness at Atha, when he was not there. From their

hundred streams, by night, poured down the sons of Alnecma.

They had heard the shield of the king, and their rage arose. In

clanging arms, they moved along towards Ullin of the groves.

Son-mor struck his shield, at times the leader of the war.

"Far behind followed Sul-allin, over the streamy hills. She

was a light on the mountain, when they crossed the vale below.

Her steps were stately on the vale, when they rose on the mossy

hill. She feared to approach the king, who left her in echoing

Atha. But when the roar of battle rose; when host was rolled on

host, when Son-mor burnt, like the fire of heaven in clouds, with

her spreading hair came Sul-allin, for she trembled for her king.

He stopt the rushing strife to save the love of heroes. The foe fled

by night; Clunar slept without his blood; the blood which ought

to be poured upon the warrior's tomb.

"Nor rose the rage of Son-mor, but his days were silent and

dark. Sul-allin wandered by her gray stream. 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."

In his arms strode the chief of Atha, to where his shield

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, which his warriors received, from the wind, and marked

over all the tribes.

On each boss is placed a star of night: Canmathon with

beams unshorn; Col-derna rising from a cloud; U-leicho robed in

mist; and the soft beam of Cathlin glittering on a rock. Smiling,

on its own blue wave, Rel-durath half sinks its western light. The

red eye of Berthin looks, through a grove, on the hunter, as he

returns, by night, with the spoils of the bounding roe. Wide, in

the midst, rose the cloudless beams of Ton-th‚na, 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 winds.

White-bosomed spread the sails of the king, towards streamy

Inis-fail; dun night was rolled before him, with its skirts of mist.

Unconstant blew the winds, and rolled him from wave to wave.

Then rose the fiery-haired Ton-th‚na, and smiled from her parted

cloud. Larthon blessed the well-known beam, as it faint gleamed

on the deep.

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 him 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 desert

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. <1>

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 seen from thy furze; the deer lifts its branchy head; for he sees,

at times, the hound on the half-covered heath. Slow, on the vale,

are the steps of maids; the white-armed daughters of the bow:

they lift their blue eyes to the hill, from amidst their wandering

locks. Not there is the stride of Larthon, chief of Inis-huna. He

mounts the wave on his own dark oak, in Cluba's ridgy bay. That

oak which he cut from Lumon, to bound along the sea. The

maids turn their eyes away, lest the king should be lowly laid; for

never had they seen a ship, dark rider of the wave!

"Now he dares to call the winds, and to mix with the mist of

ocean. Blue Inis-fail rose, in smoke; but dark-skirted night came

down. The sons of Bolga feared. The fiery-haired Ton-th‚na 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 Semla, to the music of the harp.

He went forth to the roes of Erin, to their wonted streams. Nor

did he forget green-headed Lumon; he often bounded over his

seas, to where white-handed Flathal looked from the hill of roes.

Lumon of the foamy streams, thou risest on Fonar's soul!"

Mourning pours from the east. The misty heads of the

mountains rise. Valleys show, on every side, the gray winding of

the 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

skirt now rustling in thy leaves? Often are the steps of the dead,

in the dark-eddying blasts; when the moon, a dun shield, from

the east is rolled along the sky.

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?

<1> Lumon: A hill in Inis-huna, near the residence of Sul-malla.

TEMORA -- BOOK VIII

ARGUMENT.

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 sight, is seen, at intervals, through 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 valley of

China, and conduct from thence the Caledonian army, Ferad-

artho, the son of Cairbar, the only person remaining of the family

of Conar, the first king of Ireland. The king makes 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.

As when the wintry winds have seized the waves of the

mountain lake, have seized them in stormy night, and clothed

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 boughs, and tufts

of grass, which shake and whistle to the wind, over their gray

seats of frost. So silent shone to the morning the ridges of

Morven's host, as each warrior looked up from his helmet

towards the hill of the king; the cloud-covered hill of Fingal,

where he strode in the folds of mist. At times is the hero seen,

greatly dim in all his arms. From thought to thought tolled the

war, along his mighty soul.

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 gray 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

shunned 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

wrath gathers on Fingal's soul, against the chiefs of men. Ye are

my strength in battle; the kindling of my joy in peace. My early

voice has been a pleasant gale to your years, when Fillan

prepared the bow. The son of Fingal is not here, nor yet the chase

of the bounding roes. But why should the breakers of shields

stand, darkened, far way?"

Tall they strode towards the king: they saw him turned to

Morn's wind. His, tears came down for his blue-eyed son, no 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 sight, 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-artho, blue-eyed king, the son of broad-

shielded Cairbar, from Ullin of the roes. He listens to the voice of

Condan, as gray he bends in feeble light. He listens, for his foes

dwell in the echoing halls of Temora. He comes, at times, abroad

in the skirts of mist, to pierce the bounding roes. When the sun

looks on the field, nor by the rock, nor stream, is he! He shuns

the race of Bolga, who dwell in his father's hall. Tell him, that

Fingal lifts the spear, and that his foes, perhaps, may fail.

"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 Moi-lena, to the dusky field of

ghosts; for there, I fall forward, in battle, in the folds of war.

Before dun night descends, come to high Dunmora's top. Look,

from the gray skirts of mist, on Lena of the streams. If there my

standard shall float on wind, over Lubar's gleaming stream, then

has not Fingal failed in the last of his fields."

Such were his words; nor aught replied the silent striding

kings. They looked sidelong 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 gray-

haired Carril moved. He foresaw the fall, of the people, and

mournful was the sound! 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 remembered in peace; when echoing shields are heard

no more. Bend, then, in grief, over the flood, where blows the

mountain breeze. Let them pass on thy soul, the blue-eyed

dwellers of the tomb. But Erin rolls to war; wide tumbling, rough,

aid dark. Lift, Ossian, lift the shield. I am alone, my son

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 gray hair is

poured on his shoulders broad. In thunder are his mighty

strides. He often stood, and saw, behind, the wide-gleaming

rolling of armor. A rock he seemed, gray over with ice, whose

woods are high in wind. Bright streams leapt 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 by

the 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, on his spear, over

Lubar, and struck his echoing shield. His ridgy host bend

forward, at once, with all their pointed steel.

Nor Erin heard, with fear, the sound: wide they come

rolling along. Dark Malthos, in the wing of war, looks forward

from shaggy brows. Next rose that beam of light, Hidalla! then the

sidelong-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 valley of ghosts. But when

ha 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 firth of Lumon; along the echoing hills in 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.

Maronnan fell, by Fingal, laid large across a stream. The

waters gathered by his side, and leapt gray 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-min shall weep, in the hall, and strike her heaving

breast. Nor did Ossian forget the spear, in the wing of his

war. He strewed the field with dead. Young Hidallan came. "Soft

voice of streamy Clonra! why dost thou lift the steel? O that we

met in the strife of song, in thine own rushy vale!" Malthos beheld

him low, and darkened as he rushed along. On either side of a

stream, we bent in the echoing strife. Heaven comes rolling down;

around burst the voices of squally winds. Hills are clothed, at

times, in fire. Thunder rolls in wreaths of mist. In darkness

shrunk the foe: Morven's warriors stood aghast. Still I bent over

the stream, amidst my whistling locks.

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 smoke.

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? Nor by that

stream, nor wood, are they! I hear the clang of arms! Their strife

is in the bosom of that mist. Such is the contending of spirits in a

nightly cloud, when they strive for the wintry wings of winds, and

the rolling of the foam-covered waves.

I rushed along. The gray mist rose. Tall, gleaming, they

stood 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, amidst 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 desert, to the ear of

Fingal. Come o my hill of feasts: the mighty fail, at times. No fire

am I to low-laid foes; I rejoice not over the fall of the brave. To

close the wound is mine: I have known the herbs of the hills. I

seized their fair heads, on high, as they waved by their secret

streams. Thou art dark and silent, king of Atha of strangers!"

"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 strangers, when they passed to my hall

of shells. Joy rose, like a flame, on my soul; I blest the echoing

rock. Here be my dwelling, in darkness; in my grassy vale. From

this I shall mount the breeze, that pursues my thistle's beard; or

look down on blue-winding Atha, from its wandering mist."

"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 dark-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 found my rage was fire. Never over the fallen did mine

eye rejoice. For this, my fathers shall meet me, at the gates of

their airy halls, tall, with robes of light, with mildly-kindled eyes.

But to the proud in arms, they are darkened moons in heaven,

which send the fire of night red wandering over their face.

"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 gray head of moss.

Beneath he placed a sword in earth, and one bright boss from his

shield. Dark in thought awhile he bends: his words at length

came forth.

"When thou, O stone, shalt moulder down, and lose thee in

the moss of years, then shall the traveller come, and whistling

pass away. Thou knowest not, feeble man, that fame once shone

on Moi-lena. Here Fingal resigned his spear, after the last of his

fields. Pass away, thou empty shade! in thy voice there is no

renown. Thou dwellest by some peaceful stream; yet a few years,

and thou art gone. No one remembers thee, thou dweller of thick

mist! But Fingal shall be clothed with fame, a beam of light to

other times; for he went forth, with echoing steel, to save the

weak in arms."

Brightening, in his fame, the king strode to Lubar's

sounding 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 standard of Morven poured its

wreaths on the wind, to mark the way of Ferad-artho from his

secret vale. Bright, from his parted west, the son of heaven

looked abroad. The hero saw his people, and heard their shouts

of joy. In broken ridges round, they glittered to the beam. The

king rejoiced, as a hunter in his own green vale, when, after the

storm is rolled away, he sees the gleaning sides of the rocks. The

green thorn shakes its head in their face; from their top look

forward the roes.

Gray, at his mossy cave, is bent the aged form of Clonmal.

The eyes of the bard had failed. He leaned forward on his staff.

Bright in her locks, before him, Sul-malla listened to the tale; the

tale of the kings of Atha, in the days of old. The noise of battle

had ceased in his Sir: he stopt and raised the secret sigh. The

spirits of the dead, they said, often lightened along his soul. He

saw the king of Atha low, beneath his bending tree.

"Why art thou dark?" said the maid." The strife of arms is

past. Soon shall he come to thy cave, over thy winding streams.

The sun looks from the rocks of the west. The mists of the lake

arise. Gray they spread on that hill, the rushy dwelling of roes.

From the mist shall my king appear! Behold, he comes in his

arms. Come to the cave of Clonmal, O my best beloved!"

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 were turned to the bill; again the stately

form came down. She rose in the midst of joy. He retired again in

mist. Gradual vanish his limbs of smoke, and mix with the

mountain wind. Then she knew that he fell! "King of Erin, art

thou low!" Let Ossian forget her grief; it wastes the soul of age.

Evening came down on Moi-lena. Gray 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 desert,

the voice of music came. It seemed, at first, the noise of a stream,

far distant on its rocks. Slow it rolled along the hill, like the

ruffled wing of a breeze, when it takes the tufted beard of the

rocks, in the still season of night. It was the voice of Condon,

mixed with Carril's trembling harp. They came, with blue-eyed

Ferad-artho, to Mora of the streams.

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 in

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. Ossian,

thou hast the spear of Fingal; it is not the staff of a boy with

which he strews the thistles round, young wanderer of the field.

No: it is the lance of the mighty, with which they stretched forth

their hands to death. Look to thy fathers, my son; they are awful

beams. With morning lead Ferad-artho forth to the echoing halls

of Temora. Remind him of the kings of Erin: the stately forms of

old. Let not the fallen be forgot: they were mighty in the field. Let

Carril pour his song, that the kings may rejoice in their mist. To

morrow I spread my sails to Selma's shaded walls: where streamy

Duth-ula winds through the seats of roes."

CONLATH AND CUTHONA.

ARGUMENT.

Conlath was the youngest of Morni's sons, and brother to the

celebrated Gaul. He was in love with Cuthona, the daughter of

Rumar, when Toscar, the son of Kenfena, accompanied by

Fercuth his friend, arrived from Ireland, at Mora, where Conlath

dwelt. He was hospitably received, and according to the custom

of the times, feasted three days with Conlath. On the fourth he

set sail, and coasting the island of waves, one of the Hebrides, be

saw Cuthona hunting, fell in love with her, and carried her away,

by force, in his ship. He was forced, by stress of weather, into I-

thona, a desert isle. In the mean time Conlath hearing of the

rape, sailed after him, and found him on the point of sailing for

the coast of Ireland. They fought: and they and their followers fell

by mutual wounds. Cuthona did not long survive: for she died of

grief the third day after. Fingal hearing of their unfortunate

death, sent Stormal the son of Moran to bury them, but forgot to

send a bard to sing the funeral song over their tombs. The ghost

of Conlath comes long after to Ossian, to entreat him to transmit

to posterity, his and Cuthona's fame. For it was the opinion of the

times, that the souls of the deceased were not happy, till their

elegies were composed by a bard.

Did not Ossian hear a voice? or is it the sound of days that

are no more? Often does the memory of former times come, like

the evening sun, on my soul. The noise of the chase is renewed.

In thought, I lift the spear. But Ossian did hear a voice! Who art

thou, son of night? The children of the feeble are asleep. The

midnight wind is in my hall. Perhaps it is the shield of Fingal that

echoes to the blast. It hangs in Ossian's hall. He feels it

sometimes with his hands. Yes, I hear thee, my friend! Long has

thy voice been absent from mine ear! What brings thee, on thy

cloud, to Ossian, son of generous Morni! Are the friends of the

aged near thee? Where is Oscar, son of fame? He was often near

thee, O Conlath, when the sound of battle arose.

Ghost of Conlath: Sleeps the sweet voice of Cona, in the

midst of his rustling hall? Sleeps Ossian in his hall, and his

friends without their fame? The sea rolls round dark I-thona. Our

tombs are not seen in our isle. How long shall our fame be

unheard, son of resounding Selma?

Ossian: O that mine eyes could behold thee! Thou sittest,

dim on thy cloud! Art thou like the mist of Lano? An half-

extinguished meteor of fire? Of what are the skirts of thy robe? Of

what is thine airy bow? He is gone on his blast like the shade of a

wandering cloud. Come from thy wall, O harp! Let me hear thy

sound. Let the light of memory rise on I-thona! Let me behold

again my, friends! And Ossian does behold his friends, on the

dark-blue isle. The cave of Thona appears, with its mossy rocks

and bending trees. A stream roars at its mouth. Toscar bends

over its course. Fercuth is sad by his side. Cuthona sits at a

distance and weeps. Does the wind of the waves deceive me? Or

do I hear them speak?

Toscar: The night was stormy. From their hills the groaning

oaks came down. The sea darkly tumbled beneath the blast. The

roaring waves climbed against our rocks. The lightning came

often and showed the blasted fern. Fercuth! I saw the ghost who

embroiled the night. Silent he stood, on that bank. His robe of

mist flew on the wind. I could behold his tears. An aged man he

seemed, and full of thought!

Fercuth: It was thy father, O Toscar. He foresees some

death among his race. Such was his appearance on Cromla

before the great Maronnan fell. Erin of hills of grass! how

pleasant are thy vales! Silence is near thy blue streams. The sun

is on thy fields. Soft is the sound of the harp in Sel ma. Lovely

the cry of th hunter on Cromla. But we are in dark I-thona,

surrounded by the storm. The billows lift their white heads above

our rocks. We tremble amidst the night.

Toscar: Whither is the soul of battle fled, Fercuth, with

locks of age? I have seen thee undaunted in danger: thine eyes

burning with joy in the light. Whither is the soul of battle fled?

Our fathers never feared. Go; view the settling sea: the stormy

wind is laid. The billows still tremble on the deep. They seem to

fear the blast. Go; view the settling sea. Morning is gray on our

rocks. The sun will look soon from his east; in all his pride of

light! I lifted up my sails with joy before the halls of generous

Conlath. My course was by a desert isle: where Cuthona pursued

the deer. I saw her, like that beam of the sun that issues from the

cloud. Her hair was on her heaving breast. She, bending forward,

drew the bow. Her white arm seemed, behind her, like the snow

of Cromla. Come to my soul, I said, huntress of the desert isle!

But she wastes her time in tears. She thinks of the generous

Conlath. Where can I find thy peace, Cuthona, lovely maid?

Cuthona: A distant steep bends over the sea, with aged

trees and mossy rocks. The billow rolls at its feet. On its side is

the dwelling of roes. The people call it Mora. There the towers of

my love arise. There Conlath looks over the sea for his only love.

The daughters of the chase returned. He beheld their downcast

eyes. "Where is the daughter of Rumar?" But they answered not.

My peace dwells on Mora, son of the distant land!

Toscar: Cuthona shall return to her peace: to the towers of

generous Conlath. He is the friend of Toscar! I have feasted in his

halls! Rise, ye gentle breezes of Erin. Stretch my sails towards

Mora's shores. Cuthona shall rest on Mora; but the days of

Toscar must be sad. I shall sit in my cave in the field of the sun.

The blast will rustle in my trees, I shall think it is Cuthona's

voice. But she is distant far, in the halls of the mighty Conlath!

Cuthona: Ha! what cloud is that? It carries the ghost of my

fathers. I see the skirts of their robes, like gray and watery mist.

When shall I fall, O Rumar? Sad Cuthona foresees her death. Will

not Conlath behold me, before I enter the narrow house?

Ossian: He shall behold thee, O maid! He comes along the

heaving sea. The death of Toscar is dark on his spear. A wound is

in his side! He is pale at the cave of Thona. He shows his ghastly

wound. Where art thou with thy tears, Cuthona? The chief of

Mora dies. The vision grows dim on my mind. I behold the chiefs

no more! But, O ye bards of future times, remember the fall of

Conlath with tears. He fell before his day. Sadness darkened in

his hall. His mother looked to his shield on the wall, and it was

bloody. She knew that her hero fell. Her sorrow was heard on

Mora. Art thou pale on thy rock, Cuthona, beside the fallen

chiefs? Night comes, and day returns, but none appears to raise

their tomb. Thou frightenest the screaming fowls away. Thy tears

for ever flow. Thou art pale as a watery cloud, that rises from a

lake.

The sons of green Selma came. They found Cuthona cold.

They raised a tomb over the heroes. She rests at the side of

Conlath! Come not to my dreams, O Conlath! Thou hast received

thy fame. Be thy voice far distant from my hail; that sleep may

descend at night. O that I could forget my friends; till my

footsteps should cease to be seen; till I come among them with

joy! and lay my aged limbs in the narrow house!

BERRATHON.

ARGUMENT.

Fingal, in his voyage to Lochlin, whither he had been invited by

Starno, the father of Agandecca, touched at Berrathon an island

of Scandinavia, where he was kindly entertained by Larthmor,

the petty king of the place, who was a vassal of the supreme

kings of Lochlin. The hospitality of Larthmor gained him Fingal's

friendship, which that hero manifested, after the imprisonment of

Larthmor by his own son, by sending Ossian and Toscar, the

father of Malvina, so often mentioned, to rescue Larthmor, and to

punish the unnatural behavior of Uthal. Uthal was handsome,

and, by the ladies, much admired. Nina-thoma, the beautiful

daughter of Tor-thoma, a neighboring prince, fell in love and fled

with him. He proved inconstant; for another lady, whose name is

not mentioned, gaining his affections, he confined Nina-thoma to

a desert island, near the coast of Berrathon. She was relieved by

Ossian, who, in company with Toscar, landing on Berrathon,

defeated the forces of Uthal, and killed him in single combat.

Nina-thoma, whose love not all the bad behavior of Uthal could

erase, hearing of his death, died of grief. In the mean time

Larthmor is restored, and Ossian and Toscar return in triumph

to Fingal.

The poem opens with an elegy on the death of Malvina, the

daughter of Toscar, and closes with the presages of Ossian's

death.

BEND thy blue course, O stream! round the narrow plain

of Lutha. Let the green woods hang over it, from their hills; the

sun look on it at noon. The thistle is there on its rock, and

shakes its beard to the wind. The flower hangs its heavy head,

waving, at times, to the gale. "Why dost thou awake me, O gale?"

it seems to say: "I am covered with the drops of heaven. The time

of my fading is near, the blast that shall scatter my leaves. To-

morrow shall the traveller come; he that saw me in my beauty

shall come. His eyes will search the field, but they will not find

me." So shall they search in vain for the voice of Cona, after it

has failed in the field. The hunter shall come forth in the

morning, and thee vote a of my harp shall not be heard. "Where

is the son of car-borne Fingal?" The tear will be on his cheek!

Then come thou, O Malvina! with all thy music, come! Lay Ossian

in the plain of Lutha: let his tomb rise in the lovely field.

Malvina! where art thou, with thy songs; with the soft

sound of thy steps? Son of Alpin, art thou near? where is the

daughter of Toscar? "I passed, O son of Fingal, by Torlutha's

mossy walls. The smoke of the hall was ceased. Silence was

among the trees of the hill. The voice of the chase was over. I saw

the daughters of the bow. I asked about Malvina, but they

answered not. They turned their faces away: thin darkness

covered their beauty. They were like stars, on a rainy hill, by

night, each looking faintly through the mist!"

Pleasant be thy rest, O lovely beam! soon hast thou set on

our hills! The steps of thy departure were stately, like the moon,

on the blue-trembling wave. But thou hast left us in darkness,

first of the maids of Lutha! We sit, at the rock, and there is no

voice; no light but the meteor of fire! Soon hast thou set, O

Malvina, daughter of generous Toscar! But thou risest, like the

beam of the east, among the spirits of thy friends, where they sit,

in their stormy halls, the chambers of the thunder! A cloud

hovers over Cona. Its blue curling sides are high. The winds are

beneath it, with their wings. Within it is the dwelling of Fingal.

There the hero sits in darkness. His airy spear is in his hand. His

shield, half covered with clouds, is like the darkened moon; when

one half still remains in the wave, and the other looks sickly on

the field!

His friends sit round the king, on mist! They hear the songs

of Ullin; he strikes the half-viewless harp. He raises the feeble

voice. The lesser heroes, with a thousand meteors, light the airy

hall. Malvina rises in the midst: a blush is on her cheek. She

beholds the unknown faces of her fathers. She turns aside her

humid eyes. "An thou come so soon," said Fingal, "daughter of

generous Toscar! Sadness dwells in the halls of Lutha. My aged

son is sad! I hear the breeze of Cona, that was wont to lift thy

heavy locks. It comes to the hall, but thou art not there. Its voice

is mournful among the arms of thy fathers! Go, with thy rustling

wing, O breeze! sigh on Malvina's tomb. It rises yonder beneath

the rock, at the blue stream of Lutha. The maids <1> are

departed to their place. Thou alone, O breeze, mournest there!"

But who comes from the dusky west, supported on a

cloud? A smile is on his gray, watery face. His locks of mist fly on

wind. He bends forward on his airy spear. It is thy father,

Malvina! "Why shinest thou, so soon, on our clouds," he says, "O

lovely light of Lutha? But thou wert sad, my daughter. Thy

friends had passed away. The sons of little men were in the hail.

None remained of the heroes, but Ossian, king of spears!"

And dost thou remember Ossian, car-borne Toscar, son of

Conloch? The battles of our youth were many. Our swords went

together to the field. They saw us coming like two falling rocks.

The sons of the stranger fled. "There come the warriors of Cona!"

they said. "Their steps are in the paths of the flying!" Draw near,

son of Alpin, to the song of the aged. The deeds of other times are

in my soul. My memory beams on the days that are past: on the

days of mighty Toscar, when our path was in the deep. Draw

near, son of Alpin, to the last sound of the voice of Cona!

The king of Morven commanded. I raised my sails to the

wind. Toscar, chief of Lutha, stood at my side: I rose on the dark-

blue wave. Our course was to sea-surrounded Berrathon, the isle

of many storms. There dwelt, with his locks of age, the stately

strength of Larthmor. Larthmor, who spread the feast of shells to

Fingal, when he went to Starno's halls, in the days of Agandecca.

But when the chief was old, the pride of his son arose; the pride

of fair-haired Uthal, the love of a thousand maids. He bound the

aged Larthmor, and dwelt in his sounding halls!

Long pined the king in his cave, beside his rolling sea. Day

did not come to his dwelling: nor the burning oak by night. But

the wind of ocean was there, and the parting beam of the moon.

The red star looked on the king, when it trembled on the western

wave. Snitho came to Selma's hall; Snitho, the friend of

Larthmor's youth. He told of the king of Berrathon: the wrath of

Fingal arose. Thrice he assumed the spear, resolved to stretch his

hand to Uthal. But the memory of his deeds rose before the king.

He sent his son and Toscar. Our joy was great on the rolling sea.

We often half unsheathed our swords. For never before had we

fought alone, in battles of the spear.

Night came down on the ocean. The winds departed on

their wings. Cold and pale is the moon. The red stars lift their

heads on high. Our course is slow along the coast of Berrathon.

The white waves tumble on the rocks. "What voice is that," said

Toscar, "which comes between the sounds of the waves? It is soft

hut mournful, like the voice of departed bards. But I behold a

maid. She sits on the rock alone. Her head bends on her arms of

snow. Her dark hair is in the wind. Hear, son of Fingal, her song;

it is smooth as the gliding stream. We came to the silent bay, and

heard the maid of night.

"How long will ye roll round me, blue-tumbling waters of

ocean? My dwelling was not always in caves, nor beneath the

whistling tree. The feast was spread in Tor-thoma's hall. My

father delighted in my voice. The youths beheld me in the steps of

my loveliness. They blessed the dark-haired Nina-thoma. It was

then thou didst come, O Uthal! like the sun €4 heaven! The souls

of the virgins are thine, son of generous Larthmor! But why dost

thou leave me alone, in the midst of roaring waters? Was my soul

dark with thy death? Did my while hand lift the sword? Why then

hast thou left me alone, king of high Fin-thormo?"

The tear started from my eye, when I heard the voice of the

maid. I stood before her in my arms. I spoke the words of peace!

"Lovely dweller of the cave! what sigh is in thy breast? Shall

Ossian lift his sword in thy presence, the destruction of thy foes?

Daughter of Tor-thoma, rise! I have heard the words of thy grief.

The race of Morven are around thee, who never injured the weak.

Come to our dark bosomed ship, thou brighter than the setting

moon! Our course is to the rocky Berrathon, to the echoing walls

of Fin-thormo." She came in her beauty; she came with all her

lovely steps. Silent joy brightened in her face; as when the

shadows fly from the field of spring; the blue stream is rolling in

brightness, and the green bush bends over its course!

The morning rose with its beams. We came to Rothma's

bay. A boar rushed from the wood: my spear pierced his side, and

he fell. I rejoiced over the blood. I foresaw my growing fame. But

now the sound of Uthal's train came, from the high Fin-thormo.

They spread over the heath to the chase of the boar. Himself

comes slowly on, in the pride of his strength. He lifts two pointed

spears. On his side is the hero's sword. Three youths carry his

polished bows. The bounding of five dogs is before him. His

heroes move on, at a distance, admiring the steps of the king.

Stately was the son of Larthmor! but his soul was dark! Dark as

the troubled face of the moon, when it foretells the storms.

We rose on the heath before the king. He stopped in the

midst of his course. His heroes gathered around. A. gray-haired

bard advanced. "Whence are the sons of the strangers?" began

the bard of song. "The children of the unhappy come to

Berrathon: to the sword of car-borne Uthal. He spreads no feast

in his hall. The blood of strangers is on his streams. If from

Selma's walls ye come, from the mossy walls of Fingal, choose

three youths to go to your king to tell of the fall of his people.

Perhaps the hero may come and pour his blood on Uthal's sword.

So shall the fame of Fin-thormo arise; like the growing tree of the

vale!"

"Never, will it rise, O bard!" I said, in the pride of my wrath.

"He would shrink from the presence of Fingal, whose eyes are the

flames of death. The son of Comhal comes, and kings vanish

before him. They are rolled together, like mist, by the breath of

his rage. Shall three tell to Fingal, that his people fell? Yes! they

may tell it, bard! but his people shall fall with fame!"

I stood in the darkness of my strength. Toscar drew his

sword at my side. The foe came on like a stream. The mingled

sound of death arose. Man took man; shield met shield; steel

mixed its beams with steel. Darts hiss through air. Spears ring

on mails. Swords on broken bucklers bound. All the noise of an

aged grove beneath the roaring wind, when a thousand ghosts

break the trees by night, such was the din of arms! But Uthal fell

beneath my sword. The sons of Berrathon fled. It was then I saw

him in his beauty, and the tear hung in my eye! "Thou art fallen,

young tree, I said, with all thy beauty round thee. Thou art fallen

on thy plains, and the field is bare. The winds come from the

desert! there is no sound in thy leaves! Lovely art thou in death,

son of car-borne Larthmor"

Nina-thoma sat on the shore. She heard the sound of

battle. She turned her red eyes on Lethmal, the gray-haired bard

of Selma. He alone had remained on the coast with the daughter

of Tor-thoma. "Son of the times of old!" she said, "I hear the noise

of death. Thy friends have met with Uthal, and the chief is low! O

that I had remained on the rock, enclosed with the tumbling

waves? Then would my soul be sad, but his death would not

reach my ear. Art thou fallen on the heath, O son of high Fin-

thormo? Thou didst leave me on a rock, but my soul was full of

thee. Son of high Fin-thormo! art thou fallen on thy heath?"

She rose pale in her tears. She saw the bloody shield of

Uthal. She saw it in Ossian's hand. Her steps were distracted on

the heath. She flew. She found him. She fell. Her soul came forth

in a sigh. Her hair is spread on her face. My bursting tears

descend. A tomb arose on the unhappy. My song of wo was

heard. "Rest, hapless children of youth! Rest at the noise of that

mossy stream! The virgins will see your tomb, at the chase, and

turn away their weeping eyes. Your fame will be in song. The

voice of the harp will be heard in your praise. The daughters of

Selma shall hear it: your renown shall be in other lands. Rest,

children of youth, at the noise of the mossy stream!"

Two days we remained on the coast. The heroes of

Berrathon convened. We brought Larthmor to his halls. The feast

of shells is spread. The joy of the aged was great. He looked to the

arms of his fathers; the arms which he left in his hall, when the

pride of Uthal rose. We were renowned before Larthmor. He

blessed the chiefs of Morven. He knew not that his son was low,

the stately strength of Uthal! They had told, that he had retired to

the woods, with the tears of grief. They had told it, but he was

silent in the tomb of Rothma's heath.

On the fourth day we raised our sails, to the roar of the

northern wind. Larthmor came to the coast. His bards exalted the

song. The joy of the king was great; he looked to Rothma's gloomy

heath. He saw the tomb of his son. The memory of Uthal rose.

"Who of my heroes," he said, "lies there? he seems to have been of

the kings of men. Was he renowned in my halls before the pride

of Uthal rose? Ye are silent, sons of Berrathon! is the king of

heroes low? My heart melts for thee, O Uthal! though thy hand

was against thy father. O that I had remained in the cave! that

my son had dwelt in Fin-thormo! I might have heard the tread of

his feet, when he went to the chase of the boar. I might have

heard his voice on the blast of my cave. Then would my soul be

glad; but now darkness dwells in my halls."

Such were my deeds, son of Alpin, when the arm of my

youth was strong. Such the actions of Toscar, the car-borne son

of Conloch. But Toscar is on his flying cloud. I am alone at Lutha.

My voice is like the last sound of the wind, when it forsakes the

woods. But Ossian shall not be long alone. He sees the mist that

shall receive his ghost. He beholds the mist that shall form his

robe, when he appears on his hills. The Sons of feeble men shall

behold me, and admire the stature of the chiefs of old. They shall

creep to their caves. They shall look to the sky with fear: for my

steps shall be in the clouds. Darkness shall roll on my side.

Lead, son of Alpin, lead the aged to his woods. The winds

begin to rise. The dark wave of the lake resounds. Bends there

not a tree from Mora with its branches bare? It bends, son of

Alpin, in the rustling blast. My harp hangs on a blasted branch.

The sound of its strings is mournful. Does the wind touch thee, O

harp, or is it some passing ghost? It is the hand of Malvina! Bring

me the harp, son of Alpin. Another song shall rise. My soul shall

depart in the sound. My fathers shall hear it in their airy hail.

Their dim faces shall hang, with joy, from their clouds; and their

hands receive their son. The aged oak bends over the stream. It

sighs with all its moss. The withered fern whistles near, and

mixes, as it waves, with Ossian's hair.

"Strike the harp, and raise the song: be near, with all your

wings, ye winds. Bear the mournful sound away to Fingal's airy

hail. Bear it to Fingal's hall, that he may hear the voice of his

son: the voice of him that praised the mighty!

"The blast of north opens thy gates, O king! I behold thee

sitting on mist dimly gleaming in all thine arms. Thy form now is

not the terror of the valiant. It is like a watery cloud, when we see

the stars behind it with their weeping eyes. Thy shield is the aged

moon: thy sword a vapor half kindled with fire. Dim and feeble is

the chief who travelled in brightness be fore! But thy steps are on

the winds of the desert. The storms are darkening in thy hand.

Thou takest the sun in thy wrath, and hidest him in thy clouds.

The sons of little men are afraid. A thousand showers descend.

But when thou comest forth in thy mildness, the gale of the

morning is near thy course. The sun laughs in his blue fields.

The gray stream winds in its vale. The bushes shake their green

heads in the wind. The roes bound towards the desert.

"There is a murmur in the heath! the stormy winds abate! I

hear the voice of Fingal. Long has it been absent from mine ear!

'Come, Ossian, come away, he says. Fingal has received his fame.

We passed away, like flames that have shone for a season. Our

departure was in renown. Though the plains of our battles are

dark and silent; our fame is in the four gray stones. The voice of

Ossian has been heard. The harp has been strung in Selma.

'Come, Ossian, come away,' he says; 'come, fly with thy fathers

on clouds.' I come, I come, thou king of men! The life of Ossian

fails. I begin to vanish on Cona. My steps are not seen in Selma.

Beside the stone of Mora I shall fall asleep. The winds whistling

in my gray hair, shall not awaken me. Depart on thy wings, O

wind, thou canst not disturb the rest of the bard. The night is

long, but his eyes are heavy. Depart, thou rustling blast.

"But why art thou sad, son of Fingal? Why grows the cloud

of thy soul? The chiefs of other times are departed. They have

gone without their fame. The sons of future years shall pass

away. Another race shall arise. The people are like the waves of

ocean; like the leaves of woody Morven, they pass away in the

rustling blast, and other leaves lift their green heads on high.

"Did thy beauty last, O Ryno? Stood the strength of car-

borne Oscar! Fingal himself departed! The hails of his fathers

forgot his steps. Shalt thou then remain, thou aged bard? when

the mighty have failed? But my fame shall remain, and grow like

the oak of Morven; which lifts its broad head to the storm, and

rejoices in the course of the wind?"

<1> The maids: that is, the young virgins who sung the funeral

elegy over her tomb.

THE END