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HHtAVKflJ TP©M WtVE's EHCLI8H CLASSICS 
 
THE 
 
 POEMS OF OSSIAN, 
 
 TRANSLATED 
 
 BY JAMES MACPHERSON, ESQ. 
 
 To which are prefixed 
 
 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE, AND DISSERTATIONS 
 ON THE .IK \ AND POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY J. F. DOVE, 
 ST. JOHN'S SQUARE. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 A Preliminary Discourse .... 5 
 
 Preface 32 
 
 A. Dissertation concerning the JEr& of Ossian . 37 
 
 A Dissertation concerning the Poems of Ossian 48 
 Dr. Blair's Critical Dissertation on the Poems of 
 
 Ossian ....... 74 
 
 Cath-loda, in three Duans . .101 
 
 Comala 173 
 
 Carric-thura 178 
 
 Carthon 189 
 
 Oina-morul 200 
 
 Colna-dona . . ■ 203 
 
 Oithona . 200 
 
 Croma 212 
 
 Calthon and Colmal 217 
 
 The War of Caros • 222 
 
 Cathlin of Clutha 229 
 
 Sul-malla of Lumon 234 
 
 The War of Inis-thona 237 
 
 The Songs of Selma 242 
 
 Fingal, in six Books 249 
 
 Lathmon ....... 305 
 
 Dar-thula 314 
 
 The Death of Cuthullin ... - . 325 
 
 The Battle of Lora 332 
 
 Temora, in eight Books .... 339 
 
 Gonlath and Cuthona 400 
 
 Berrathon 410 
 
PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 
 
 As Swift has, with some reason, affirmed that all sub- 
 lunary happiness. consists in being veil deceived, it 
 may possibly be the creed of many, that it had been 
 wise, if, after Dr. Blair's ingenious and elegant Disser- 
 tation on * the venerable Ossian,' all doubts respecting 
 what we have been taught to call his works had for 
 ever ceased : since there appears cause to believe, that 
 numbers who listened with delight to 1 the voice of 
 Cona/ would have been happy, if, seeing their own 
 good, they had been content with these Poems ac- 
 companied by Dr. Blair's judgment, and sought to 
 know no more. There are men, however, whose ar- 
 dent 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 fruit- 
 ful Eden into a barren wild, they would pursue it. 
 For these, and for the idly curious in literary problems, 
 added to the wish of making this new edition of 4 The 
 Poems of Ossian 1 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 publica- 
 tion of the poems ascribed by Mr. Macpherson to Os- 
 sian, which poems he then professed to have collected 
 in the original Gaelic, during a tour through the West- 
 ern Highlands and Isles; but a doubt of their authen- 
 ticity nevertheless obtained, and from ttuir first ap- 
 pearance to this day has continued in various degrees 
 to agitate the literary world. In the present year, 1 A 
 Report,'* springing from an inquiry instituted for the 
 
 * 'A Report of the Committee of the Highland .Society of Scot 
 land, appointed to inquire into the nature and authenticity of the 
 Poems of Ossian. Drawn up, according to the directions of the 
 
6 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 
 
 purpose of leaving, with regard to this matter/ no hinge 
 or loop to hang a doubt on,' has been laid before the 
 puUic. As the Committee, in this investigation, fol- 
 lowed, 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 se- 
 veral 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 Dis- 
 sertation, 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 re- 
 jected with disdain and indignation, as a palpable and 
 most impudent forgery. This opinion has, indeed, be- 
 come very prevalent among the men of letters in Lon- 
 don; 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 him- 
 self, who scorns, as he pretends, to satisfy any body 
 that doubts his veracity, has tended much to confirm 
 this general scepticism; 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 favour of the poems are 
 very convincing; so they are ; but there are also in- 
 ternal reasons againstthem, particularly from the man- 
 ners, notwithstanding all the art with which you have 
 endeavoured to throw a vemish* on that circumstance ; 
 and the preservation of such long and such connected 
 poems, by oral tradition alone, during a course of four- 
 teen 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 
 
 Committee, by Henry Mackenzie, Esq. its convener, or chairman. 
 With a copious appendix, containing some of the principal do- 
 cuments on which the report is founded. Edinburgh, 1805.' 8vo. 
 pp. 343. * So in MS. 
 
A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 7 
 
 of this, and, I may say, of all other countries, to es- 
 tablish 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 ob- 
 livion. 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 letthem testify the fidelity of tbelatter. 
 
 * But the chief point in which it will be necessary 
 for you to exert yourself, will be, to get positive testi- 
 mony 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 mentioned in every stanza. 
 The only doubt is, whether theee poems have any 
 farther resemblance to the poems published by Mac- 
 pherson, I was told by Bourke,* a very ingenious Irish 
 gentleman, the author of a tract on the Sublime and 
 Beautiful, that on the first publication of Macpherson'* 
 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 connexions 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 under- 
 * So in MS. 
 
8 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 
 
 stand the language of it. You may write to them, ex- 
 pressing 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, re- 
 hearse the original of such a passage, from such a page 
 to such a page of the English translation, which ap- 
 peared exact and faithful. If you give to the public a 
 sumcientnumberof 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 com- 
 mand the attention of the public. 
 
 * Becket tells me, that he is to give us anew edition 
 of your Dissertation , accompanied with some remarks 
 on Temora. Here is a favourable opportunity for you 
 to execute this purpose. You have a just and laud- 
 able 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 let- 
 ters; 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 candour, and most 
 satisfactory also to the reader, to publish all the an- 
 swers 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. 
 
A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 0 
 
 ' 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 pas- 
 sion 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 de- 
 part for Florida with governor Johnstone, and I would 
 advise him to travel among the Chickisaws or Chero- 
 kees, 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 couceive 
 any objection which a man even of the gravest cha- 
 racter 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 endeavour to remove, 
 for on this trial of yours will the judgment of the pub- 
 lic 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 be 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 
 
10 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 
 
 the Highlands, in collecting what materials or informa- 
 tion 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 Macpberson. 
 
 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. Hare 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 
 then 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 1 or are there, in your part of the 
 country, any persons who remember and can repeat or 
 recite such poems 1 If there are, be so good as to ex- 
 amine them as to the manner of their getting or learn- 
 ing 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 neighbourhood, 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 ; shew those persons, if you 
 havean 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 
 
A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 
 
 11 
 
 they repeated them to Mr. Macpherson, and can now 
 recollect them. 
 
 5. Be so good to procure every information you con- 
 veniently can, with regard to the traditionary belief, 
 in the country iu which you live, concerning the his- 
 tory of Fingal and his followers, and that of Ossian 
 and his poems ; particularly those stories and poems 
 published by Mr. Macpherson, and the heroes men- 
 tioned in thetn. 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 1 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 
 favourite lore of the natives of those districts. The 
 general belief of the existence of such heroic person- 
 ages, and the great poet Ossian, the son of Fingal, by 
 whom their exploits were sung, is as uni\ersal 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 dull, blind Ossian,* 
 is a person as well known as strong Samson, or wise 
 Solomon. The very boys in their sports cry out for 
 fair play, Cuthram na Jeine, the equal combat of the 
 Fingalians. Ossian, an dti<: h nam Jianu, 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, T/ia i cho boidheack rehAgandt vca, 
 * Jv(j)\og 7' 'OfmpoQ, — Lascaris Const. 
 
12 
 
 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 
 
 nighean ant sneachda, She is as beautiful as Agati- 
 decca, daughter of the Snow.* 
 
 All this will be readily conceded, and Mr. Macpher- 
 son'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 Os- 
 sianic Poems. Of his inaccuracy in the Gaelic, a 
 ludicrous instance is related in the declaration of Mr. 
 Evan Macpherson, at Knock, in Sleat, Sep. 11, 1800. 
 He declares, thathe, 1 Colonel Macleod, of Talisker, and 
 the late Mr. Maclean of Coll, embarked with Mr. Mac- 
 pherson for Uist on the same pursuit : that they landed 
 at Lochmaddy , and pi-oceeded across the Muir to Benbe- 
 cula, the seat of the younger Clanronald ; that on their 
 way thither they fell in with a man whom they after- 
 ward 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 in- 
 quire, 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 o.r not the Fingalians owed him any thing ; 
 and that Mac Codrum, being a man of humour, 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 unavail- 
 ing. Which sally of Mac Codruni's wit seemed to have 
 hurt Mr. Macpherson, who cut short the conversation, 
 and proceeded on towards Bcnbecula. And the de- 
 clarant 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 ques- 
 
 * Report, p» 15. 
 
A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 13 
 
 tioned, because he does not speak* it accurately or ele- 
 gantly, much less is it to be quibbled into suspicion by 
 the pleasantry of a double entendre. But we hold it pru- 
 dent, and it shall be our endeavour 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 si- 
 milar terms ; that the persons themselves had never 
 doubted of the existence of such poems as Mr. Mac- 
 pherson had translated ; that they had heard many 
 of them repeated in their youth : thatlistening to them 
 was the favourite amusement of Highlanders in the 
 hours of leisure and idleness ; but that since the rebel- 
 lion in 1745, the manners of the people had undergone 
 a change so unfavourable 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. Macphevson : 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 hit book was by no means universally pos- 
 sessed, or read among the Highlanders, even accustom- 
 ed 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 
 * We doubtnot that Mr. Professor Porson could, if lie pleased, 
 forge a short poem in Greek, and ascribing it, for instance, to 
 Theocritus, maintain its authenticity with considerable force and 
 probability; and yet were ii possible for him to s peak to the 
 simplest shepherd of ancient Greece, he would quickly afford as 
 good reason as Mr. M. to be suspected of being an * indifferent 
 proficient' in the language. 
 
 B 2 
 
11 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 
 
 from some person, whom a very advanced period of 
 life } or a particular connexion 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. f 
 
 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 op- 
 posers of the authenticity of Ossian had quoted as evi- 
 dently 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,J f the copy of these 
 poems' (Ossian's Address to the Sun in Carthon, and 
 a similar address in Carricktliura)' 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.' 
 
 JMeral translation of Ossia?i's Address to the 
 Sun in Carthon. 
 
 1 0 ! thou who travellest above, round as the full- 
 orbed hard shield of the mighty ! whence is thy bright- 
 ness without frown, thy light that is lasting, O sun ? 
 Thou comest forth in thy powerful beauty, and the 
 
 * The Rev. Mr. Smith, who has published translations of many 
 Gaelic poems, accompanied by the originals, assures us, that 
 * near himself, in the parish of Klimnver, lived a person named 
 M'Pheal, whom he has heard, for weeks together, from five till 
 ten o'clock at night, rehearse ancient poems, and many of them 
 Ossian's. Two others, called M'Dugal and M'Neil, could en- 
 tertain their hearers in the same manner for a whole winter 
 season. It was from persons of this descripiion, undoubtedly, 
 that Macpherson recovered a great part of the works of Ossian. 
 A. Rlacdonald's Preliin. Disc. p. 76. 
 
 t See Report. ; Date, April 9, 1801, p. 71. 
 
A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 15 
 
 stars hide their coarse ; 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 for ever 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 dis- 
 tress, and he slow.' 
 
 The comparison may be made, by turning to the 
 end of Mr. Macpherson's version of ' Carthon,' begin- 
 ning 1 O thou that rollest above.'' 
 
 But it must not be concealed, that after all the ex- 
 ertions of the Committee, it has not been able to ob- 
 tain 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. 
 M.'s translations, be induced, with some shew of jus- 
 tice, 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 candour to 
 incline, as it will appear by their summing up. After 
 producing or pointing to a large body of mixed evi- 
 
 * Report, p. 44. 
 
16 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 
 
 dence, and taking for granted the existence, at some 
 period, of an abundance of Ossianic poetry, it comes 
 to the question, 4 How far that collection of such poetry, 
 published by Mr. James Macpherson, is genuine V To 
 answer this query decisively, is, as they confess, diffi- 
 cult. This however, is the ingenious manner in which 
 they treat it. 
 
 * The Committee is possessed of no documents, to 
 shew how much of his collection Mr. Macpherson ob- 
 tained in the form in which he has given it to the world. 
 The poems and fragments of poems which the Com- 
 mittee 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 ipsksima 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 connexion, 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 incide te, by re- 
 fining the language, in short, by changing what he 
 considered as too simple or too rude for a modern ear, 
 and elevating what, in his opinion,was below the stand- 
 ard of good poetry. To what degree, however, he exer- 
 cised 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 col- 
 lecting 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 adopt- 
 ing from another something more genuine and excel- 
 lent in its place, afforded him an opportunity of put- 
 ting 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. 
 
A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 17 
 
 Some Scotch critics, who should not be ignorant of 
 the strong-holds 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 lite- 
 rary question, possessing a single inch of debatable 
 ground to stand upon, will be suffered to enjoy much 
 rest in an age like the present. There are as many 
 mind3 as men, and of wranglers there is no end. Be- 
 hold another and * another yet,' and in our imagina- 
 tion, he— 
 
 ' bears a glass, 
 Which shews us many more.' 
 
 The fir3t of these is Mr. Laing, who has recently 
 published 1 The Poems of Ossian, &c. containing the 
 Poetical Works of James Macpherson, Esq. in Prose 
 and Rhyme: with notes and illustrations. In 2 vols. 
 Svo. Edinburgh, 180. r ).' In these * Notes and Illustra- 
 tions,' 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* endeavoured to shew that the Poems are 
 spurious, and of no historical authority, ' is,' says he, 
 1 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 are indisputably derived. 't And these he 
 pretends to find in Holy Writ, and in the classical poets, 
 both of ancient and modern times. Mr. Laing, how- 
 ever, is one of those detectors of plagiarisms, and disco- 
 verers of coincidences, whose exquisite penetration and 
 acuteness can find any thing any where. Dr. John- 
 son, 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 Os- 
 sianites in canvassing the merits of this redoubted stick - 
 ler on the side of opposition. * Among the innumerable 
 practices,' says the Rambler,! * by which interest or 
 
 * In hi9 Critical and Historical Dissertation on the Antiquity 
 of Ossian's Fot uis. t I'ref. p. v. X No. 143. 
 
18 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 
 
 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 new composition can no longer be con- 
 tested, and malice is compelled to give way to the una- 
 nimity 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 de- 
 clare : but we must say, that nothing can be more dis- 
 ingenuous or groundless than his frequent charges of 
 plagiarism of the following description : because, in 
 the War of Car as, 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 well said 
 by Johnson, ' fall under the consideration of an author, 
 which being limited by nature, can admit only of slight 
 and accidental diversities. All 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 coin- 
 
 * This is not so good, because not so amusing in its absurdity, 
 as an attempt formerly made to prove the iEneid Earse, from 
 * Arena virumque cano' and ' Airm's am fear canam,' having the 
 same meaning, and nearly the same sound. 
 
A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 19 
 
 cidence 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 bis 'Analytical En- 
 quiry into the Principles of Taste, 1805/ he makes these 
 remarks : 
 
 ' The untutored, but uncorrupted feelings of all un- 
 polished 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 at- 
 tributed to them. In the early stnges 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 ap- 
 plause, in the eighteenth century, 1 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 ^ide, 
 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 uttersuch a rhapsody of boruba? tin thehall 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 ac- 
 
20 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 
 
 quainted 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 hy them, and would, 
 therefore, have indignantly rejected such a barefaced 
 attempt to impose out 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, t for the field.* 
 
 The opinion of the colour 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 in- 
 dulge 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 M S . 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 manu- 
 
 * ' SoDie of Ossian's lesser Poems, rendered into verse, with 
 a Preliminary Discourse, in answer to Mr. Laing's Critical and 
 Historical Dissertation on the Antiquity of Ossian's Poems. 8vo. 
 p. 284. Liverpool, 1805.' 
 
 t Thirlestaue's motto. See Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel. 
 
 X A professor in the University of Edinburgh, the amiable and 
 learned Dr. Gregory, is on the side of the believers in Ossian. 
 His judgment is a tower of strength. See the preface, p. vi. to 
 xii. and p. 146, of his Comparative View of the State and Fa- 
 culties of Man with those of the Animal World. 
 
 § Such as the silence of Ossian in respect to religion ; his 
 omission of wolves and bears, &c. See also, in the Literary 
 Journal, August, 1804, a powerful encounter of many of Mr. L's 
 other arguments in his Dissertation against the authenticity of 
 these poems. His ignorance of the Gaelic, and the consequent 
 futility of his etymological remarks, are there ably exposed. 
 
A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 21 
 
 scripts 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 Mac- 
 pherson's papers, several MSS. of a much older date 
 than Mr. Laing requires to be convinced. Though not 
 more credulous than my neighbours, I cannot resist 
 facts so well attested ; there are no stronger for be- 
 lieving the best established human transactions. 
 
 1 1 understand the originals are in the press, and ex- 
 pected 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. 7 P. 193 — 4. 
 
 It is curious to remark, and, in this place, not un- 
 worthy 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 con- 
 troversialist 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 ad- 
 jacent 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 
 connexion. 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 suf- 
 ficient basis for the erection of an hypothetical super- 
 structure of a very imposing nature. 
 
 In a small volume published at Dusseldorf in 1787, 
 by Edmond, Baron de Harold, an Irishman, of end- 
 less titles,* we are presented with what are called 
 ' Poems of Ossian lately discovered.'! 
 
 * ' Colonel-commander of the regiment of Konigsfeld, een- 
 tlenian of the bedchamber of his most serene highness the Elec- 
 tor Palaiin, member of the German Society of Manheim. of the 
 Royal Antiquarian Society of London, and of the Academy of 
 Dusseldorf.' 
 
 s t lq some Hues in these roeros we find the lyre of Ossian called* 
 
22 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 
 
 ' 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 honour and revere equally a 
 hard 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 pro- 
 ceed from the same origin is indisputable ; nay, I be- 
 lieve that it is proved beyond any possibility of negat- 
 ing 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 
 consent of the Scotch nation, and of their oldest his- 
 torians, agree to confirm the certitude of this assertion. 
 If any man still doubts of it, he will find, in Macgeo- 
 gehan's History of Ireland, an entire conviction, esta- 
 blished by the elaborate discussion, and most incon- 
 trovertible proofs pp. v. vi. 
 
 We shall not stay to quarrel about ' Sir Archy's 
 great- grandmother/* or to contend that Fingal, the Irish 
 giant,f did not one day go f over from Carrickfergus, 
 
 ' the old Hibernian lyre.' The idea is not new. See Burke's 
 Observation in Hume's first Letter to Dr. Blair. Also, the Col- 
 lections by Miss Brooke and Mr. Kennedy. Compare the story 
 of Conloch with that of Carthon in Macpherson. 
 
 * See Macklin's Love A-la-mode. 
 
 t • Selma is not at all known in Scotland. When I asked, and 
 particularly those who were possessed of any poetry, songs, or 
 tales, who Fion was? (for he is not known by the name of Fingal, 
 by any ;) I was answered, that he was an Irishman, if a man ; 
 for they sometimes thought him a giant, and that he lived in Ire- 
 land, and sometimes came over to hunt in the Highlands. 
 
 * Like a true Scotchman, in order to make his composition 
 more acceptable to his countrymen, Mr. Macpherson changes 
 the name of Fion Mac Cumhal, the Irishman, into Fingal; which, 
 indeed, sounds much better ; and sets him up a Scotch king over 
 the ideal kingdom of Morven in the west of Scotland. It had 
 been a better argument for the authenticity, if he had allowed 
 him to be an Irishman, and made Morven an Irish kingdom, as 
 well as make Ireland the scene of his battles; but, as he must 
 need make the hero of an epic poem a great character, it was 
 too great honour for any other country but Scotland to have 
 given birth to so considerable a personage. All the authentic 
 histories of Ireland give a full account of Fingal or Fion Mac 
 Cumhal's actions; and any one who will take the trouble to look 
 at Dr. Keating's, or any other history of that country, will find 
 the matter related as above: whereas, in the Chronicon Sco- 
 torum, from which the list of the Scotcn kings is taken, and the 
 pretended MSS. they so much boa9tof to be seen in the Hebrides, 
 
A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 23 
 
 and people all Scotland with his own hands,' and make 
 these sons of the north * illegitimate;' but we may ob- 
 serve, that from the inclination of the baron's opinion, 
 added to the internal evidence of his poems, there ap- 
 pears 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 endeavours had been 
 rewarded, induced the baron to inquire whether any 
 more of this kind of poetry could be obtained. His 
 search, he confesses, 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 Os- 
 sian, at times, especially in the songs of Comfort, seems 
 rather tobe an Hibernian than a Scotchman, and that 
 some of these poems formally contradict passages of 
 great importance in tho<e handed to the public by 
 Mr. Macpherson, especially that very remarkable one 
 of Evir alien, where the description of her marriage 
 with Ossian is essentially different in all its parts from 
 that given in the 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 : 
 
 there is not one syllable said of such a name as Pineal. '— An En- 
 quiry into tlie Authenticity of the Poems of Ossiao. Bj \* . Shaw, 
 A. M.| F. S. A. author of the Gaelic Dictionary and" Grammar. 
 London, 1781. 
 
 Mr. Shaw crowns his want of faitli in Macpherson's Ossian 
 with this piece of information. ' A gentleman promised to or- 
 nament a scalloped shell with silver, if I should hung him one 
 from the Highlands, and to swear that it was the identical shell 
 out of which Fingal used to drink.'— A gentleman ! 
 
24 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 
 
 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 woe. Thy words are music to my soul. 
 
 Bring me my once-loved harp. It hangs long neg- 
 lected 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 rushiag through 
 the woods of my hills ; the welcome rays of the boun- 
 teous 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 Con a, 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. 
 
A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 25 
 
 Fingal saw, he smiled, and mildly spoke : 1 My son, 
 the down of youth grows on thy cheek. 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 Bran, 
 no'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. We mounted the dark-bosomed ship of the 
 king, spread iu white sails to the winds, and ploughed 
 through the foam of ocean. Pleasant shone the fine- 
 eyed Ull-Erin.* 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 mom 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 cou- 
 rage 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. 
 
 1 Whence are these arms of steel? If friends ye 
 * The guiding star to Ireland. 
 
26 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 
 
 come, Branno invites you to his halls ; for this day 
 the lovely Evir-allen shall bles3 the warrior's arms 
 whose lance shall shine victorious in the combat of 
 valour.' 
 
 ' O venerable bard !' I said, * peace guides my steps 
 to Branno. My arm is young, and few are my deeds 
 in war, but valour 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 shewed 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 unwor- 
 thy is the prize of valour, 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 
 fall, but I shall fall with renown,' 
 
 * Happy is thy father, O generous youth ! more 
 happy the maid of thy love. Thy glory shall surround 
 her with praise ; thy valour 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 c-ame 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 sides. 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 
 
A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 27 
 
 strings 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 the 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 burst 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 proftered gentle words 
 of peace. Faintly he seized my hand. 1 Stranger,' 
 he said, ' I willingly die, for my days were oppressed 
 with woe. Evir- alien rejected my love. She slighted 
 my tender suit. Thou alone deservest the maid, for 
 pity reigns in thy soul, and thou art generous and 
 
28 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 
 
 brave. Tell her, I forgive her scorn. Tell her, I de- 
 scend 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 re- 
 quest. 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 th'j 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, f 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 woe. 
 
 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, 
 
A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 29 
 
 the same thing, must be very apparent. * I will sub 
 mit/ says the baron,' the solution of this problem to 
 the public/ We shall follow his example. 
 
 The Honourable Henry Grattan, to whom the 
 baron dedicates his work, has said, that the poems 
 which it contains are calculated to inspire ■ valour, 
 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 re- 
 markably vary from those of Mr. Macpherson. ' In 
 his/ says our author, * there is no mention of the I)i 
 vinity. In these, the chief characteristic is, the many 
 solemn descriptions of the Almighty Beiug, 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 himfrecd 
 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 shew the style 
 of them, and can spare space for no additions. 4 La- 
 mor, a poem,' is, the baron thinks, of a more ancient 
 date than that of Ossian, and 'the model, perhaps, of 
 his compositions.' Another, called 1 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 
 
 * If Mr. Laing should choose to take the trouble of passing 
 them through his alembic, they may easily be disposed of. For 
 instance ; 4 Larnel. or the Song of Despair:' 
 
 'The dreary night-owl screams In the solitary retreat of his 
 mouldering ivy-covered tower,' p. 163. Taken from the Per- 
 ■hn poet quoted by Gibbon : 
 
 'The owl hath sung her watch-song in the tower< of Afrasiab.' 
 4 All nature is consonant to the horrors of my rvind.' Larnel, 
 C 
 
30 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 
 
 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 no- 
 ticing 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 shew the paths which lead to the labyrinth, 
 those who wish to venture more deeply into its intri- 
 cacies, 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 off- 
 spring 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 an- 
 tiquity, not merely however on account of its antiquity, 
 but because it deserves to be loved. No ; we honestly 
 own with Quintilian, in quibusdam antiquomm mx 
 risurn, in quibusdam autem vix somnum tenereJ* 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 other- 
 wise, for he appears to give the preference to old wine, 
 but new songs — 
 
 cuvet de naXaiov 
 pxev oivov, avOea 8' v/jlvoov 
 vewrepcov. — Pind. 01. Od. ix. 
 
 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 inordi- 
 nate prepossessions should be moderated, and it would 
 be well if we were occasionally to reflect on this ques- 
 tion, If the ancients had been so inimical to novelty 
 as we are, what would now be old?f 
 
 p. 163. Evidently from the rhythmas of the Portuguese poet. 
 One in despair calls the desolation of nature 
 
 ' — — lugar conforme a meu cuidado. 
 
 Obras de Camoens, t. iii. p. 115. 
 Mr. Laing- may pronounce this learned, but it is at any rate as 
 foolish as it is learned. 
 * Quintilian or Tacitus de Oratoribus. f See Horace. 
 
A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 31 
 
 We shall not presume to affirm that these poems 
 were originally produced by Macpherson, but admit- 
 ting it, for the sake of argument, it would then per- 
 haps 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 our contempo- 
 raries, which influences the present day. This might 
 have stimulated him to seek in the garb of 1 th' olden 
 time' that respect which is sometimes despitefully de- 
 nied to drapery of a latter date. Such a motive doubt- 
 lessly swayed the designs both of Chatterton and 
 Ireland, whose names we cannot mention together 
 without Dryden's comment on Spenser and Fleckuoe, 
 'that is, from the top to the bottom of all poetry.' 
 In ushering into the world the haples3, but beautiful 
 muse of Chatterton, as well as the contemptible com- 
 positions 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 dis- 
 grace 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 reason- 
 ing 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 Selraa was not idly strung, 
 And long shall last the themes our poet &ung. 
 
 IJerrathon. 
 
 Feb. I) 1800. 
 
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 fame. In a conve- 
 nient 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 au- 
 thority, to have ascribed bis own productions to an- 
 other name. If this was the case, he was but young 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 38 
 
 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 ma- 
 jority of every age and nation. In this country 
 men of genuine taste abound; but their still voice is 
 drowned in the clamours 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 cor- 
 rect the ./Eneid. 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 ear. The novelty of cadence, in what is called a 
 prose version, though not destitute of harmony, will 
 not to common readers supply the absence of the fre- 
 quent 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 dig- 
 nity of expression, instead of fetters, which cramp the 
 thought, whilst the harmony of language is preserved. 
 His intention was to publish in verse. 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, trans- 
 ferred into English. The verse took little more time 
 to the writer than the prose; and he himself is doubt- 
 
34 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 ful (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 Loch- 
 lin* his high commands; where, with justice, he 
 ruled the tribes, who sunk, subdued, beneath his 
 sword ; abrupt rises Gormalf in snow ! the tempests 
 roll dark on his sides, but calm, above, his vast fore- 
 head 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 Lil- 
 ian'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 
 
 • The Gaelic name of Scandinavia, or Scandinia. 
 t The mountains of Sevo. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 35 
 
 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 r d, 
 And held with justice what his valour gain'd, 
 Sevo, in snow, his rugged forehead rears, 
 And, 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 , 
 Hurry 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 ovcrturn'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, 
 
36 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 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 rnix'd with softness was the virgin's pride, 
 Her heart had 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 wandering 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 re- 
 signed them for ever to their fate. That they have 
 been well received by the public appears from an ex- 
 tensive sale ; that they shall continue to be well re- 
 ceived, 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 coun- 
 terfeit which ought not to pass current. The opera- 
 tion must, however, be performed with skilful hands. 
 A translator, who cannot equal his original, is incapa- 
 ble of expressing its beauties. 
 
 London, 
 Aug. 15, 1773. 
 
DISSERTATION 
 CONCERNING THE JERX 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 pre- 
 served with certainty, are the production of a well- 
 formed community. It is then historians begin to 
 write, and public transactions to be worthy remem- 
 brance. The actions of former times are left in ob- 
 scurity, or magnified by uncertain traditions. Hence 
 it is that we find so much of the marvellous in the 
 origin of every nation; posterity being always ready 
 to believe any thing, however fabulous, that reflects 
 honour on their ancestors. 
 
 The Greeks and Romans were remarkable for this 
 weakness. They swallowed the most absurd fables 
 concerning the high antiquities of their respective 
 nations. Good historians, however, rose very early 
 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 ac- 
 tions of other nations are involved in fables, or lost 
 in obscurity. The Celtic nations afford a striking in- 
 stance 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 
 C 2 
 
DISSERTATION ON 
 
 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 placesso widely distant from each other, 
 serves only to shew 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. Bri- 
 tain was first peopled by them, according to the tes- 
 timony 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 lan- 
 guage prevailed among the inhabitants of both in the 
 days of Julius Cassar. 
 
 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 known 
 in his time, that the inhabitants of Ireland were ori- 
 ginally 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 
 Celtse. The manners and customs of the two nations 
 were similar; but their language different. The Ger- 
 mans are the genuine descendants of the ancient Scan- 
 dinavians, w r ho crossed, at an early period, the Baltic. 
 The Celtte, ancient! y,sentmanycolonies into Germany, 
 all of whom retained their own laws, language, and 
 customs, till they were dissipated, in the Roman em- 
 pire ; and it is of them, if any colonies came from Ger» 
 
THE .ERA OF OSSIAN. 
 
 39 
 
 many 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 v/as 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, Ida?, 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 es- 
 teem 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 vio- 
 lence or oppression. The chiefs ware allowed to exe- 
 cute 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 Vergo- 
 bretus, was chosen by them, and generally laid down 
 his oflice at the end of the war. These priests enjoyed 
 long this extraordinary privilege among the Celtic na- 
 tions 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, arc 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. 
 
40 DISSERTATION ON 
 
 The continual wars of the Caledonians against the 
 Homans hindered the better sort from initiating them- 
 selves, 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. The Vergobretus, or chief ma- 
 gistrate, 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 em- 
 peror, the Druids, to vindicate the honour of the order, 
 began to resume their ancient privilege of choosing the 
 Vergobretus. Garmal, the son of Tamo, 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 reli- 
 gious 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 ab- 
 horrence 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 ac- 
 quainted with the manner of the old Scottish bards. 
 
THE /ERA OF OSSIAN. 
 
 41 
 
 That race of men carried their notions of martial ho- 
 nour 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 con- 
 sisted of eulogiums on men, but of hymni to superior 
 beings. Those who write in the Gaelic language sel- 
 dom mention religion in their profane poetry ; and 
 when they professedly write of religion, they never 
 mix, with their compositions, the actions of their he- 
 roes. This custom alone, even though the religion of 
 the Druids had not been previously extinguished, may, 
 in some measure, excuse the author's silence concern- 
 ing the religion of ancient times. 
 
 To allege that a nation is void of all religion, would 
 betray ignorance of the history of mankind. The tra- 
 ditions 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 su- 
 perior being. Hence it is, that in the darkest times, 
 and amongst the most barbarous nations, the very po- 
 pulace themselves had 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 au- 
 thor 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 cer- 
 tain that he has not alluded to Christianity or any of 
 its rite8,inhis 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 Conatantius Chlorus, 
 who commanded then in Britain, induced the perse- 
 cuted 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 em- 
 
42 
 
 DISSERTATION ON 
 
 pire, 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 pos- 
 session 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 dis- 
 puted 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, shews, 
 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 introduc- 
 tion 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 Fin gal against Caracul, the son of 
 the ' king of the world,' are among the first brave ac- 
 tions of his youth. A complete poem, which relates 
 to this subject, is printed in this collection. 
 
 In the year 210 the Emperor Severus, after return- 
 ing from his expedition against the Caledonians, at 
 York, fell into the tedious illness of which he after- 
 ward died. The Caledonians and Maiatae, 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 en- 
 tirely 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 
 
THE JERX OF OSSIAN. 43 
 
 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 per- 
 secution 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 men- 
 tioned among his great actions. It is more than pro- 
 bable, 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, de- 
 feated 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 neighbourhood of Agricola's wall, 
 which Carausius repaired, to obstruct the incursions 
 of the Caledonians. Several other passages in tra- 
 ditions allude to the wars of the Romans; but the 
 two just mentioned clearly lix 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 20G. 
 
 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 
 
44 
 
 DISSERTATION ON 
 
 barbarism overspread the north of Europe three hun* 
 dred years ago. The minds of men, addicted to super* 
 stition, 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 de- 
 termine what could induce him to allude to the Ro- 
 man times. We find no fact to favour 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 barba- 
 rism, some will say, could not produce poems abound- 
 ing 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 suc- 
 cession 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 immor- 
 tality 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 senti- 
 ments that are rarely to be met with in an age of bar- 
 barism. The bards, who were originally the disciples 
 of the Druids,had 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 
 
THE JERk OF OSSIAN. 
 
 4f> 
 
 all the poetry of the times. The prince, flattered by 
 his bards, and rivalled by his own heroes, who imi- 
 tated his character as described in the eulogies of his 
 poets, endeavoured to excel his people in merit, as he 
 was above them in station. This emulation continu- 
 ing, 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 inte- 
 resting, and their fame worthy of immortality. A 
 generous spirit is warmed with noble actions, and be- 
 comes 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 imagina- 
 tions, they varnished them over with fables supplied 
 with their own fancy, or furnished by absurd tra- 
 ditions. 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, with- 
 out the fear of contradiction, could give what charac- 
 ter 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 tbeir he- 
 roes 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 re- 
 cord the conuexion of their patrons with chiefs so re- 
 nowned. 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 concern, 
 ing 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. This custom 
 come down to n«ar our own times ; and after the 
 bards were discontinued, a great number in a clan 
 
46 
 
 DISSERTATION ON 
 
 retained by memory, or committed to writing, their 
 compositions, and founded the antiquity of their fami- 
 lies 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 tra- 
 dition. 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 pre- 
 ceded or followed it, that if one line had been remem- 
 bered in a stanza, it was almost impossible to forget 
 the rest. The cadences followed in so natural a gra- 
 dation, 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 excel- 
 lence 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 express 
 sion. The numerous flexions of consonants, and va- 
 riation in declension, make the language very copious. 
 
 The descendants of the Celtse, who inhabited Bri- 
 tain and its isles, were not singular in this method of 
 preserving the most precious monuments of their na- 
 tion. The ancient laws of the Greeks were couched 
 in verse, and handed down by tradition. The Spar- 
 tans, through a long habit, became so fond of this cus- 
 tom, that they would never allow their laws to be 
 committed to writing. The actions of great men, and 
 the 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 ele- 
 gies 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 deli- 
 vered 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 JERA. OF OSSIAN. 47 
 
 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 
 had sent abroad and received colonies, could for many 
 ages preserve, by oral tradition, their laws and histo. 
 ries 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 this short Dissertation, it must 
 be confessed, is more 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 
 honour to the manners of barbarous times. He exer- 
 cised every manly virtue in Caledonia, while Helioga- 
 balus disgraced human nature at Rome. 
 
 m 
 
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 themselves had 
 not the means of transmitting their great actions to re- 
 mote 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 theirempire as barbarians ; 
 and, consequently, their history unworthy of being in- 
 vestigated. 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. Hav- 
 ing early imbibed their idea of exalted manners from 
 the Greek and Roman writers, they scarcely ever after- 
 ward have the fortitude to allow any dignity of cha- 
 racter 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 its name, are highly fa- 
 vourable 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 op* 
 portunity of exerting them, lose their vigour. 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 
 
ON THE POEMS OP OSSIAN. 49 
 
 which attend it, is the proper field for an exalted cha- 
 racter, 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 na- 
 tions 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 his- 
 tory, were lost, or altogether corrupted, in their revo- 
 lutions 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 moun- 
 tains 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 themountains 
 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 an- 
 tiquity, they long despised others, as anew and mixed 
 people. As they lived in a country only fit for pasture, 
 they were free from that toil and business which en- 
 gross 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 
 
50 DISSERTATION ON 
 
 period, than the historians of the Scots nation. With- 
 out 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 retail- 
 ing the same fictions in a new colour and dress. 
 
 John Fordun was the first who collected those frag- 
 ments 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 trans- 
 actions, deserved credit: beyond a certain period, 
 they were fabulous and unsatisfactory. Some time 
 before Fordun wrote, the King of England, in a letter 
 to the Pope, had run up the antiquity of his nation 
 to a very remote eera. 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, accord- 
 ing to the vulgar errors of the times, was reckoned the 
 first habitation of the Scots. He found, there, that the 
 Irish bards had carried their pretensions to antiquity 
 as high, if not beyond any nation in Europe. It was 
 from them he took those improbable fictions, which 
 form the first part of his history. 
 
 The writers that succeeded Fordun implicitly fol- 
 lowed 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 con- 
 tain little information concerning the origin of the 
 Scots. Even Buchanan himself, except the elegance 
 and vigour of his style, has very little to recommend 
 him. Blinded with political prejudices, he seemed 
 more anxious to turn the fictions of his predecessors 
 
THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 51 
 
 to his own purposes, than to detect their misrepresenta- 
 tions, or investigate truth amidst the darkness which 
 they had thrown round it. It therefore appears, that 
 little can be collected from their own historians, con- 
 cerning the first migrations of the Scots into Britain. 
 
 That this island was peopled from Gaul admit3 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 them- 
 selves Cael, and their language Gaelic, or Galic, and 
 their country Caeldock, which the Romans softened 
 into Caledonia. This, of itself, is sufficient to demon- 
 strate, 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 Cale- 
 donians were of German extraction. A discussion of 
 a point so intricate, at this distance of time, could 
 neither be satisfactory nor important. 
 
 Towards the latter end of the third, and beginning 
 of the fourth century, we find the Scots in the north. 
 Porphyrius makes the first mention of tbem about 
 that time. As the Scots were not heard of before that 
 period, most writers supposed them to have been a 
 oolony, newly come to Britain, and that the Picts were 
 the only genuiue descendants of the ancient Cale- 
 donians. This mistake is easily removed. The Cale- 
 
52 
 
 DISSERTATION ON 
 
 donians, 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 Scotl&nd is hilly and barren ; towards 
 the east, the country is plain, and fit for tillage. The 
 inhabitants of the mountains, a roving and uncon- 
 trolled race of men, lived by feeding of cattle, and 
 what they killed in hunting. Their employment did 
 not fix them to one place. They removed from one 
 heath to another, as suited best with their convenience 
 or inclination. They were not, therefore, improperly 
 called, by their neighbours, Scuite, or ' the wandering 
 nation ;* which is evidently the origin of the Roman 
 name of Scoti. 
 
 On the other hand, the Caledonians, who possessed 
 the east coast of Scotland, as this division of the country 
 was plain and fertile, applied themselves to agricul- 
 ture, and raising of corn. It was from this that the 
 Galic name of the Picts proceeded ; for they are called 
 in that language, Cruirhnich, i. e. 'thewheator 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. Un- 
 obstructed by mountains or lakes, their communica- 
 tion with one another was free and frequent. So- 
 ciety, 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 sub- 
 version of the Pictish kingdom, but not in the total ex- 
 tirpation of the nation according to most of the Scots 
 writers, who seem to think it more for the honour 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 POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 S3 
 
 The end of the Pictish government is placed so near 
 that period, to which authentic annals reach, that it 
 is matter of wonder that we have no monuments of 
 their language or history remaining. This favours the 
 system I have laid down. Had they originally been 
 of a different race from the Scots, their language of 
 course would be different. The contrary is the case. 
 The names of places in the Pictish dominions, and 
 the very names of their kings, which are handed down 
 to us, are of Galic original, which is a convincing 
 proof, that the two nations were, of old, one and the 
 same, and only divided into two governments, by the 
 effect which their situation had upon the genius of the 
 people. 
 
 The name of Picts 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 circum- 
 stance 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 Scotsof themoun- 
 tains,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 1 itter, 
 to distinguish them from the Scots, who never had that 
 art among them, and from the Britons, who discon- 
 tinued it after the Roman conquest. 
 
 The Caledonians, mostcertainly, acquired a consider- 
 able knowledge in navigation, by their living on a coabt 
 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 ad- 
 mits 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 piouk 
 
54 
 
 DISSERTATION ON 
 
 even if we had not the testimonies of authors of un- 
 doubted 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 asra. I shall easily admit that the colony 
 of the Firbolg, confessedly the Belga? 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 Eera. 
 
 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 
 unbiassed 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 Belgse 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 pro- 
 bable, they continued long, without any material revo- 
 lution in the state of the island, until Ciothar, 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 betrothedsome time before to Tur- 
 loch, a chief of their own nation. Turloch resented the 
 affront offered him by Crotfhar, made an irruption into 
 Connaught, and killed Coram], 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 na- 
 tions, and the Cael were reducedto the last extremity. 
 In this situation, they applied for aid to Trathal, king 
 of Morven, who sent his brother Conar, already famous 
 lor 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 
 
THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 55 
 country. The war was renewed with vigour and suc- 
 cess ; but the Firbolg appear to have been rather re- 
 pelled 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 J,rish throne. Fingal, who was then very 
 young, came to the aid of Cormac, totally defeated Col- 
 culla, 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 wa3 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 ,S waran happened, which is the subject of the poem 
 of Fingal. The family of Atha, who had not relin- 
 quished their pretensions to the Irish throne, rebelled 
 iu the minority of Cormac, defeated his adherents, and 
 murdered him in the palace of Temora. Cairbar, lord 
 of Atha, upon this mounted the throne. His usurpation 
 soon ended with his life j for Fingal made an expedi- 
 tion 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 founda- 
 tion in true history. 
 
 Temora contains not only the history of the first mi- 
 gration of the Caledonians into Ireland; it also pre- 
 serves some important facts concerning the first set- 
 tlement of the Firbolg, or Belg* of Britain, in that 
 kingdom, under their leader Larthon, who was ances- 
 tor 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 
 
56 
 
 DISSERTATION ON 
 
 generations from Larthon to Cathmor, to whom the 
 epi5ode 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 cen- 
 tury ; so Conar, the first monarch of the Irish, who 
 was bis 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 Ere, who lived in the fifth century. The true his- 
 tory of Ireland begins somewhat later than that period. 
 S ir J ames Ware , who w as in defatigable in his researches 
 after the antiquities of his country, rejects, as mere fic- 
 tion 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, remark- 
 ing, that all that isdelivered 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 pre- 
 tendedly ancient manuscripts, concerning the history 
 of his country, we may, on his authority, reject the 
 improbable and self-condemned tales of Keating and 
 0 £ Flaherty. Credulous and puerile to the last degree, 
 they have disgraced the antiquities they meant to es- 
 tablish. It is to be wished, that some able Irishman, 
 who understands the language and records of his coun- 
 try, may redeem, ere too late, the genuine antiquities 
 of Ireland from the hands of these idle fabulists. 
 
 By comparing the history in these Poems with the 
 legends o.f the Scots and Irish writers, and by after- 
 ward examining both ;jy the test of the Roman authors, 
 
THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 57 
 it is easy to discover which is the most probable. Pro- 
 bability is all that can be established on the authority 
 ot tradition, ever dubious and uncertain. But when 
 it favours the hypothesis laid down by contemporary 
 writers of undoubted veracity, and, as it were, finishes 
 the hgure of 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 judgment, and upon no authority. 
 
 Concerning the period of more than a century which 
 intervenes between Fingal and the reign of Fergus the 
 son of Ere or Arcath, tradition is dark and contradic- 
 tory, home trace up the family of Fergus to a son of 
 fingal of that name, who makes a considerable figure 
 ID Ossian's Poems. The three elder sons of Fingal, 
 ussian, Fillan, and Ryno, dying without issue, the suc- 
 cession of course, devolved upon Fergus, the fourth 
 son, and his posterity. This Fergus, say some tradi- 
 tions, was the father of Congal, whose son was Arcath, 
 the father of Fergus, properly called the first king of 
 fccots, 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 thence- 
 forward, the Scots and Picts, as distinct nations, be- 
 came objects of attention to the historians of other 
 countries. The internal state of the two Caledonian 
 Kingdoms has always continued, and ever must re- 
 main, m obscurity and fable. 
 
 It is in this epoch we must fix the beginning of the 
 aecay of that species of heroism which subsisted in the 
 2S 8 Thei * e a™ three stages in human so- 
 
 «f; y * , t 6first is the result of consanguinity, and the 
 £ ° n ° f thG members of ■ family to one an- 
 other, i h e second begins when property is established, 
 ana men enter into associations for mutual defence, 
 againstthe invasions andinjustice of neighbours. Man- 
 kind submit, in the third, to certain laws and subor- 
 ainations of government, to which they trust the safety 
 of their persons and property. As the first is formed 
 
 r^ 1 "^ 80 ' ° f CtfUrSe > k is the raost disinterested and 
 noble. Men, in the last, have leisure to cultivate the 
 naind, and to restore it, with reilection, to a primeval 
 dignity of sentiment. The middle state is the region 
 
58 
 
 DISSERTATION ON 
 
 of complete barbarism and ignorance. About the be- 
 ginning of the fifth century, the Scots and Pictswere 
 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 do- 
 mestic commotions, entirely forsook Britain, finding it 
 impossible to defend so distant a frontier. The Picts 
 and Scots, seizing this favourable opportunity, made in- 
 cursions into the deserted province. The Britons, ener- 
 vated 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 consider- 
 ably 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 moun- 
 tains 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 inhabi- 
 tants remained. These incorporating with the con- 
 querors, taught them agriculture and other arts, which 
 they themselves had received from the Romans. The 
 Scots, however, in number, as well as power, being 
 the most predominant, retained still their language, 
 and as many of the customs of their ancestors as suited 
 with the nature of the country they possessed. Even 
 
THE POEMS OP OSSIAN. 
 
 59 
 
 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 re- 
 mained in possession of their lands. During the se- 
 veral conquests and revolutions in England, many fled, 
 for refuge, into Scotland, to avoid the oppression of 
 foreigners, or the tyranny of domestic usurpers; inso- 
 much, that the Saxon race formed perhaps near one 
 half of the Scottish kingdom. The Saxon manners 
 and language daily gained ground on the tongue and 
 customs of the 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 High- 
 lands were, of course, neglected. They naturally form- 
 ed 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 th« 
 country favoured an institution of this sort. A few 
 valleys, divided from one another by extensive heaths, 
 and impassable mountains, form the face of the High- 
 lands. In thoso valleys the chiefs fixed their residence. 
 Round them , and almost within sight of their dwellings, 
 were the habitations of their relations and dependents. 
 
CO 
 
 DISSERTATION ON 
 
 The seats of the Highland chiefs were neither dis- 
 agreeable nor inconvenient. Surrounded with moun- 
 tains 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 
 conveniencies, 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 mem- 
 bers of his family. His commands, therefore, though 
 absolute and decisive, partook more of the authority 
 of a father than of the rigour of a judge. Though the 
 whole territory of the tribe was considered as the pro- 
 perty of the chief, yet his vassals made him no other 
 consideration for their lands than services, neither 
 burdensome nor frequent. As he seldom went from 
 home, he was at no 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 cus- 
 toms 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 succes- 
 sion 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 tra- 
 dition, the bards took care to place them in the gene- 
 alogy of every great family. They became famous 
 
THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 GI 
 
 among the pjeople, and an object of fiction and poetry 
 to the bard. 
 
 The bards erected their immediate patrons into he- 
 roes, and celebrated them in their songs. As the circle 
 of their knowledge was narrow, their ideas were con- 
 fined in proportion. A few happy expressions, and 
 the manners they represent, may please those who 
 understand the language; their obscurity and inaccu- 
 racy 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 know- 
 ledge of the language, they pierce and dissolve the 
 heart. Successful love is expressed with peculiar ten- 
 derness and elegance. In all their compositions, ex- 
 cept 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 sen- 
 timents, 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 mau- 
 ners they represent, and the scenes they describe, they 
 must afford pleasure and satisfaction. 
 
 It was the locality of their description and senti- 
 ment, 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 a3 they deserve. Those 
 D 2 
 
62 
 
 DISSERTATION ON 
 
 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 connexion of old with 
 the south and north of Britain, are presented in seve- 
 ral episodes. The subject and catastrophe of the poem 
 are founded upon facts, which regarded the first peo- 
 pling of that country, and the contests between the 
 two British nations, who originally inhabited that 
 island. In a preceding part of this Dissertation, 1 
 have shewn how superior the probability of this sys- 
 tem 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 concern- 
 ing the veracity and abilities of those who deliver 
 down their ancient history. For my own part, I pre- 
 fer 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 mille- 
 nium before. 
 
 Since the first publication of these Poems, many in- 
 sinuations have been made, and doubts arisen, concern- 
 ing their authenticity. Whether these suspicions are 
 suggested by prejudice, or are only the effects of ma- 
 lice, I neither know nor care. Those who have doubted 
 ray veracity have paid a compliment to my genius ; 
 and were even the allegation true, my self denial migh 
 
THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 03 
 
 have atoned for my fault. Without vanity I say it, 
 I think I could write tolerable poetry ; and I assure 
 my antagonists, that I should not translate what I 
 could not imitate. 
 
 As prejudice is the effect of ignorance, I am not sur- 
 prised 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 su- 
 perficial, mu3t 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 Iri-h in 
 tion. 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 Celtae, 
 the Scots and Irish are the most similar in language, 
 customs, and manners. This argues a more intimate 
 connexion 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 re- 
 spects, one and the same people. How they became 
 divided, which the colony, or which the mother na- 
 tion, 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 
 
64 
 
 DISSERTATION ON 
 
 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, conse- 
 quently, 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 ap« 
 pellation they give to the dialect they speak. They 
 call their own language Gaelic Eirinarch, i. e. Cale- 
 donian Irish, when, on the contrary, they call the 
 dialect of North Britain a Chaelic, or the Caledonian 
 tongue, emphatically. A circumstance of this nature 
 tends more to decide which is the most ancient na- 
 tion, than the united testimonies of a whole legion of 
 ignorant bards and senachies, who, perhaps, nevet 
 dreamed of bringing the Scots from Spain to Ireland, 
 till some one of them, more learned than the rest, dis- 
 covered, 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 favourite chimera, that Ire* 
 land is the mother country of the Scots, is totally sub- 
 verted and rained. The fictions concerning the an- 
 tiquities of that country, which were formed for ages, 
 and growing as they came down, on the hands of suc- 
 cessive 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 
 
THE POEMS OF OSS IAN. 
 
 65 
 
 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, ot 
 the heroes of Fion Mac Comnal. This Fion, say the 
 Irish annalists, was general of the militia of Ireland, 
 in the reign of Cormac, in the third century. Where 
 Keating and O* Flaherty learned that Ireland had an 
 embodied militia so early, is not so easy for me to deter- 
 mine. Their information certainly did not come from 
 the Irish poems concerning Fion. I have jnst now 
 in my hands all that remain of those compositions; 
 but, unluckily for the antiquities of Ireland, they ap- 
 pear 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 allu- 
 sions to the manners and customs of the fifteenth cen- 
 tury are so many, that it is matter of wonder to me 
 how any one could dream of their antiquity. They 
 are entirely writ in that romantic taste which pre- 
 vailed 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 > magician. Witches, or broomsticks, 
 were continually hovering round him like crows ; and 
 he had freed enchanted virgins in every valley in Ire- 
 land. In short, Fion, great as he was, passed a dis- 
 agreeable life. Not only had he to engage all the mis- 
 chiefs 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 mnst 
 be owned, however, that Fiim was not inferior to them 
 in height. 
 
 A chos air Cromleach, drnim-ard, 
 Clios cile air Crom-nieal dobh, 
 Thoea Fion le lamh mlioir 
 An d'ulsge o Lubhair ita frnth. 
 
 With one foot on Cromleach his brow, 
 The other on Oomroal ihe dark, 
 Fion took up with his lar«je hand 
 The water from Lubar of the streams. 
 
66 
 
 DISSERTATION ON 
 
 Cromleach and Crommal were two mountains in the 
 neighbourhood 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 cele- 
 brated 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 he- 
 roes had also other extraordinary properties. ' In 
 weight all the sons of strangers, yielded to the cele- 
 brated Ton iosal; and for hardness of skull, and, per- 
 haps, for thickness too, the valiant Oscar stood ' un- 
 rivalled and alone.' Ossian himself had many singular 
 and less delicate qualifications than playing on the 
 harp j 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 Mac Comnal. A trans- 
 lation 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 coun- 
 try, 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 ap- 
 peared. 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 com- 
 
THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 or 
 
 mitted some of those oversights, which, perhaps very 
 unjustly, are said to be peculiar to them. 
 
 From the whole tenor Of the Irish poems, concern- 
 ing the Fiona, it appears, that Fion Mac Comnal 
 flourished in the reign of Cormac, which is placed, by 
 the universal consent of the senachies, in the third 
 century. They even fix the death of Fingal in the year 
 208, 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 connexion,* Patrick 
 of the Psalms,' for so the apostle of Ireland is emphati- 
 cally 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 aus- 
 terity 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 piece of useful information : 
 
 Lo don rabli Padric na nihil r, 
 Gun Sailm air uidh, ach a g6l, 
 Ghluais 6 thigh Ogeian rahic Fhion, 
 O san lci« bu bhinn a ghloir. 
 
 The title of this poem is 1 Teantach mor na Fiona.' 
 It appears to have been founded on the same story 
 with the ' Battle of Lora.' The circumstances and ca- 
 tastrophe in both are much the same: but the Irish 
 Ossian discovers the age in which he lived by an un- 
 lucky anachronism. After describing the total rout of 
 Erragon,be very gravely concludes with this remark- 
 able 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 compo- 
 sition of the piece some centuries after the famous 
 croisade : for it is evident, thatthe 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, 
 
 Rlitogh Lochlin an do 6hloigh, 
 
 King of Denmark of two nations— 
 
OS 
 
 DISSERTATION ON 
 
 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 FiDgal, to themselves. He con- 
 cludes the poem with this reflection : 
 
 Na fagba se comhtbrom nan n'arm, 
 Erragon Mac Annir nan lanu glas 
 'San n' Albin ni n' abairtair Triath 
 Agus ghlaoite an n' Fliiona 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 
 4 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 hundredlines, of which the poem 
 consists, he puts the following expression thrice in the 
 mouth of the hero : 
 
 Albin an sa d' roina m' arach. — 
 Albion, wbere 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 
 neighbouring hill, which commanded a prospect of the 
 sea. A fleet appeared at a distance, and the hero ex- 
 claims with joy, 
 
 Loingeas mo shean-athair at' an 
 'S iad a tiachd le cabhair chugain, 
 O Albin na n' ioma stuagb. 
 
 * 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 0* Flaherty, for, though he is far from 
 being ancient, it is probable he flourished a full cen- 
 tury before these historians. He appears, however, to 
 have been a much better Christian than chronologer ; 
 
THE POEMS OF OSSTAN. 69 
 
 for Fion, though he is placed two centuries before St. 
 Patrick, very devoutly recommends the soul of his 
 grandson to his Redeemer. 
 
 1 Duan a Gharibh Mac-Starn' is another Irish poem 
 in high repute. The grandeur of its images, and its 
 propriety of sentiment, might have induced me to give 
 a translation of it, had 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 re- 
 gion 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 ©f the redoubtable Cuthul- 
 lin, 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. Oaribh Mac-Starn is the same 
 with Ossian's Swaran, the son of Starno. His single 
 combats with, and Iris victory over, all the heroes of 
 Ireland, excepting the 1 celebrated dog of Tara/ i. e. 
 Cuthullin, afford matter for two hundred lines of toler- 
 able poetry. Caribh'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 Cuthul- 
 lin 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 ten- 
 derness of the 1 daughters of the convent,' and throws 
 out some hints against the English nation, it is pro- 
 bable he lived in too modern a period to be intimately 
 acquainted with the genealogy of Cuthullin. 
 
 Another Irish Ossiau, for there were many, as ap- 
 pears 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 
 
70 
 
 DISSERTATION ON 
 
 poet, and less for his delicacy of sentiment. The his- 
 tory 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 evasion by 
 three great potentates, the kings of Lochlin, Sweden, 
 and France. It is needless to insist upon the impro- 
 priety of a French invasion of Ireland ; it is sufficient 
 for me to be faithful to the language of my author. 
 Fion, upon receiving intelligence of the intended in- 
 vasion, 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 t hog Caoilte a chlaeh, 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 sin- 
 gular property of the hero who bore it. Ton-iosal 
 though brave, was so heavy and un wieldly, 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 account of them, that Fion, upon his arrival, 
 found little to do, but to divide the spoil among his 
 soldiers. 
 
THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 71 
 
 All these extraordinary heroes, Fion, Ossian, Oscar, 
 and Ca-olt, says the poet, were 
 
 Siol Erin na gorm lann. 
 
 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 cele- 
 brated Ton-iosal. I shall only say, that they are dif- 
 ferent persons from those of the same name, in the 
 Scots poems ; and that, though the stupendous valour 
 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 lan- 
 guage not then subsisting. A person, more sanguine 
 for the honour of his country than I am, might argue 
 from this circumstance, that thispretendedly Irish Os- 
 sian 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, 
 
 Sinl Albin a n'nioma caoile. 
 
 The race of Albion of many firth«. 
 
 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 cen- 
 tury. 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 
 
72 
 
 DISSERTATION ON 
 
 from the English, that the language must have made 
 considerable progress in Ireland before the poems were 
 written. 
 
 It remains now to shew, 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 the go- 
 vernment. 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 retain- 
 ing 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 re- 
 spective origin. It was the natural policy of the 
 times to reconcile the traditions of both nations to- 
 gether, and, if possible, to deduce them from the same 
 original stock. 
 
 The Saxon manners and language had, at that time, 
 made great progress in the south of Scotland. The 
 ancient language, and the traditional history of the 
 nation, became confined entirely to the inhabitants of 
 the Highlands, then fallen, from several concurring 
 circumstances, into the last degree of ignorance and 
 barbarism. The Irish, who, 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 va- 
 nity of the Highlanders, with their long list of Her- 
 monian kings and heroes, they, without centradiction, 
 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 Soots, which afterward, for want 
 of any other, was universally received. The Scots of 
 the low country, who, by losing the language of their 
 
THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 73 
 
 ancestors, lost, together with it, their national tradi- 
 tions, received, implicitly, the history of their country 
 from Irish refugees, or from Highland senachies, per- 
 suaded 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 tra- 
 ditional 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, 
 itwas impossible to eradicate, from among the bulk of 
 the people, their own national traditions. These tra- 
 ditions afterward so much prevailed, that the High- 
 landers continue totally unacquainted with the pre- 
 tended Hibernian extract of the Scotch nation. Igno- 
 rant chronicle writers, strangers to the ancient lan- 
 guage of their country, preserved only from falling to 
 the ground so improbable a story. 
 
 This subject, perhaps, is pursued farther than it de- 
 serves ; 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 aations at that period. On 
 other subjects, the bards of Ireland have displayed a 
 genius for poetry. It was alone in matters of anti- 
 quity 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 become 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 felicitas of expression in the 
 original, that they must appear much to disadvantage 
 in another language. 
 
A 
 
 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 ON 
 
 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN, 
 
 THE SON OF FINGAL. 
 
 BY HUGH BLAIR, D.D. 
 
 One of the Ministers of the High Church, and Professor of 
 Rhetoric and Belles- Lettres, Edinburgh. 
 
 Among the monuments remaining of the ancient state 
 of nations, few are more valuable than their poems 
 or songs. History, when it treats of remote or dark 
 ages, is seldom very instructive. The beginnings of 
 society, in every country, are involved in fabulous 
 confusion ; and though they were not, they would 
 furnish few events worth recording. But, in every 
 period of society, human manners are a curious spec- 
 tacle ; and the most natural pictures of ancient man- 
 ners are exhibited in the ancient poems of nations. 
 These present to us, what is much more valuable than 
 the history of such transactions as a rude age can af- 
 ford — the history of human imagination and passion. 
 They make us acquainted with the notions and feelings 
 of our fellow-creatures in the most artless ages; dis- 
 covering what objects they admired, and what plea- 
 sures they pursued, before those refinements of society 
 had taken place, which enlarge indeed, and diversify 
 the transactions, but disguise the manners of man- 
 kind. 
 
 Besides this merit which ancient poems have with 
 philosophical observers of human nature, they have 
 another with persons of taste. They promise some of 
 the highest beauties of poetical writing. Irregular and 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 7 5 
 
 unpolished we may expect the productions of unculti- 
 vated ages to be; hut abounding, at the same time, 
 with that enthusiasm, that vehemence and lire, which 
 are the soul of poetry : foj- many circumstances of 
 those times which we call barbarous, are favourable 
 to the poetical spirit. That state, in which human 
 nature shoots wild and free, though unlit for other 
 improvements, certainly encourages the high exer- 
 tions of fancy and passion. 
 
 In the infancy of societies, men lived scattered and 
 dispersed in the midst of solitary rural scenes, where 
 the beauties of nature are their chief entertainment. 
 They meet with many objects to them new and strange ; 
 their wonder and surprise are frequently excited ; and 
 by the sudden changes of fortune occurring in their 
 unsettled state of life, their passions are raised to the 
 utmost; their pasoions have nothing to restrain them, 
 their imagination has nothing to check it. They dis- 
 play themselves to one another without disguise, and 
 converse aud act in the uncovered simplicity of nature . 
 As their feelings are strong, so their language, of itself, 
 assumes a poetical turn. Prone to exaggerate, they 
 describe every thing in the strongest colours : which 
 of course renders their speech picturesque and figura- 
 tive. Figurative language owes its rise chiefly to two 
 causes : to the want of proper names for objects, and 
 to the influence of imagination and passion over the 
 form of expression. Both these causes concur in the 
 infancy of society. Figures are commonly considered 
 as artificial modes of speech, devised by orators and 
 poets, after the world had advanced to a refined state. 
 The contrary of this is the truth. Men never have 
 used so many figures of style, as in those rude ages, 
 when, besides the power of a warm imagination to 
 suggest lively images, the want of proper and precise 
 terms for the idea9 they would express, obliged them 
 to have recourse to circumlocution, metaphor, compa- 
 rison, and all those substituted forms of expression, 
 which give a poetical air to language. An American 
 chief, at this day, harangues at the head of his tribe, 
 in a more bold and metaphorical style, than a modern 
 European would adventure to use in an epic poem. 
 
76 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 In the progress of society, the genius and manners 
 of men undergo a change more favourable to accuracy 
 than to sprightliness and sublimity. As the world ad- 
 vances, the understanding gains ground upon the ima- 
 gination; the understanding is more exercised; the 
 imagination, less. Fewer objects occur that are new 
 or surprising. Men apply themselves to trace the 
 causes of things ; they correct and refine one another ; 
 they subdue or disguise their passions ; they form their 
 exterior manners upon one uniform standard of po- 
 liteness and civility. Human nature is pruned ac- 
 cording to method and rule. Language advances from 
 sterility to copiousness, and at the same time from fer- 
 vour and enthusiasm, to correctness and precision. 
 Style becomes more chaste, but less animated. The 
 progress of the world in this respect resembles the pro- 
 gress of age in man. The powers of imagination are 
 most vigorous and predominant in youth ; those of 
 the understanding ripen more slowly, and often attain 
 not to their maturity, till the imagination begins to 
 flag. Hence poetry, which is the child of imagination, 
 is frequently most glowing and animated in the first 
 ages of society. As the ideas of our youth are remem- 
 bered with a peculiar pleasure, on account of their 
 liveliness and vivacity ; so the most ancient poems 
 have often proved the greatest favourites of nations. 
 
 Poetry has been said to be more ancient than prose ; 
 and, however paradoxical such an assertion may seem, 
 yet, in a qualified sense, it is true. Men certainly never 
 conversed with one another in regular numbers ; but 
 even their ordinary language would in ancient times, 
 for the reasons before assigned, approach to a poetical 
 style; and the first compositions transmitted to poste- 
 rity, beyond doubt, were, in a literal sense, poems; 
 that is, compositions in which imagination had the 
 chief hand, formed into some kind of numbers,and pro- 
 nounced with a musical modulation or tone. Music 
 or song has been found coeval with society among the 
 most barbarous nations. The only subjects which could 
 prompt men, in their first rude state, to utter their 
 thoughts in compositions of any length, were such as 
 naturally assumed the tone of poetry ; praises of their 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 77 
 
 gods, or of their ancestors; commemorations of their 
 own warlike exploits ; or lamentations over their mis- 
 fortunes. And, before writing was invented, no other 
 compositions, except songs or poems, could take such 
 hold of the imagination and memory, as to be pre- 
 served by oral tradition, and handed down from one 
 race to another. 
 
 Hence we may expect to find poems among the anti- 
 quities of all nations. It is probable, too, that an ex- 
 tensive search would discover a certain degree of re- 
 semblance among all the most ancient poetical produc- 
 tions, from whatever country they have proceeded. 
 In a similar state of manners, similar objects and pas- 
 sions, operating upon the imaginations of men, will 
 stamp their productions with the same general cha- 
 racter. Some diversity will, no doubt, be occasioned 
 by climate and genius. But mankind never bear such 
 resembling features, as they do in the beginnings of 
 society. Its subsequent revolutions give rise to the 
 principal distinctions among nations; and divert, into 
 channels widely separated, that current of human 
 genius and manners, which descends originally from 
 one spring. What we have been long accustomed to 
 call the oriental vein of poetry, because some of the 
 earliest poetical productions have come to us from the 
 east, is probably no more oriental than occidental : it 
 is characteristical of an age rather than a country ; 
 and belongs, in some measure, to all nations at a cer- 
 tain period. Of this the works of Ossian seem to fur- 
 nish a remarkable proof. 
 
 Our present subject leads us to investigate the an- 
 cient poetical remains, not so much of the east, or of 
 the Greeks and Romans, as of the northern nations ; 
 in order to discover whether the Gothic poetry has 
 any resemblance to the Celtic or Gaelic, which we are 
 about to consider. Though the Goths, under which 
 name we usually comprehend all the Scandinavian 
 tribes, were a people altogether fierce and martial, and 
 noted, to a pi-overb, for their ignorance of the liberal 
 arts, yet they too, from the earliest times, had their 
 poets and their songs. Their poets were distinguished 
 by the title of Scalders, and their songs were termed 
 E 
 
78 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 Vyses. Saxo Grammaticus, a Danish historian of 
 considerable note, who flourished in the thirteenth 
 century, informs us, that very many of these songs, 
 containing the ancient traditionary stories of the coun- 
 try, were found engraven upon rocks in the old Runic 
 character, several of which he has translated into La- 
 tin, and inserted into his History. But his versions 
 are plainly so paraphrastical, and forced into such an 
 imitation of the style and the measures of the Roman 
 poets, that one can form no judgment from them of 
 the native spirit of the original. A more curious mo- 
 nument of the true Gothic poetry is preserved by Olaus 
 Wormius in his book de Literatura Runica. It is an 
 epicedium, or funeral song, composed by Regner Lod- 
 brog, and translated by Olaus, word for word, from the 
 original. This Lodbrog was a king of Denmark, who 
 lived in the eighth century, famous for his wars and 
 victories ; and at the same time an eminent scalder, 
 or poet. It was his misfortune to fall at last into the 
 hands of one of his enemies, by whom he was thrown 
 into prison, and condemned to be destroyed by serpents. 
 In this situation, he solaced himself with rehearsing 
 all the exploits of his life. The poem is divided into 
 twenty-nine stanzas, of ten lines each; and every 
 stanza begins with these words, ' Pugnavimus ensibus,' 
 We have fought with our swords. Olaus's version is 
 in many places so obscure as to be hardly intelligible. 
 I have subjoined the whole below, exactly as he has 
 published it;* and shall translate as much as may give 
 the English reader an idea of the spirit and strain of 
 this kind of poetry. 
 
 * 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 every where 
 spread our renown. Eight barons we overcame in the 
 east, before the port of Diminum ; and plentifully we 
 * See the Note at the end of tie Dissertation. 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 79 
 
 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 
 hi3 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 
 breasts of heroes. The sword bit the Scarfian rocks ; 
 bloody was the shield in battle, until Rafno the king 
 was slain. From the heads of warriors the warm 
 sweat streamed down their armonr. The crows around 
 the Indirian islands had an ample prey. It were diffi- 
 cult 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 morn- 
 ing.' — In this strain the poet continues to describe se- 
 veral 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 Roman poet would 
 have introduced the virgins or nymphs of the wood be- 
 wailing the untimely fall of a young hero. But, says 
 our Gothic poet, ' When Rogvaldus wa3 slain, for him 
 mourned all the hawks of heaven,' as lamenting a be- 
 nefactor who had so liberally supplied thern with prey ; 
 1 for boldly,' a3 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 cer- 
 tain 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 dis- 
 tress. The timorous man allures the devouring eagle 
 
80 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 to the field of battle. The coward, wherever he comes, 
 is useless to himself. This I esteem honourable, 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 pre- 
 pared, 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 valour. 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 god- 
 desses invite me away; they whom Odin has sent to 
 me from his hall. I will sit upon alofty 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 bar- 
 barous 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 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 Bl 
 
 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 Tery dif- 
 ferent 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 coun- 
 try. 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 na- 
 tions in language, manners, and religion, proves it to 
 a full demonstration. The Celtee, a great and mighty 
 people, altogether distinct from the Goths andTeutones, 
 once extended their dominion over all the west of Eu- 
 rope; but seem to have had their most full and complete 
 establishment in Gaul. Wherever the Celtae or Gauls 
 are mentioned by ancient writers, we seldom fail 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 philoso- 
 phers 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 there- 
 fore imagine the Celtaj 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. Am- 
 mianus 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 
 
82 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 in colleges, or societies, after the Pythagorean manner, 
 and, philosophizing upon the highest subjects, asserted 
 the immortality of the human soul. Though Julius 
 Csesar, in his account of Gaul, does not expressly men 
 tion 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 dis- 
 ciples of the druids, undoubtedly made a part. It de- 
 serves remark, that, according to his account, the 
 druidical institution first took rise in Britain, and 
 passed from thence into Gaul; so that they who as- 
 pired 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, in- 
 somuch 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 re- 
 ligion altered, the bards continued to flourish ; not as 
 a set of strolling songsters, like the Greek 'Aotdoi, or 
 Rhapsodists, in Homer's time, but as an order of men 
 highly respected in the state, and supported by a pub- 
 lic establishment. We find them, according to the tes- 
 timonies of Strabo and Diodorus, before the age of 
 Augustus Csesar; 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 honour 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 thebards," 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. S3 
 
 said his brother Cathmor, " they are the sons of other 
 times. Their voice shall be heard in other ages, when 
 the kings of Ternora 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, 
 T 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 he- 
 roism, may possibly be found to prevail in a rude state 
 of society, no one can say. Astonishing instances of 
 them weknow, 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 re- 
 fined, it is probable, and exalted, according to the usual 
 poetical licence, 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, bclloque pereraptos, 
 Laudibus in Ionium vates dlffundttll avum 
 Pluriiua securi fudiatitf carnnna banli. — Phars. 1. 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 pa- 
 negyrics, which were composed by their predecessors, 
 handed down to them with care ; who rivalled and 
 endeavoured 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 
 
84 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 not probably be the first ideas of heroism occurring to 
 a barbarous people : but no sooner had such ideas be- 
 gun to dawn on the minds of poets, than, as the human 
 mind easily opens to the native representations of hu- 
 man 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 sa- 
 vage state, man could obtain overman, the chief was 
 fame, and that immortality which they expected to 
 receive from their virtues and exploits, in the songs of 
 bards. 
 
 Having made these remarks on the Celtic poetry 
 and bards in general, I shall next consider the par- 
 ticular advantages which Ossian possessed. He ap- 
 pears 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 sen- 
 sibility Gf 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 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSUN. 85 
 
 we may easily believe, to all the poetical art then 
 known, and connected, as he shews us himself, in in- 
 timate friendship with the other contemporary bards, 
 but a warrior also j and the son of the most renowned 
 hero and prince oftiis age. This formed a conjunction 
 of circumstances uncommonly favourable towards ex- 
 alting the imagination of a poet. He relates expedi- 
 tions 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 ex- 
 hibit, 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 mag- 
 nificence are comparative ; and that the age of Fingal 
 was an sera of distinguished splendour in that part of 
 the world. Fingal reigned over a considerable ter- 
 ritory ; 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 ex- 
 tensive monarchy was established. 
 
 The manners of Ossian's age, so far as we can gather 
 them from his writings, were abundantly favourable 
 to a poetical genius. The two dispiriting vices, to 
 which Longinus imputes the decline of poetry, covet- 
 ousness 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 1 to have their name on the four gray stones.' To 
 die unlamcnted by a bard, was deemed so great a mis- 
 fortune, a3 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 employ- 
 ments 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 
 E 2 
 
86 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 mouths of bards. In such times as these, in a country 
 where poetry had been so long cultivated, and so highly 
 honoured, 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, favoured 
 with peculiar advantages of birth and condition, and 
 meeting, in the course of his life, with a variety of in- 
 cidents 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 re- 
 fined 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 sera. 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, com- 
 merce. Throughout Ossian's Poems we plainly find 
 ourselves in the first of these periods of society; during 
 whichhunting 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 work- 
 ing in iron. Everything presents to us the most sim- 
 ple 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 com- 
 pared with a poem of later date, which Mr. Macpher- 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSS1AN. 
 
 87 
 
 son has preserved in one of his notes. It is that in 
 which five bards are represented as passing the even- 
 ing 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 
 andcows 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 every where 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 Fin- 
 gal, * is enough for me, with all its woods and deer.' 
 
 The circle of ideas and transactions is no wider than 
 suijs such an age ; nor any greater diversity introduced 
 into characters, than the events of that period would 
 naturally display. Valour and bodily strength are the 
 admired qualities. Contentions arise, as is usual among 
 savage nations, from the slightest causes. To be af- 
 fronted at a tournament, or to be omitted in the invi- 
 tation 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 
 shew refinement of sentiment indeed on several occa- 
 sions, 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 fiot'jv a^aOo£ MeveXaoQ of Homer. Of military dis- 
 cipline or skill they appear to have been entirely desti- 
 tute. Their armies seem not to have been numerous ; 
 their battles were disorderly; and terminated, for tbe 
 
S8 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 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 regu- 
 larity of composition were more studied and known : 
 but a style always rapid and vehement; in narration 
 concise, even to abruptness, and leaving several cir- 
 cumstances to be supplied by the reader's imagination. 
 The language has all that figurative cast, which, as I 
 before shewed, 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 anti- 
 quity, 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 consequence of more profound reflec- 
 tion, and longer acquaintance with the arts of thought 
 and of speech. Ossian, accordingly, almost never ex- 
 presses himself in the abstract. His ideas extended 
 little farther 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 favourable to descriptive 
 poetry. For the same reasons, personification is a 
 poetical figure not very common with Ossian. Inani- 
 mate objects, f=uch as winds, trees, flowers, he some- 
 times personifies with great beauty. But the personi- 
 fications which are so familiar to later poets, of Fame, 
 Time, Terror, Virtue, and the rest of that class, were 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 89 
 
 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 con- 
 trived 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 his- 
 tory, 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 at- 
 tended to, still of greater weight, if possible, against 
 this hypothesis. One is, the total absence of religious 
 ideas from this work; for which the tram.lator 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 finalextinction ; 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 
 
90 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 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 coun- 
 try, it is impossible but in some passage or other the 
 traces of them would have appeared. The other cir- 
 cumstance 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 as 
 well known that there is no passion by which a na- 
 tive Highlander is more distinguished than by attach- 
 ment to his clan, and jealousy for its honour. That a 
 Highland bard, in forging a work relating to the an- 
 tiquities of his country, should have inserted no cir- 
 cumstance 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 certain, that 
 the poems, now under consideration, are genuine vene- 
 rable 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 no- 
 thing of the gay and cheerful kind ; an air of solem- 
 nity 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 
 key-note 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 ex- 
 tended heath by the sea-shore ; the mountains shaded 
 with mist ; the torrent rushing through a solitary val- 
 ley; the scattered oaks, and the tombs of warriors 
 overgrown with moss ; all produce a solemn attention, 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 01 
 
 in the mind, and prepare it for great and extraordi- 
 nary 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 he 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 ; torecal 
 the affecting incidents of his life; to dwell upon his 
 past wars, and loves, and friendships : till, as he ex- 
 presses it himself, ' there comes a voice to Ossian, and 
 awakes bis 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 potontior omnl 
 
 Est Deus in nobis, agitante caiescimus 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 man- 
 ner is so different from that of the poets to whom we 
 are most accustomed ; his style is so concise, and so 
 much crowded with imagery ; the mind is kept at such 
 a stretch in accompanying the author : that an ordi- 
 nary reader is at first apt to be dazzled and fatigued, 
 rather than pleased. His poems requiie to be 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 Os- 
 sian'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 be- 
 fore Ossian, it is not from the age of the world, but 
 
92 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 from the state of society, that we are to judge of re- 
 sembling 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 de- 
 gree : 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 cul- 
 tivated 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 situ- 
 ations 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 Ame- 
 rican tribes have been noted by all travellers for their 
 gravity and taciturnity. Somewhat of this tacitur- 
 nity may be also remarked in Ossian. On all occasions 
 
ON THE POEMS OP OSSIAN. 93 
 
 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 per - 
 sonages frequently speaking before U3. But Ossian is 
 concise and rapid in bis 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 ; Os- 
 sian'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 ac- 
 tions and battles ; Ossian in description and senti- 
 ment. 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 tender- 
 ness far more deeply imprinted on his works. No 
 poet knew better how to seize and melt the heart. 
 With regard to dignity of sentiment, the pre eminence 
 must clearly be 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 de- 
 gree, that not only the heroes of Homer, but even 
 those of the polite and refined Virgil, are left far be- 
 hind 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 par- 
 
91 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 ticular, exactly conformable to the practice of Homer 
 and Virgil, were the mere squeanrishness and pedan- 
 try of criticism. Examined even according to Aris- 
 totle'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 compo- 
 sition so agreeable to rules of which be 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 ac- 
 cording 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, con- 
 cerning an epic poem, are these: That the action, 
 which is the ground-work 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 mar- 
 vellous. 
 
 But, before entering on any of these, it may per- 
 haps be asked, what is the moral of Fingal ? For, ac- 
 cording 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 incul- 
 cate on mankind. He next forms a fable, like one of 
 iEsop'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 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 95 
 
 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 com- 
 pose 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 common-place 
 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 pre- 
 served 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 parts unite into a regular whole : 
 and as the action is one and great, so it is an entire 
 
96 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 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 main- 
 tained, 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 sea-shore. The duration 
 of the action in Fingal, is much shorter than in the 
 Iliad or the iEneid ; but sure there may be shorter as 
 well as 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 iEneid 
 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 coinci- 
 dence of thought, with the rule of Horace ; 
 
 Semper ad eventum festinat, et in medias res, 
 
 Non secus ac notas, aurtitorem rapit 
 
 Nec gemino bellum Trojanum orditur ab ovo. 
 
 Be 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 sub- 
 ject 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 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSUN, 
 
 97 
 
 the lonely isle, in order to give further light to the sub- 
 ject. For the poet often shews his address in gradually 
 preparing us for the events he is to introduce ; and in 
 particular, the preparation for the appearance of Fin- 
 gal, the previous expectations that are raised, and 
 the extreme magnificence, fully answering these ex- 
 pectations,\vith which the hero is at length presented 
 to us, are all worked up with such skilful conduct as 
 would do honour to any poet of the most refined times. 
 Homer's art in magnifying the character of Achilles 
 has been universally admired. Ossian certainly shews 
 no less art 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 honour 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 as- 
 sistance, 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 fe- 
 male slave ; on which Achilles, apprehending himself 
 to be injured, withdraws his assistance from tho 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 Pa- 
 troclus ; and upon his being slain, goes forth to re- 
 venge his death, and kills Hector. The subject of 
 Fingal is this : Swaran comes to invade Ireland : Cu- 
 thullin, the guardian of the young king, had applied 
 
98 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 for his assistance to Fitigal, who reigned in the oppo 
 site 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 honourably. Homer, it is true, has filled 
 up his story with a much greater variety of particulars 
 than Ossian : and in this has shewn a compass of in- 
 vention superior to that of the other poet. But it must 
 not be forgotten that though Homer be more circum- 
 stantial, his incidents however are less diversified in 
 kind than those of Ossian. War and bloodshed reign 
 throughout the Iliad ; and, notwithstanding all the fer- 
 tility of Homer's invention, there is so much unifor- 
 mity 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 scenes, 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 : con- 
 sisting 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 intro- 
 duced at random : if you except the episode of Bu- 
 chommar 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 suf- 
 ficient connexion with the main subject by the fitness 
 and propriety of their introduction. 
 
 As FingaTs love to Agandecca influences some cir- 
 cumstances of the poem, particularly the honourable 
 dismission of Swaran at the end; it was necessary 
 that we should be Idt into this part of the hero's story. 
 But as it lay without the compass of the present action, 
 it could be regularly introduced no where, except in 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 99 
 
 an episode. Accordingly the poet, with as much pro- 
 priety 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. The re- 
 conciliation of the contending heroes, the consolation 
 of Cuthullin, and the general feiicity 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 morn- 
 iug with joy. Fingal arose on the heath ; and shook 
 his glittering spear in his hand. He moved first to- 
 wards the plains of Lena; and we followed like a 
 ridge of fire. Spread the sail, said the king of Mor- 
 ven, and catch the winds that pour from Lena. We 
 rose on the wave with songs; and rushed with joy 
 through the foam of the ocean.' 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 his 
 torical, he must not be understood so strictly as if he 
 meant to exclude all subjects which have any foun- 
 dation 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 mere 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 hadiu truth, and the share 
 
103 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 which the poet himself had 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 colours 
 as those which he has personally known. It is con- 
 sidered 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 licence to fable. 
 Though Ossian'3 subject may at first view appear un- 
 favourable 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 tra- 
 dition was loose, and accuracy of any kind little at- 
 tended to, what was great and heroic in one genera- 
 tion, 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 ex- 
 celling 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 dis- 
 play 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 con- 
 trasted, so as to illustrate each other. Ossian's he- 
 roes 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 presump- 
 tuous, rash, overbearing, but gallant and generous 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 101 
 
 Calmar. Calmar hurries Cuthullin into action by his 
 temerity ; and when he sees the bad effects of his coun- 
 sels, he will not survive the disgrace. Connal, like 
 another Ulysses, attends Cuthullin to his retreat, coun- 
 sels and comforts him under his misfortune. The fierce, 
 the proud, and high spirited Swaran, is admirably 
 contrasted with the calm, the moderate, and generous 
 Fingal. The character of Oscar is a favourite 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 Mai vina ; 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 al- 
 ways contemplate with pleasure. Cuthullin is a hero 
 of the highest class : daring, magnanimous, and ex- 
 quisitely sensible to honour. 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 mas- 
 terly genius that he durst adventure to produce to us 
 another hero, compared with whom, even the gTeat 
 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 shew 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 thin 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 Hec- 
 tor 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 
 F 
 
102 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 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 honours, 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 the father of his people. He is known by the 
 epithet of ' Fingal of the mildest look ;' and distin- 
 guished, on every occasion, by humanity and gene- 
 rosity. 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 ; f None ever went sad from Fingal.' — 
 ' O, Oscar! bend the strong in arms; 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.' These were 
 the maxims of true heroism, to which he formed hi9 
 grandson. His fame is represented as every where 
 spread; the greatest heroes acknowledge his superi- 
 ority ; his enemies tremble at his name ; and the high- 
 est encomium that can be bestowed on one whom the 
 poet 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 com- 
 monly attended to, that there is no part of poetical 
 execution more difficult, than to draw a perfect cha- 
 racter in such a manner, as to render it distinct, and 
 affecting to the mind. Some strokes of human im- 
 perfection and frailty, are what usually gives us the 
 most clear view, and the most sensible impression of 
 a character ; because they present to us a man, such, 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 10;i 
 
 g.s we have seen ; they recal 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 charac- 
 ter, 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 per- 
 fect hero, iEneas, is an unanimated insipid personage, 
 whom we may pretend to admire, but whom no one 
 can heartily love. But what Virgil has failed in, Os- 
 sian, to our astonishment, has successfully executed. 
 His Fingal, though exhibited without any of the com- 
 mon human failings, is nevertheless a real man ; a cha- 
 racter which touches and interests every reader. To 
 this it has much contributed, that the poet has repre- 
 sented him as an old man ; and by this has gained the 
 advantage of throwing around him a great many cir- 
 cumstances, 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 prin- 
 ciples of virtue; he is narrative of his past exploits; 
 he is venerable with the gray locks of age; he is fre- 
 quently disposed to moralize, like an old man, on hu- 
 man 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 age are the two states 
 of human life, capable of being placed in the most pic- 
 turesque lights. Middle age is more general and 
 vague; and has fewer circumstances peculiar to the 
 idea of it. And when any object is in ■ 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 
 be 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 propen- 
 sity towards it. But I must observe, that nothing is 
 
104 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 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, canmake 
 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, ma- 
 chinery ought always to have some foundation in po- 
 pular belief. A poet is by no means at liberty to in- 
 vent whst 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 ima- 
 gine, as some critics have done, that Homer's mytho- 
 logy was invented by him' in consequence of profound 
 reflections on the benefit it would yield to poetry. Ho- 
 mer was no such refining genius. He found the tra- 
 ditionary 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 be- 
 lieved 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 pro- 
 per display of human characters and actions ; because 
 it had less of the incredible, than most other kinds of 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 105 
 
 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 ob- 
 servations 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 de- 
 parted heroes frequent the fields of their former fame. 
 t 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 colours than those of Homer. Ossian de- 
 scribes 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 rairis 
 
 are fitted to raise in the human mind ; and which, in 
 Shakspeare's style, 1 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, 
 
106 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 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 Cru- 
 gal; 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 ima- 
 gination 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 hand of Swaran, striv- 
 ing 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 wonder- 
 fully picturesque; and conveys the most lively impres- 
 sion 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 subli- 
 mity, which suits the subject. * Dim, and in tears, he 
 stood, and stretched his pale hand over the hero. 
 Faintly he raised his feeble voice, like the gale of the 
 reedy Lego. — My ghost, O Connal! is on my native 
 hills : but my corse is on the sands of 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. Cromal, 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 re- 
 tired 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 oc- 
 casion. ' Oscar slowly ascends the hill. The meteors 
 of night set on the heath before him. A distant tor- 
 rent faintly roars. Unfrequent blasts rush through 
 aged oaks. The half-enlightened moon sinks dim and 
 
ON THE POEMS OP OSSIAN. 
 
 107 
 
 red behind her hill. Feeble voices are heard on the 
 heath. Oscar drew his sword.' Nothing can pre- 
 pare 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^he 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 appear- 
 ances 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, aud 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 intro- 
 duced 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 him to rise and rescue their son 
 from danger; and that of Agandecca, which, just be- 
 fore the last engagement with Swarau, moves Fingal 
 to pity, by mourning for the approaching destruction 
 of her kinsmen and people. In the other poems, ghosts 
 sometimes appear when invoked to foretel 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 some- 
 times 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 
 
108 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 shew 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 remark- 
 able in the appearance of Calmar's ghost, in the poem 
 entitled, The Death of Cuthullin. He seems to fore- 
 bode 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 Cal- 
 mar? 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 : 
 he 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, not- 
 withstanding 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 beha- 
 viour, 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 ridicu- 
 lous, 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 coun- 
 tries, and under all forms of religion, concerning the 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 109 
 
 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 honour 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 coinci- 
 dent 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 is 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 plea- 
 sant were they to me.' 
 
 Besides ghosts, or the spirits of departed men, we 
 find in Ossian some instances of other kinds of na- 
 chinery. 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 pro. 
 digies too; a shower of blood; and when some dis 
 aster is befalling at a distance, the sound of death 
 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 
 imagination in all countries. The description of Fin- 
 gal's airy hall, in the poem called Berrathon, and of 
 the ascent of Malvina into it, deserves particular no- 
 tice, as remarkably noble and magnificent. But, above 
 all, the engagement of Fingal with the spirit of Loda, 
 F 2 
 
110 
 
 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 in Carric-thura, cannot be mentioned without admira- 
 tion. I forbear transcribing the passage, as it must 
 have drawn the attention of every one who ha3 read 
 the works of Ossian. The undaunted courage of Fin- 
 gal 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 f 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 cal- 
 culated 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 Lodawas not 
 acknowledged as a deity by Fingal ; he did not wor- 
 ship 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 re- 
 gions where he was worshipped ; who had, therefore, 
 no title to threaten him, and no claim to his submis- 
 sion. 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 Su- 
 preme Being. Although his silence on this head has 
 been accounted for by the learned and ingenious trans- 
 lator 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 admini- 
 stration 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, 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. Ill 
 
 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 con- 
 duct of Tomora, 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 coa- 1, 
 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, Fin- 
 gal, brought into distress, by the wound of his great ge- 
 neral Gaul, and the death of his son Fill an, 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 tender- 
 ness, and more magnificence. The reigning idea, so 
 often presented 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 
 
112 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 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 cha- 
 racters 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 Ossiari'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 friend- 
 ship. 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 Cath- 
 mor and Sulmalla. This forms one of the most con- 
 spicuous beauties of that poem. The distress of Sul- 
 malla, disguised and unknown among strangers, her 
 tender and anxious concern for the saf ety of Cathmor, 
 her dream, and her melting remembrance of the land 
 of her fathers ; Cathmor's emotion when he first dis- 
 covers 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 be- 
 held 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, se- 
 veral 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 in- 
 stance, the general of Cathmor, exhibits the perfect 
 picture of a savage chieftain ; bold and daring, but 
 presumptuous, cruel, and overbearing. He is distin- 
 guished, on his first appearance, as the friend of the ty- 
 rant Cairbar,* His stride is haughty; his red eye rolls 
 in wrath.' In his person and whole deportment he is 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 113 
 
 contrasted with the mild and wise Hidalla, another 
 leader of the same army, on whose humanity and gen- 
 tleness 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 hi3 schemes 
 of revenge, even to the length of denying the funeral 
 song to the dead ; which, from the injury thereby done 
 to their ghusts, was in those days considered as the 
 greatest barbarity. Fierce to the last, he comforts him- 
 self 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 pa- 
 thetic, 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 distin- 
 guished by the most humane virtues. He abhors all 
 fraud and cruelty, is famous for his hospitality to stran- 
 gers ; 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 ma- 
 naged it so as to make Cathmor himself indirectly ac- 
 knowledge Fingal's superiority, and to appear some- 
 what 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 : Cu- 
 thullin is particularly honourable ; Cathmor particu- 
 larly amiable; Fingal wise and great, retaining an 
 ascendant peculiar to himself in whatever light he is 
 viewed. 
 
 But the favourite figure in Temora, and the one most 
 highly finished, is Fillan. His character is of that 
 sort for which Ossian shews a particular fondness ; an 
 eager, fervent, young warrior, fired with all the im- 
 patient enthusiasm for military glory, peculiar to that 
 
114 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 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 sup- 
 pose his ambition to have been highly stimulated. 
 Withal, as he 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 at- 
 tack the enemy ; and complains to him, that his father 
 had never allowed him any opportunity of signalising 
 his valour. 4 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 honour, 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 Fin- 
 gal's paternal emotion on this occasion. 4 Nor is he un- 
 seen 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 com- 
 mand, 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 him- 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAX. 
 
 115 
 
 self 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 Filian. ' Sedate, however, 
 and wise, he mixes the praise which he bestows on 
 him with some reprehension of his rashness. 1 My son, 
 1 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 re- 
 commends his son to their care, extremely touching. 
 1 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 be- 
 gins, 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 Filian is drawing near, Ossian, if 
 any where, excels himself. Foldath being slain, and 
 a general rout begun, there was no resource left to the 
 enemy but in the great Cathmor 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. Filian hung forward on their 
 steps, and strewed the heath with dead. Fingal re- 
 joiced 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! Th host is 
 
116 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 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 pas- 
 sionate 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 imme- 
 diate 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 
 his blast. The troubled ocean feels his steps, as he 
 strides from wave to wave. His path kindles behind 
 him ; islands shake their heads on the heaving seas.' 
 
 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 ren- 
 dered too interesting and affecting. Our attention is 
 naturally drawn towards Fingal. He beholds from 
 his hill the rising of Cathmor, and the danger of his 
 son. But what shall he do 1 ' Shall Fin gal rise to his 
 aid, and take the sword of Luuo 1 What then shall 
 become of thy fame, son of white- bosomed Clatho? 
 Turn not thine eyes from Fingal, daughter of Inistore ! 
 I shall not quench thy early beam. 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, he withdraws from the sight of the engage- 
 ment ; and dispatches Ossian in haste to the field, with 
 this affectionate and delicate injunction : * Father of 
 Oscar !' addressing him by a title which on this occa- 
 sion 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 unwill- 
 ing to describe Fillan vanquished, the poet suppresses 
 all the circumstances of the combat with Cathmor ; 
 and only shews us the dying hero. We see him ani- 
 mated to the end with the same martial and ardent 
 spirit ; breathing his last in bitter regret for being so 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 117 
 
 early cut off from the field of glory. ' Ossian,lay me 
 in that hollow rock, liaise no stone above me, lest 
 one should ask about my fame. 1 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'i' 
 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 man- 
 ners is every where presented to us ; one spirit of 
 poetry reigns ; the masterly hand of Ossian appears 
 throughout; the same rapid and animated style; the 
 same strong colouring of imagination, and the same 
 glowing sensibility of heart. Besides the unity which 
 belongs to the compositions of one man, there is more- 
 over a certain unity of subject, which very happily 
 connects all these poems. They form the poetical his- 
 tory of the age of Fingal. The same race of heroes 
 whom we had met with in the greater poems, Cathul- 
 lin, Oscar, Gonnar, and Gaul, return again upon the 
 stage ; and Fingal himself is always the principal 
 figure, presented on every occasion, with equal mag- 
 nificence, nay, rising upon us to the last. The cir- 
 cumstances of Ossian's old age and blindness, his sur- 
 viving all his friends, and his relating their great ex- 
 ploits to Malvina, the spouse or mistress of his beloved 
 son Oscar, furnish the finest poetical situations that 
 
118 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 fancy could demise for that tender pathetic which reigns 
 in Ossian's poetry. 
 
 On each of these poems there might be room for se- 
 parate observations, with regard to the conduct and 
 disposition of the incidents, as well as to the beauty 
 of the descriptions and sentiments. Carthon is a re- 
 gular and highly finished piece. The main story is 
 very properly introduced by Clessammor'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 honour 
 to his father, has contrived to distinguish him for being 
 an eminent poet, as well as warrior. Fingal's song 
 upon this occasion, when 4 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 judgment put in his mouth, as the serious- 
 ness, no less than the sublimity of the strain, is pecu- 
 liarly 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 beau- 
 tiful 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 thereon the strings of his 
 harp, the concern which Fingal shews on hearing it, 
 and the invocation of the ghosts of their fathers, to re- 
 ceive the heroes falling in a distant land, are intro- 
 duced 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 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 119 
 
 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 Os- 
 aian 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 num- 
 bers the two young warriors, as to recal 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 chi- 
 valry had any real existence, the same military en- 
 thusiasm 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 chi- 
 valry 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 Troubadours, or strolling Provencal 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 dis- 
 guised in the armour of men ; and these are so ma- 
 naged 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 Colraal. 
 
120 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 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 sen 
 timents and the behaviour of Oithona on that occa- 
 sion, are described with such tender and exquisite 
 propriety, as does the greatest ' honour 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 Croma 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 soothe 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, 6 when their renown is around 
 them ; before the feeble behold them in the hall, and 
 smile at their trembling hands.' 
 
 But no where 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.' 
 
 Qiialis olor noto positurus littore vitam, 
 Ingemit, et moestis mulcens concentibus auras 
 Praesago quseritur 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 hall of Fingal presents itself to his 
 view ; i 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 say, I am covered with the 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 121 
 
 drops of heaven ; the time of my departure is near, 
 and the hlast 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 hall 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 favourite object 
 throughout all his poems. 
 
 The scene of most of Ossian's poeins is laid in Scot- 
 land, or in the coast uf Ireland, opposite to the terri- 
 tories of Fingal. When the scene is in Ireland, we 
 perceive no change of manner? from those of Ossian's 
 native country. For as Ireland was undoubtedly peo- 
 pled 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 expe- 
 ditions 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 Cath loda, 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 Celtoe ; and 
 it is curious and remarkable, to find this difference 
 clearly pointed out in the poems of Ossian. His de- 
 scriptions bear the native marks of one who was pre- 
 sent 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 every where 
 
122 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 with the stones and circles of Loda, that is, Odin, the 
 great Scandinavian deity. We meet with the divi- 
 nations 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 as- 
 sisted them, are described as standing at a distance, 
 heedless of their rites. That ferocity of manners 
 which distinguished those nations, also becomes con- 
 spicuous. 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 Rsgner 
 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 observa- 
 tions on his manner of writing, under the general 
 beads of Description, Imagery, and Sentiment. 
 
 A poet of original genius is always distinguished by 
 his talent for description. A second-rate writer dis- 
 cerns 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 ob- 
 ject 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 colours 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 im- 
 pression of the object; and then, by a proper selection 
 of capital picturesque circumstances employed in de- 
 scribing 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 pro- 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 123 
 
 duce upon the imaginations of those who read him 
 with any degree of attention or taste. Few poets are 
 more interesting. We contact an intimate acquaint- 
 ance 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 ex- 
 quisite 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 
 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 his head. Desolate is the dwelling of 
 Moina; silence is in the house of her fathers.' No- 
 thing also can be more natural and lively than the 
 manner in which Carthon afterwards describes how 
 the conflagration of his city affected him when a child : 
 ' Have I not seen the fallen Balclutha? And shall I 
 feast with Corahal'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 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 dan- 
 ger by the appearance of a prodigy, is described with 
 
124 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 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 di- 
 versified by circumstances than those of Homer. This 
 is in some measure true. The amazing fertility of 
 Homer's invention is no where 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 colours 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 favourite 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 re- 
 gion within which it chiefly exerted itself was the 
 highest of all, the region of the pathetic and sublime. 
 
 We must not imagine, however, that Ossian's bat- 
 tles consist only of general indistinct description. 
 Such beautiful incidents are sometimes introduced, 
 and the circumstances of the persons slain so much 
 diversified, as shew that he could have embellished 
 his military scenes with an abundant variety of par- 
 ticulars, if his genius had led him to dwell upon them. 
 One man is stretched in the dust of his native land; 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 125 
 
 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 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 ardour of two youthful warriors 
 than the following : 1 I saw Gaul in his armour, and 
 my soul was mixed with his ; for the fire of the battle 
 was in his eyes ; he looked to the foe with joy. We 
 spoke the words of friendship in secret ; and the light- 
 ning 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 full and extended style, is of advantage to de- 
 scription. On the contrary, such a diffuse manner for 
 the most part weakens it. Any one redundant cir- 
 cumstance is a nuisance. It encumbers and loads the 
 fancy, and renders the main image indistinct. 1 Obstat,' 
 as Quintilian says with regard to style, 1 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 parti- 
 cular ; 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, 
 shews 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 
 
126 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 most concise. He has even a degree of abruptness re- 
 sembling our author: yet no writer is more eminent 
 for lively description. When Fingal, after having 
 conquered the haughty Swaran, propos-es to dismiss 
 him with honour : ' 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 amplifi- 
 cation 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 dan- 
 ger, 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 do- 
 mestic 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, so- 
 lemn, 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 laboured illustration. 
 
 But Ossian's genius, though chiefly turned towards 
 the sublime and pathetic, was not confined to it. In 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 127 
 
 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 tender- 
 ness of Tibullus seems united with the majesty of Vir- 
 gil. * 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.' Se- 
 veral 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. 
 Wo meet with no affected ornaments; no forced re- 
 finement; no marks either in style or thought of a 
 studied endeavour to shine or sparkle. Ossian appears 
 every where to be prompted by his feelings ; and to 
 speak from the abundance of his heart. I remember 
 no more than one instance of what can be called a 
 quaint thought in this whole collection of his works. 
 It is in the first book of Fiugal, 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 ex- 
 pressions, 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.' 
 
 KpuepoTo T€Tap7rwjue(r0a 76010. 
 
128 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 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 gratifi- 
 cation which a virtuous heart often feels in the indul- 
 gence 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 held in chief honour: gallant actions 
 and virtuous sufferings, were the chosen theme ; pre- 
 ferably 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 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 re- 
 markably 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 so much in the works of 
 Ossian, and are commonly among the favourite pas- 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 129 
 
 sages 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 connexion 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. Some- 
 times a resemblance in the effect produced by two ob- 
 jects, is made the connecting principle : sometimes a 
 resemblance in one distinguishing property or circum- 
 stance. 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 con- 
 cordant, ideas ; so that the remembrance of the one, 
 when recalled, serves to quicken and heighten the im- 
 pression 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 ; 
 farther 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 1 ? 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 lock3 : a circumstance both extremely picturesque 
 
130 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 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 exer- 
 cised in distinguishing objects, and remarking the dif- 
 ferences 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 compari- 
 sons 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 be 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 ser- 
 pents, which Ave 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 em- 
 ployed 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 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 131 
 
 purpose to describe lions or tigers by similes taken from 
 men, than to compare men to lions. Ossian is very 
 correct in tMs particular. His imagery is, without 
 exception, copied from that face of nature which he 
 saw before his eyes ; and by consequence may be ex- 
 pected 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 wilder 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 moun- 
 tain bee ; and a very few from such operations of art 
 as were then known. Homer has diversified his ima- 
 gery by many more allusions to the animal world; to 
 lions, bulls, goats, herds of cattle, serpents, insects; 
 and to the 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 
 
132 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 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 labour. 
 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 objec- 
 tion 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 si- 
 mile, 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, 
 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 at- 
 titude ; 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 nor- 
 them 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 di- 
 versified its appearance. The shield of a warrior is 
 like ' the darkened moon when it moves a dun circle 
 through the heavens.' The face of a ghost, wan and 
 pale, 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, 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 133 
 
 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 1 dark as the troubled face of the moon, when it fore- 
 tels 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 em- 
 ploys it to heighten the appearance of a beautiful ob- 
 ject. The hair of Morna is ' like the mist of Cromla, 
 when it curls on the rock, and shines to the beam of 
 the west.' — 1 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 ter- 
 rible 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 a^ 
 mist that is poured on the valley, when storms invade 
 G 2 
 
134 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 the silent sun-shine of heaven.' Fame, suddenly de- 
 parting, 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 Cath- 
 mor,' says Fingal, ' his soul is great ; his arm is strong; 
 his battles are full of fame. But the little soul is like 
 a vapour that hovers round the marshy lake. It never 
 rises on the green hill, lest the winds meet it there. 
 Its dwelling is in the cave ; and it sendsforth 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 shew with 
 what richness of imagination Ossian's comparisons 
 abound, and, at the same time, with whatpropriety 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 per. 
 haps be agreeable to the reader, to see how Homer and 
 Ossian have conducted some images of the same kind. 
 This might be shewn in many instances. For as the 
 great objects of nature are common to the poets of all na- 
 tions, and make the general store-house of all imagery, 
 the ground-work 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 im- 
 posing harmony of flowing numbers. It is only by 
 viewing Homer in the simplicity of a prose translation , 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 135 
 
 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 favourite 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 dis 
 tant shepherd hears on the mountain their roar from 
 afar. Such was the terror and the shout of the engag- 
 ing armies.' In another passage, the poet, much in 
 the manner of Ossian, heaps simile on simile, to ex- 
 press the vastness of the idea with which his imagina- 
 tion seems to labour. 4 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 storm rages ; as was 
 the clamour of the Greeks and Trojans, when, roaring 
 terrible, they rushed against each other. 'f 
 
 To these descriptions and similes, we may oppose 
 the following from Ossian, and leave the reader to 
 judge between them. He will find imagesof 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 echo- 
 ing 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, 
 
 * Iliad, iv. 46; and Iliad, viii. 60. t Iliad, xiv.393. 
 
136 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 meet Locblin and Inisfail. Chief mixed his strokes 
 with chief, and man with man. Steel clanging, sound- 
 ed 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 host 
 came on ; as meets a rock a thousand waves, so Inis- 
 fail 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 hun- 
 dred 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 roar- 
 ing, 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 ap- 
 proaching, to the gathering of dark clouds. * As when 
 a shepherd,' sajs 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 pha- 
 lanx to the war.'* — • 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 cloud 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 
 * Iliad, iv. 275. 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 137 
 
 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.'* Ossian, with full as much propriety, com- 
 pares 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, medi- 
 tating, in silence, the assassination of Oscar, until the 
 moment came when his designs were ripe for execu- 
 tion, 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 light- 
 ning 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 armour, like the star of autumn : 
 bright are its beams, distinguished amidst the multi- 
 tude of stars in the dark hour of night. It rises in its 
 splendour; but its splendour is fatal; betokening to 
 miserable men the destroying heat.'t The first ap- 
 pearance 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 o f 
 * Iliad, v. 522. t Iliad, xxii. 26. 
 
138 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 death, setting in the heath of Maimer, when the tra- 
 veller 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 si- 
 militude 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 Euphorbns. 1 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 de- 
 scending, 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 lamenta- 
 tion 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 Os- 
 sian's similes, taken from trees, are remarkably beau- 
 tiful, 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.' O r 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 
 
 * Iliad, xvii. 53. 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 139 
 
 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 Idome- 
 neus to battle, like Mars, the destroyer of men, when 
 he 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 Ephyriansand Phlegyans; nor do they regard the 
 prayers of either ; but dispose of success at their will.'* 
 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 11am- 
 ing locks. So terrible was Cuthullin in the day of his 
 fame.' 
 
 Homer's comparisons relate chiefly to martial sub- 
 jects, to the appearances and motions of armies, the 
 engagement and death of heroes, and the various in- 
 cidents 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, 
 * Iliad, xiii.298. 
 
140 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 for instance, can be more delicate and moving, than 
 the following simile of Oithona's, in her lamentation 
 over the dishonour she had suffered 1 ' Chief of Stru- 
 mon,' 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 V The music of bards, a 
 favourite 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 honour 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 wakens 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 Ho- 
 mer, 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 elegance of Virgil, his artful imitation of 
 Homer, the Roman stateliness which he every where 
 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 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 141 
 
 one are move gentle and polished, those of the other 
 more strong; the tenderness of Virgil softens, that of 
 Ossian dissolves and overcomes the heart. 
 
 A resemblance maybe sometimes observed between 
 Ossian's comparisons, and those employedby 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 differ- 
 ent 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, ratherthan spread outinto little episodes. 
 In the following example may be perceived what in- 
 expressible grandeur poetry receives from the interven- 
 tion 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 sub- 
 stitutes a figured description in room of the object de- 
 scribed, 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 east, 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 usin dark- 
 ness, first of the maids of Lutha! — Soon hast thou set, 
 Malvina ! but thou risest, like the beam of the east, 
 * Isaiah xvii. 13. 
 
142 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 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 exaggera- 
 tion, 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 ad- 
 vantage owing, no doubt, to the more cultivated state 
 in which, as was before shewn, poetry subsisted among 
 the ancient Celtsg, 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 de- 
 serving censure that it merits praise, as being, on that 
 occasion, natural and proper. The scout arrives, trem- 
 bling 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 apprehen- 
 sion, 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 Ca- 
 naan. ' 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 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 143 
 
 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 be- 
 comes too visible and fantastic : and overthrows that 
 impression of reality, which the probable recital of hu 
 man 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 
 amuse 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 pas- 
 sion, our poet abounds; and they are among his high- 
 est beauties. Witness the apostrophe, in the first book 
 of Fingal,to the maid of Inistore, whose lover had fallen 
 in battle; and that inimitably line one of Cuthullin to 
 Bragela at the conclusion of the same book. He com- 
 mands the 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 
 Cuthullii ? 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 incle- 
 mency 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, 
 * Numbers, xiii. 32, 33. 
 
144 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 and send her from my mind ; for lovely with her ra- 
 ven hair is the white-bosomed daughter of Sorglan.' 
 This breathes all the native spirit of passion and ten- 
 derness. 
 
 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 pas- 
 sage only of the address to the moon, there appears 
 some obscurity. ' Whither dost thou retire from thy 
 course wiien 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.' We may be at a loss to com- 
 prehend, at first view, the ground of those specula- 
 tions 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 dominion 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, pre- 
 sents to his melancholy imagination the image of sor- 
 row ; 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 na- 
 turally to Ossian as the death of beloved friends. An in- 
 stance 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 daugh- 
 ters, sees Edgar appear disguised like 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? 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 145 
 
 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 thee, O Dar-thula : and deny the woody 
 Etha to thy sails. These are not thy mountains, Na- 
 thos, nor is that the roar of thy climbing waves. The 
 halls of Cairbar are near, and the towers of the foe lift 
 their head. Where have ye been, ye southern winds! 
 when the sons of my love were deceived 1 But ye have 
 been sporting on plains, and pursuing the thistle's 
 beard. O that ye had been rustling in the sails of Na- 
 thos, till the hills of Etha rose ! till they rose in their 
 clouds, and saw their coming chief.' This passage is 
 remarkable for the resemblance it bears to an expos- 
 tulation with the wood nymphs, on their absence at a 
 critical time ; which, as a favourite poetical idea, Vir- 
 gil has copied from Theocritus, and Milton has very 
 happily imitated from both. 
 
 Where were ye, nymphs ! when the remorseless deep 
 
 Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas? 
 
 For neither were ye playing on the steep 
 
 Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie ; 
 
 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 sen- 
 timents can be beautiful without being proper ; tha 
 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, 
 aexes, and conditions, are introduced into his poems; 
 and they speak and act with a propriety of sentiment 
 and behaviour 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. 
 
146 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 The sublime is not confined to sentiment alone. It 
 belongs to description also ; and whether in descrip- 
 tion or in sentiment, imports such ideas presented to 
 the mind, as raise it to an uncommon degree of ele- 
 vation, 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 cha- 
 racter of genius belongs to Ossian, may, I think, suf- 
 ficiently appear from many of the passages I have al- 
 ready had occasion to quote. To produce more in- 
 stances were superfluous. If the engagement of Fingal 
 with the spirit of Loda, in Carric-thura ; if the en- 
 counters 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 one too, 
 of the true poetical sublime, I confess myself entirely 
 ignorant of this quality in writing. 
 
 All the circumstances, indeed, of Ossian's composi- 
 tion, are favourable 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 advan- 
 tage 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 con- 
 sistent with a certain noble disorder. It associates 
 naturally with that grave and solemn spirit which dis- 
 tinguishes our author. For the sublime is an awful 
 and serious emotion ; and is heightened by all the 
 images of trouble, and terror, and darkness. 
 
 Jpse pater, media nimborum in nocte, corusca. 
 Fulmina molitur dextra; quo maxima raotu 
 Terra tremit; fugere terse; et mortalia corda 
 Per gentes, humilis stravit pavor ; i lie, flagranti 
 Aut Atho, aut Rhodopen, aut alta Ceraunia telo 
 Dejicit. Virg. Georg. j. 
 
ON THE POEMS OP OSSIAN. 147 
 
 Simplicity and conciseness are never-failing charac- 
 teristics 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 be- 
 gins 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 ge- 
 nerosity of sentiment. Whatever discovert* human 
 nature in its greatest elevation ; whatever bespeaks a 
 high effort of soul ; or shews a mind superior to plea- 
 sures, to dangers, and to death ; forms what may be 
 called the moral or sentimental sublime. For this 
 Ossian is eminently distinguished. No poet main- 
 tains a higher tone of virtuous and noble sentiment 
 throughout all his works. Particularly in all the sen- 
 timents 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 in- 
 jured ; to defend his friends ; to overcome his ene- 
 mies by generosity more than by force. A portion of 
 the same spirit actuates all the other heroes. Valour 
 reigns; but it is a generous valour, void of cruelty, 
 animated by honour, not by hatred. We behold no 
 debasing passions among FingaPs 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. 
 
148 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 But the sublimity of moral sentiments, if they 
 wanted the softening of the tender, would be in ha- 
 zard 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 mys- 
 terious 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 incontestable. He may be 
 blamed for drawing tears too often from our eyes; 
 but that he has the power of commanding them, I be- 
 lieve no man, who has the least sensibility, will ques- 
 tion. 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 accord- 
 ingly, 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 sympa- 
 thy, to affect the heart. A great variety of examples 
 might be produced. We need only open the book to 
 find them every where. What, for instance, can be 
 more moving than the lamentations of Oithona, after 
 her misfortune I Gaul, the son of Morni, her lover, 
 ignorant of what she had suffered, comes to her res- 
 cue. 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 V 
 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. 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 149 
 
 We shall wither together, son of car-borne Morni ! 
 The narrow house is pleasant to me, and the gray 
 stone of the dead ; for never more will I leave thy 
 rocks, sea-surrounded Tromathon ! — Chief of Strumon, 
 why comest thou over the waves to Nuath's mournful 
 daughter 1 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 1 
 — 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 ex- 
 pressions of grief after his defeat, we behold the sen- 
 timents of a hero, generous, but desponding. The si- 
 tuation 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 ;' suggest- 
 ing, 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 honour of a victory, which 
 was owing to him alone. Cuthullin yields to this ge- 
 nerous 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 falls away like a stream after 
 rain, and the noise of the battle is over, then be thy 
 voice sweet in his ear, to praise the king of swords. 
 Give him the sword of Caithbat ; for Cuthullin is wor- 
 thy 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. 
 H 
 
150 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 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 sun-beam of Duns- 
 caich !' 
 
 iEstuat ingens 
 Uno in corde pudor, luctusque, et conscia virtus. 
 
 Besides such extended pathetic scenes, Ossian fre- 
 quently 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 re- 
 marked, as adding much to the tenderness of the scene . 
 In the following passage relating to the death of Cu- 
 thullin, we find a circumstance that must strike the 
 imagination with still greater force. 'And is the son of 
 Semo fallen V 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 1 ? he will 
 say ; and the soul of his mother is sad.' Soon after 
 Fingal had shewn 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 un- 
 expected start of anguish is worthy of the highest 
 tTagic poet. 
 
 If she corat in, she'll sure speak to ray wife— 
 
 My wife!— my wife ]— What wife ?— 1 have no wife— 
 
 Oh, insupportable ! Oh, heavy hour! Othello. 
 
 The contrivance of the incident in both poets is si- 
 milar ; but the circumstances are varied with judg- 
 ment. 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 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 151 
 of a hero, corrects himself, and suppresses his rising 
 grief. 
 
 The contrast which Ossian frequently makes be- 
 tween 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 conclu- 
 sion 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 aged bard. ' fcuch 
 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 surrounded 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 ge- 
 nius, 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 pr.-inted 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 he 
 interest by his descriptions? Does he paint to the 
 * Ossian himself is poetically called the voice of Cona. 
 
152 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 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 medi- 
 ocrity. Uncouth aud abrupt Ossian may sometimes 
 appear, by reason of his conciseness ; but he is sub- 
 lime, 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 favourable 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 hu- 
 manity, virtue, and honour. 
 
 Though unacquainted with the original language, 
 there is no one but must judge the translation to de- 
 serve 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 ani- 
 mated with no small portion of Ossian's spirit. 
 
 The measured prose which he has employed, pos- 
 sesses considerable advantages above any sort of ver- 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 153 
 
 sification 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 mas- 
 terly, as Mr. Macpberson'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 ; divest- 
 ed 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 
 offspring of true and uncommon genius j and we may 
 boldly assign him a place among those whose works 
 are to last for ages. 
 
 • 
 
CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 NOTE. (p. 78.) 
 
 Pugnavimus ensibus 
 Haud postlongum tempus 
 Cum in Gotlandia accessimus 
 Ad serpentis immensi necem 
 Tunc impetravimus Thoram 
 Ex hoc vocarunt me virum 
 Quod serpentem transfodi 
 Hirsutam braccam ob ill am csedem 
 Cuspide ictum intuli in colubrum 
 Ferro lucidorum stupendiorum. 
 
 Multura juvenis fui quando acquisivimus 
 
 Orientem versus in Oreonico freto 
 
 Vulnerum amnes avidae feree 
 
 Et flavipedi avi 
 
 Accepimus ibidem sonuerunt 
 
 Ad sublimes galeas 
 
 Dura ferra magnam escam 
 
 Omnis erat ocean us vulnus 
 
 Vadavit corvus in sanguine ceesorum. 
 
 Alte tulimus tunc lanceas 
 
 Quando viginti annos numeravimus 
 
 Et celebrem laudem comparavimus passim 
 
 Vicimus octo barones 
 
 In oriente ante Dimini portum 
 
 Aquilae impetravimus tunc suflicientem 
 
 Hospitii sumptum in ilia strage 
 
 Sudor, decidit in vulnerum 
 
 Oceano perdidit exercitus setatem. 
 
 Pugnee facta copia 
 
 Cum Helsingianos postulavimus 
 
 Ad aulam Odini 
 
 Naves direximus in ostium Vistula? 
 Mucro potuit turn mordere 
 Omnis erat vulnus unda 
 Terra rubefacta calido 
 Frendebat gladius in loricas 
 Gladius findebat clypeos. 
 
ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 Memini neminem tunc fugisse 
 Priusquam in navibus 
 Heraudus in beilo caderet 
 Non findit navibus 
 Alius baro praestantior 
 Mare ad portum 
 In navtbus 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 Rafno rex caderet 
 Flux.it ex virorum capitibus 
 Calidas in loricas sudor. 
 
 Habere potuerunt turn corvi 
 Ante Indirorum insulas 
 Sufficientem praedam dilaniandam 
 Acquisivimus feris carnivoris 
 Plenum prandium unico actu 
 Difficile erat unius facere nientionem 
 Oriente sole 
 Spicula vidi pungere 
 Propulerunt arcus ex se ferra. 
 
 Altuin 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 
 
156 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 Extrusit areas ex se metallum 
 Volnir cecidit in confliotu 
 Non erat illo rex major 
 Cassi dispersi late per littora 
 Ferse amplectebantur escam. 
 
 Pugna manifeste crescebat 
 
 Antequara Freyr rex caderet 
 
 In FJandorum terra 
 
 Coepit cseruleus ad incidendum 
 
 Sanguine illitus in auream 
 
 ljoricam in pugna 
 
 Durus armor um mucro olim 
 
 Virgo deploravit matutinam lanienam 
 
 Multa prseda dabatur feris. 
 
 Centies centenos vidi jacere 
 In navibus 
 
 Ubi iEnglanes vocatur 
 
 Navigavimus ad pugnam 
 
 Per sex dies antequam exercitus caderet 
 
 Transegimus mucronum missam 
 
 In exortu solis 
 
 Coactus est pro nostris gladiis 
 Valdiofur in bello occumbere. 
 
 Ruit pluvia sanguinis de gladiis 
 
 Prrecepsin Bardafyrde 
 
 Pallidum corpus pro accipitribus 
 
 Murmuravit arcu~ ubi mucro 
 
 Acriter mordebat loricas 
 
 In conflictu 
 
 Odini pile-as galea 
 
 Cucurrit arcus ad vulnus 
 
 Venenate acutus conspersus sudore sanguineo. 
 
 Tenuimus magica scuta 
 Alte in pugnae ludo 
 Ante Hiadningum sinum 
 Videre licuit turn Tiros 
 Qui gladiis lacerarunt clypeos 
 In gladiatorio murmure 
 Galete attritee virorum 
 
ON THE POEMS OP OSSIAN. 
 
 Erat sicut splendidam virginem 
 In lecto juxta se collocare. 
 
 Dura venit tenvpestas clypeis 
 Cadaver cecidit in terrain 
 In Nortumbria 
 
 Erat circa matutinum ternpus 
 Hominibus necessum erat fugere 
 Ex. praelio ubi acute 
 Cassidis campos mordebant gladii 
 Erat hoc veluti juvenem viduaru 
 In primaria sede osculari. 
 
 Herthiofe evasit fortunatus 
 In Australibus Orcadibus ipse 
 Victorias in nostris hominibus 
 Cogebatur in armorum nimbo 
 Rogvaldus occumbere 
 Istc venit su minus super accipitres 
 Luctus in gladiurum ludo 
 Strenue jactabat concussor 
 Galeae sanguinis teli. 
 
 Quilibet jacebat transversim supra ali 
 Gaudebat pugna laetus 
 Accipiter ob gladiorum ludum 
 Non fecit aquilam aut aprum 
 Qui Irlandiam gubernavit 
 Conventus fiebat ferri etclypei 
 Marstanus rex jejunis 
 Fiebat in vedrae sinu 
 Praeda data corvis. 
 
 Bellatorem multum vidi cadere 
 Mante ante machaeram 
 Virum in mucronnm dissidio 
 Filio meo iucidit mature 
 Gladius juxta cor 
 Egilius fecit Agnerum spoliatum 
 Imperterritum virum vita 
 Sonuit lancea prope Hamdi 
 Griseam loricam splendebant vexilla. 
 H 2 
 
CRITICAL DISSERTATION 
 
 Verborum tenaces vidi dissecare 
 
 Haud minutim pro lupis 
 
 Endili maris ensibus 
 
 Erat per hebdomadae spatium 
 
 Quasi mulieres vinum apportarent 
 
 Rubefactse erant naves 
 
 Valde in strepitu armorum 
 
 Scissa erat lorica 
 
 In Scioldungorum praelio. 
 
 Pulcricomum vidi crepusculascere 
 Virginis amatorem circa matutinum 
 Et confabulationis amicum viduarum 
 Erat sicut calidum balneum 
 Vinei vasis nympha portaret 
 Nos in Use freto 
 Antequam Orn rex caderet 
 Sanguineum clypeum vidi ruptum 
 Hoc invertit virorum vitam. 
 
 Egimus gladiorum ad caedem 
 Ludum in Lindis insula 
 Cum regibus tribus 
 Pauci potuerunt inde laetari 
 Cecidit multus in rictum ferarum 
 Accipiter dilaniavit carnem cum lupo 
 Ut satur inde discederet 
 Hybernorum sanguis in oceanum 
 Copiose decidit per mactationis tempus 
 
 Alte gladius mordebat clypeos 
 Tunc cum aurei colors 
 Hasta fricabat loricas 
 Videre licuit in Onlugs insula 
 Per ssecula 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 
 
ON THE POEMS OP OSSIAN. 159 
 
 Adversus collocatus sit 
 Saepe deplorat aetatem 
 Qui nunquam premitur 
 Malum ferunt timidum incitare 
 Aquilam ad gladiorum ludum 
 Meticulosus venit nuspiam 
 Cordi suo usui. / 
 
 Hoc numero asquum ut procedat 
 
 In contactu gladiorum 
 
 Juvenis unus contra alterum 
 
 Non retrocedat vir a viro 
 
 Hoc fuit viri fortis nobilitas diu 
 
 Semper debet amoris amicus virginum 
 
 Audax esse in fremitu armorum. 
 
 Hoc videtur mihi re vera 
 
 Quod fata sequimur 
 
 Rarus transgreditur fata Parcarum 
 
 Non destinavi Ellse 
 
 De vitae exitu meae 
 
 Cum ego sanguinem semimortuus tegerem 
 Et naves in aquas protrusi 
 Passim impetravimus turn feris 
 Escam in Scotiae sinubus. 
 
 Hoc ridere me facit semper 
 Quod Balderi patris scamna 
 Parata scio in aula 
 Bibemus cerevisiam brevi 
 Ex concavis crateribus craniorum 
 Non gemit vir fortis contra mortem 
 Magninci in Odini domibus 
 Non venio desperabundis 
 Verbis ad Odini aulam. 
 
 Hie vellent nunc omnes 
 Filii Aslaugae gladiis 
 Amarum bellum excitare 
 Si exacte scirent 
 Calamitates nostras 
 Quern non pauci angues 
 
CRITICAL DISSERTATION, &c. 
 
 Venenati me discerpunt 
 Matrem accepi meis 
 Filiis ita ut corda valeant. 
 
 Valde inclinatur ad haereditatem 
 
 Crudele stat nocumentum a vipera 
 
 Anguis inhabitat aulam cordis 
 
 Speramus alterius ad Otbini 
 
 Virgam in Ellae sanguine 
 
 Filiis meis livescet 
 
 Sua ira rubescet 
 
 Non acres juvenes 
 
 Sessionem tranquillam facient. 
 
 Habeo quinquagies 
 
 Praelia sub signis facta 
 
 Ex belli invitatione et semel 
 
 Minime putavi hominum 
 
 Quod me futurus esset 
 
 Juvenis didici mucronem rubefacere 
 
 Alius rex praestantior 
 
 Nos Asas invitabunt 
 
 Non est lugenda mors. 
 
 Fert animus finire 
 Invitant me Dysae 
 Quas ex Othini aula 
 O thin us mihi misit 
 Lastus cerevisiam cum Asis 
 In summa sede bibam 
 Vitae elapsae sunt horae 
 Ridens moriar. 
 
CATH-LODA. 
 
 ARGUMENT OF DUAN I.* 
 
 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. — Nightcoming on, Duth-maruno proposes to Fingal to 
 observe the motions of the enemy. — The king himself under- 
 takes the watch. Advancing towards the enemy, he accidentally 
 comes to the cave of Turthor, where Starno had confined Con- 
 ban-cargla, the captive daughter of a neighbouring chief.— Her 
 story is imperfect, a part of the original being lost.— Fingal 
 comes to a place of worship, where Starno, and his son Swaran, 
 consulted the spirit of Loda concerning the i*sue of the war. — 
 The rencounter of Fingal and Swaran. — Duan first concludes 
 with a description of the airy hall of Crath-loda, supposed to 
 be the Odin of Scandinavia. 
 
 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 arc 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 ?f 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 ! Strulh- 
 mor, dweller of battle's wing ! Cromar, whose ships 
 bound on seas, careless as the course of a meteor, on 
 
 * The bards distinguished those compositions, in which the nar- 
 ration is often interrupted by episodes and apostrophes, by the 
 name of Duan. 
 
 f Agandecea, the daughter of Starno, whom her father killed, 
 on account of her discovering to Fingal a plot laid against his life. 
 
162 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 dark-rolling clouds! Arise around me, children of 
 heroes, in aland unknown ! Let each look on his shield 
 like Trenmor, the ruler of wars/ — * Comedown,' thus 
 Trenmor said, ' thou dweller between the harps ! Thou 
 shalt roll this stream away, or waste with me in earth.' 
 
 Around the king they rise in wrath. No words come 
 forth : they seize their spears. Each soul is rolled into 
 itself. At length the sudden clang is waked on all 
 their echoing shields. Each takes his hill by night; 
 at intervals they darkly stand. Unequal bursts the hum 
 of songs, between the roaring wind ! 
 
 Broad over them rose the moon ! 
 
 In his arms came tall Duth maruno: he, from Croma 
 of rocks, stern hunter of the boar! In his dark boat he 
 rose on waves, when Crumthormo* awaked its woods. 
 In the chase he shone, among foes : No fear was thine, 
 Duth-maruno ! 
 
 ' Son of daring Comhal, shall my steps be forward 
 through night 1 From this shield shall I view them, 
 over their gleaming tribes 1 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 meettwo roaring streams on Crathmo- 
 craulo's plain. Around are hills, with echoing woods, 
 the ocean is rolling near. My son looks on screaming 
 sea-fowl, a young wanderer on the field. Give the 
 head of a boar to 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 I* 
 
 * 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 Crathmo- 
 craulo, the field of night is mine/ 
 
 Fingal rushed, in all his arms, wide bounding over 
 Turthor's stream, that sent its sullen roar, by night, 
 through GormaVs misty vale. A moon -beam glittered 
 on a rock ; in the midst stood a stately form ; a form 
 with floating locks, like Lochlin's white-bosomed maids. 
 * Crumthormoth, one of the Orkney or Shetland islands. 
 
CATH-LODA. 163 
 
 Unequal are her steps, and short. She throws a 
 broken song on wind. At times she tosses her white 
 arms : for grief is dwelling in her soul. 
 
 ' Torcul-torno, of aged locks!' she said, ' where now 
 are thy steps, by Lulan 1 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 for- 
 got, 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 V 
 
 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 eyes 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 1 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 daugh- 
 ter of grief! a cloud, marked with streaks of fire, is 
 rolled along my soul. Look not to that dark-robed 
 
164 
 
 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 moon ; look not to those meteors of heaven. My gleam- 
 ing 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 smoke. He poured his voice, at times, 
 amidst the roaring stream. Near, bending beneath a 
 blasted tree, two heroes received his words: Swaran 
 of lakes, and Starno, foe of strangers. On their dun 
 shields they darkly leaned : their spears are forward 
 through night. Shrill sounds the blast of darkness in 
 S tamo'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 i3 a rock in war.' Swaran threw his gleaming spear. 
 It stood fixed in Loda's tree. Then came the foes for- 
 ward, with swords. They mixed their rattling steel. 
 Through the thongs of Swaran's shield rushed the 
 blade* of Luno. The shield fell rolling on earth- Cleft 
 the helmet fell down. Fingal stopt the lifted steel. 
 Wrathfulstood 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 ! 
 
 * The 6\vorJ of Fingal, so called from its maker, 
 Luno of Lochlin. 
 
CATH-LODA. 
 
 155 
 
 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 S tamo'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 1 I behold the dark moon de- 
 scending 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 dread- 
 ful 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 arras. Bright, as a rainbow on streams, 
 came Lulan's white-bosomed maid. 
 
 ARGUMENT OF DUAN II. 
 
 Fingal, returning with day, devolves the command on Duth-ma- 
 mno, who engages the enemy, and drives them over the stream 
 of Turthor. Having recalled his people, he congratulates 
 Duth-maruso on his success, but discover* that that hero had 
 been mortally wounded In the action. — Duth-maruno dies. 
 Ullin, the bard, in honour of the dead, introduces the episode 
 of Colgorm and Strina-dona, which concludes this duan. 
 
 * Where art thou, son of the king?' said dark-haired 
 Duth-maruno. ' Where hast thou failed, young beam 
 of Selraa ? 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 pre- 
 sence. 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 
 
1C6 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 his hand are the spoil of foes. King of Selnia, our 
 souls were sad !' 
 
 ' Near us are the foes, Duth maruno. They come 
 forward, like waves in mist, when their foamy tops 
 are seen at times, above the low sailing vapour. The 
 traveller shrinks on his journey ; he knows not whi- 
 ther to fly. No trembling travellers are we ! Sons 
 of heroes call forth the steel. Shall the sword of Fin- 
 gal arise, or shall a warrior lead 1 ?' 
 
 The deeds of old, said Duth-maruno, are like paths 
 to o,ur eyes, 0 Fingal ! Broad-shielded Trenmor is 
 still seen amidst his own dim years. Nor feeble was 
 the soul of the king. There no dark deed wandered 
 in secret. From their hundred streams came the 
 tribes, to grassy Colglancrona. Their chiefs were be- 
 fore 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 ad- 
 vancing 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 eame 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 1 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 murmur of waters the race of U-thorno 
 came down. Starno led the battle, and Swaran of 
 
CATHLODA. 167 
 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 3tream. They heaved like 
 ridgy waves. Their echoing strokes are mixed. Sha- 
 dowy 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 ! 
 
 S tamo brought forward his skirt of war, and Swaram 
 his own dark wing. Nor a harmless fire is Duth- 
 maruno's sword. Lochlin is rolled over her streams. 
 The wrathful kings are lost in thought. They roll 
 their silent eyes over the flight of their land. The 
 horn of Fingal was heard; the sons of woody Albion 
 returned. But many lay, by Turthor's stream, silent 
 in their blood. 
 
 • Chief of Crathmo,' said the king, « Duth-maruno, 
 hunter of boars! not harmless returns my eagle from 
 the field of foes ! For this white-bosomed Lanul shall 
 brighten at her streams ; Candona shall rejoice as he 
 wanders in Crathmo's fields.' 
 
 f Colgorm/ replied the chief, ' was the first of my 
 race in Albion ; Colgorm, the rider of ocean ; through 
 its watery vales. He slew his brother in I-thorno :* 
 he left the land of his fathers. He chose his place, 
 in silence, by rocky Crathmo craulo. His race came 
 forth in their years ; they came forth to war, but they 
 always fell. The wound of my fathers is mine, king 
 of echoing isles !' 
 
 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 tra- 
 veller sees them, through the twilight, from his lonely 
 path. He thinks them the ghosts of the aged, forming 
 future wars. 
 
 * An island of Scandinavia. 
 
168 THE POEMS OF OSSIA.N. 
 
 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 de- 
 parting 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 dwell- 
 ings 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 Colgorn 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 Rur- 
 mar, hunter of boars ! His daughter was fair as a 
 sun-beam, white-bosomed Strina-dona ! 
 
 Many a king of heroes, and hero of iron shields ; 
 many a youth of heavy locks came to Rurmar's echo- 
 ing hall. They came to woo the maid, the stately 
 huntress of Tormoth wild. But thou lookest careless 
 from thy steps, high-bosomed Strina-dona ! 
 
 If on the heath she moved, her breast was whiter 
 than the down of cana ;* if on the sea-beat shore, than 
 the foam of the rolling ocean. Her eyes were two 
 stars of light. Her face was heaven's bow in showers. 
 Her dark hair flowed round it, like the streaming 
 clouds. Thou wert the dweller of souls, white-handed 
 Strina-dona ! 
 
 Colgorm came in his ship, and Corcul-suran, king 
 of shells. The brothers came from I-thorno to woo 
 the sun -be am of Tormoth wild. She saw them in 
 their echoing steel. Her soul was fixed on blue-eyed 
 Colgorm. Ul-lochlin'st nightly eye looked in, and saw 
 the tossing arms of Strina-dona. 
 
 Wrathful the brothers frowned. Their flaming 
 
 * The cana is a certain kind of grass, which grows plentifully 
 in the heathy morasses of the north, 
 t Ul-loch)in, 'the guide toLochlin ;' the name of a star. 
 
v 
 
 CATH-LODA. 169 
 
 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 Colgorra, from I* 
 thorno, to wander on all the winds. In Crathmo- 
 craulo's rocky field he dwelt by a foreign stream. Nor 
 darkened the king alone, that beam of light was near, 
 the daughter of echoing Tormoth, white-armed Strina- 
 dona. 
 
 ARGUMENT OF DUAN HI. 
 
 Ossian, after some general reflections, describes the situation of 
 Fingal, and the position of the army of Lochlin.— The conver- 
 sation of Starnoand 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 neigh- 
 bouring hill. Upon Swaran's refusal, Starno undertakes the 
 enterprise himself, is overcome, and takenprisoix r by Fingal. 
 He is dismissed, after a severe reprimand for his cruelty. 
 
 Whence is the stream of years ? Whither do they 
 roll along 1 Where have they hid, in mist, their many 
 coloured sides. 
 
 I look into the times of old, but they seem dim to 
 Ossian's eyes, like reflected moon-beams on a distant 
 lake. Here rise the red beams of war ! There, silent, 
 dwells a feeble race ! They mark no years with their 
 deeds, as slow they pass along. Dweller between 
 the shields! thou that awakest the failing soul! de- 
 scend from thy wall, harp of Cona, with thy voices 
 three ! Come with that which kindles the past : rear 
 the forms of old, on their own dark-brown years ! 
 
 U-thorno, hill of storms, I behold my race on thy 
 side. Fingal is bending in night over Duth maruoo'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-wan- 
 dering in the west. Cruth-loda bends from high, 
 like a formless meteor in clouds. He sends abroad 
 the winds, and marks them with his signs. Starno 
 foresaw that Morven's king was not to yield in war. 
 
170 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 He twice struck the tree in wrath. He rushed be- 
 fore 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 con- 
 sumed 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 care- 
 less rolled her eyes on the rider of stormy waves. She 
 fled to his ship in darkness, like a moon-beam through 
 a nightly vale. Annir pursued along the deep ; he 
 called the winds of Heaven. Nor alone was the 
 king ! Starno was by his side. Like U-thorno's young 
 eagle, I turned my eyes on my father. 
 
 We rushed into roaring Urlor. With his people 
 oame 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 re- 
 tired 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 fee. 
 
 On a rock sat tall Corman-trunar beside his burn- 
 ing 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,' 
 
CATH LODA. 
 
 171 
 
 Bursting into tears, she rose, and tore a lock from 
 her hair : a lock, which wandered in the blast, along 
 her heaving breast. Corman trunar gave the shell, 
 and bade me to rejoice before him. I rested in the 
 shade of night, and hid my face in my helmet deep. 
 Sleep descended on the foe. I rose, like a stalking 
 ghost. 1 pierced the side of Croman-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 de- 
 parture 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'sfoes. Swaran, 
 Fingal is alone on his hill of night. Let thy spear 
 pierce the king in secret; like Annir, my soul shall 
 rejoice. 
 
 ' Son of Annir,' said Swaran, ' I shall not slay in 
 shades, I move forth in light : the hawks rush froui 
 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 Conbancarglas. There 
 he laid the helmet of kings, and called the maid of 
 Lulau ; 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 Tur- 
 thor'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 ter- 
 rible ! 
 
172 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 Agan- 
 decca 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 re- 
 turns. 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 ! 
 
173 
 
 COM ALA: 
 
 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 21 1, commanded an expedition against the Caledonians. 
 The variety of the measure shews that the poem was origi- 
 nally 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. 1 Comala, the daughter 
 of Sarno, king of Inistore, or Orkney islands, fell in love with 
 Fingal, the 6on 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 pre- 
 viously promised if he survived, to return that night.' The se- 
 quel of the story may be gathered from the poem itself. 
 
 Dersagrena* Th e chase is over. No noise on Ard ven 
 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 Ard ven. 
 
 Melilcoma. Night comes 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 
 
 Fingal. 
 
 Hidallan, 
 
 Comala. 
 
 The Persons. 
 
 Melilcoma, J Daughters 
 Dersagrena, } of Morni. 
 Bards. 
 
 I 
 
174 
 
 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 moun- 
 tain wind is in her hair. She turns her blue eyes to- 
 wards the fields of his promise. Where art thou, O 
 Fingal 1 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 be- 
 tween thy clouds; rise, that I may behold the gleam 
 of his steel on the field of his promise. Or rather let 
 the meteor, that lights our fathers through the night, 
 come with its red beam, to shew me the way to my 
 fallen hero. Who will defend me from sorrow ? Who 
 from the love of Hidallan? Long shall Comala look 
 before she can 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 nomore. The bands 
 of battle are scattered, no crowding tread is round the 
 noise of his steel. O Carun! roll thy streams of blood, 
 the chief of the people is low. 
 
 Comala. Who fell on Carun's sounding banks, son 
 of the cloudy night 1 Was he white as the snow of Ard- 
 ven ? 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 1 Was he like the thunder of heaven in 
 battle 1 Fleet as the roe of the desert 1 
 
 Hidallan. O that I might behold his love, fair-lean- 
 ing 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 
 he mournful tale ! The thunder rolls on the hill ! The 
 lightning flies on wings of fire ! They frighten not Co- 
 
COMALA, 
 
 175 
 
 mala ; 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 
 t'iee ! Let her be like Comala, tearful in the days of 
 her youth! Why hast thou told me, Hidallan, that 
 my hero fell 1 I might have hoped a little while his 
 return ; I might have thought I saw him on the dis- 
 tant rock ; a tree might have deceived me with his ap- 
 pearance ; the wind of the hill might have been the 
 sound of his horn in mine ear. O that I were on the 
 banks of Carun ! that my tears might be warm on his 
 cheek ! 
 
 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 bis breast, 
 that Comala may behold him in the light of his ar- 
 mour. 
 
 Comala. Stop, ye sons of the grave, till I behold my 
 love ! He left me at the chase alone. I knew net 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 1 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 fields of his pride. He sets far distant like a 
 * By the ' dweller of the rock' she means a Druid. 
 
176 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 meteor, that encloses a spirit of night, when the winds 
 drive it over the heath, and the dark woods are gleam- 
 ing around. I heard a voice, or was it the breeze of 
 my hills? Is it the huntress of Ardven, the white- 
 handed daughter of Sarno? Look from thy rocks, my 
 love ; let me hear the voice of Comala ! 
 
 Comala. Take me to the cave of thy rest, O lovely 
 son of death ! 
 
 Fingal. Come to the cave of my rest. The storm is 
 past, the sun is on our fields. Come to the cave of my 
 rest, huntress of echoing Ardven ! 
 
 Comala. He is returned with his fame ! I feel the 
 right hand of his wars ! But I must rest beside the rock 
 till my soul returns from my fear ! O let the harp be 
 near ! raise the song, ye daughters of Morni. 
 
 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 re- 
 joice : 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 
 Iiochlin. Roll, streamy Carun, roll in joy, the sons of 
 battle fled ! 
 
 Melilcoma. Descend, ye light mists from high ! Ye 
 moon-beams, lift her soul ! Pale lies the maid at the 
 rock ! Comala is no more ! 
 
 Fingal. Is the daughter of Sarno dead ; the white- 
 bosomed maid of my love? Meet me, Comala, on my 
 heaths, when I sit alone at the streams of my hills. 
 
 Hidallan. Ceased the voice of the huntress of Ard- 
 ven ? 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 
 
COM ALA. 
 
 177 
 
 chase, my foes shall not fall by thy sword. Lead me 
 to the place of her rest, that I may behold her beauty. 
 Pale she lies at the rock, the cold winds lift her hair. 
 Her bow-string sounds in the blast, her arrow was 
 broken in her fall. Raise the praise of the daughter of 
 Sarno! give her name to the winds of heaven. 
 
 Bards, See ! meteors gleam around the maid ! See ! 
 moon-beams lift her soul I Around her, from their 
 clouds, bend the awful faces of her father; Sarno of 
 the gloomy brow ! the red rolling eyes of Fidallan ! 
 When shall thy white hand arise? When shall thy 
 voice be heard on our rocks 1 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, Mt 
 teors gleam around the maid, and moon-beams lift her 
 soul! 
 
178 
 
 CARRIC-THURA. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Fingal, returning from an expedition which he had made into 
 the Roman province, resolved to visit Cathulla, king of Inis- 
 tore, and brother to 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 aflame 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, alter 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 shews us that he was not ad- 
 dicted to the superstition which prevailed all the world over, 
 before the introduction ©f Christianity. 
 
 Hast thou left tby blue course in heaven, golden- 
 haired son of the sky ! The west has opened its gates ; 
 the bed of thy repose is there. The waves come to 
 behold thy beauty. They lift their trembling heads. 
 They see thee lovely in thy sleep ; they shrink away 
 with fear. Rest, in thy shadowy cave, O sun! let 
 thy return be in joy. 
 
 But let a thousand lights arise to the sound of the 
 harps of Selma : let the beam spread in the hall, the 
 king of shells is returned ! The strife of Cronais past, 
 like sounds that are no more. Raise the song, O bards ! 
 the king is returned with his fame ! 
 
 Such were the words of Ullin, when Fingal returned 
 from war : when he returned in the fair blushing of 
 youth, with all his heavy locks. His blue arms were 
 on the hero; like a light cloud on the sun, when he 
 moves in his robes of mist, and shews but half his 
 beams. His heroes 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 hosts of our fa- 
 
CARRIC-THURA. 
 
 179 
 
 tliers 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 shews its lovely head 
 on the lake, and the setting sun is bright. She comes, 
 
 0 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 1 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 tiiy 
 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, 
 
 1 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 west- 
 ern 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 wiud ; 
 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^invela. Gray stones, and heaped-up earth. 
 
180 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 remem. 
 ber Shilric. 
 
 And I remember the chief, said the king of woody 
 Morven ; he consumed the battle in his rage. But 
 now my eyes behold him not. I met him, one day, 
 on the hill ; his cheek was pale ; his brow was dark. 
 The sigh was frequent in his breast: his steps were 
 towards the desert. But now he is not in the crowd 
 of my chiefs, when the sounds of my shields arise. 
 Dwells he in the narrow house,* the chief of high 
 Carmora ? 
 
 Cronnan ! said Ullin of other times, raise the song 
 of Shilric ! when he returned to his hills, and Vinvela 
 was no more. He leaned on her gray mossy stone ; 
 he thought Vinvela lived. He saw her fair moving 
 on the plain ; but the bright form lasted not : the sun- 
 beam fled from the field, and she was seen no more, 
 Hear the song of Shilric; it is soft, but sad! 
 
 I sit by the mossy 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 com- 
 fort, 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, 
 * The grave. 
 
CARRIC-THURA. 
 
 181 
 
 as the sun in a summer-storm, comest thou, O maid, 
 over rocks, over mountains, to me 1 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 1 I heard of thy death on the hill ; I 
 heard and mourned thee, Shilric ! Yes, my fair, I re- 
 turn : 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 1 
 
 ' 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 I 
 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 
 fiame edged with smoke. The king of Morven struck 
 his breast: he assumed at once his spear. His dark- 
 ened 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 S 
 
 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 I A narrow plain spreads beneath 
 covered with grass and aged trees, which the mid- 
 night winds, in their wrath, had torn from their 
 shaggy rock. The blue course of a stream is there ! 
 I 2 
 
182 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 the lonely blast of ocean pursues the thistle's beard. 
 The flame of three oaks arose : the feast is spread 
 around ; but the soul of the king is sad, for Carric- 
 thura's chief distrest. 
 
 The wan cold moon rose in the east. Sleep de- 
 scended on the youths! Their blue helmets glitter to 
 the beam ; the fading lire 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 
 Starno'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 1 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 blast of death. 
 I come abroad on the winds ; the tempests are before 
 my face. But my dwelling is calm, above the clouds ; 
 the fields of my rest are pleasant. 
 
 Dwell in thy pleasant fields, said the king : Let 
 Comhal's son be forgot. Do my steps ascend from my 
 hills into thy peaceful plains ? Do I meet thee with a 
 spear on thy cloud, spirit of dismal Loda 1 Why then 
 dost thou frown on me ? Why shake thine airy spear 1 
 Thou frownest in vain : I never fled from the mighty 
 in war. And shall the sons of the wind frighten the 
 king of Morven 1 No : he knows the weakness of their 
 arms ! 
 
 Fly to thy land, replied the form : receive thy wind 
 and fly 1 The blasts are in the hollow of my hand : 
 
CARRIC-THURA. 
 
 183 
 
 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 Carrie- 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 re- 
 joiced. 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 Carrie 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 fourth, Sarno sent 
 him to his ship, and he returned to his land. But 
 wrath darkened in his soul against the noble Cathulla. 
 When Annir's stone of fame arose, Frothal came in 
 his strength. The battle burned round Carrie thura 
 and Sarno's mossy walls. 
 
 Morning rose on Inistore. Frothal struck his dark 
 brown shield. His chiefs started at the sound; they 
 
184 . THE POEMS OF OSSUN. 
 
 stood, but their eyes were turned to the sea. They saw 
 Fingal coming in his strength ; and first, the noble 
 Tbubar spoke. ' Who conies, like the stag of the de- 
 sert, with all his herd behind him 1 Frothal, it is a foe ! 
 I see his forward spear. Perhaps it is the king of Mor- 
 ven, Fingal the first of men. His deeds are well known 
 in Lochlin ! the blood of his foes is in Starno's halls. 
 Shall I ask the peace of kings 1 His sword is the bolt 
 of heaven!' 
 
 Son of the feeble hand, said Frothal, shall my days 
 begin in a cloud 1 Shall I yield before I have con- 
 quered, chief of streamy Tora? The people would say 
 in Sora, Frothal flew forth like a meteor; but a dark- 
 ness 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 arise. 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 fighto The soft 
 sigh of Utha was near! She bad followed her hero 
 in the armour of a man. She rolled her eye on the 
 youth, in secret, from beneath her steel. She saw 
 the bard as he went; the spear fell thrice from her 
 hand! Her loose hair flew on the wind. Her white 
 breast rose with sighs. She raised her eyes to the 
 king. She would speak, but thrice she failed. 
 
CARRIC-THURA. 
 
 185 
 
 Fingal heard the words of the hard ; he came in the 
 strength of his steel. They mixed their deathful 
 spears: they raised the gleam of their arms. But the 
 sword of Fingal descended and cut Frothal's shield in 
 twain. His fair side is exposed ; half bent, he foresees 
 his death. Darkness gathered on Utha's soul. The 
 tear rolled down her cheek. She rushed to cover the 
 chief with her 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 V Frothal heard the words of Fingal, and saw 
 the rising maid : they* stood in silence, in their 
 beauty, like two young trees of the plain, when the 
 shower of spring is on their leaves, and the loud winds 
 are laid. 
 
 Daughter of Herman, said Frothal, didst thou come 
 from Tora's streams ? didst thou come in thy beauty 
 to behold thy warrior low t But he was low before 
 the mighty, maid of the slow-rolling eye ! The feeble 
 did not overcome the son of car-borne Annir ! Terri- 
 ble 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 
 * Frothal and Utha. 
 
186 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 has stained their arras ; 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 be- 
 fore 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 Inis- 
 tore : 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 1 
 or v/hat darkens Connal's soul 1 
 
 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 grey mist on 
 the dark-brown wave. They slowly came to land. 
 Connal, many are the warriors of Dargo ! 
 
 Connal. Bring me thy father's shield, the bossy 
 iron shield of Rinval ! that shield like the full-orbed 
 moon, when she moves darkened through heaven. 
 
 Crimora. That shield I bring, O Connal ! but it did 
 not defend my father. By the spear of Gormar he 
 fell. Thou may'st fall, O Connal ! 
 
CARRIC-THURA. 
 
 167 
 
 Connal. Fall I may! but raise my tomb, Crimora f 
 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 here remain. Raise 
 my tomb, Crimora ! 
 
 Crimora. Then give me those arms that gleam ; 
 that sword and that spear of steel. I shall meet 
 Dargo with Connal, and aid him in the fight. Fare- 
 well, 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 V said Utha's burst- 
 ing sigh. * Fell the mighty in battle, and did Crimora 
 live? Her steps were lonely; her soul wa3 sad for 
 Connal. Was he not young and lovely ; like the 
 beam of the setting sun V Ullin saw the virgin's tear, 
 he took the softly- trembling h?rp: the song way 
 lovely, but sad, and silence was in Carrie- thura. 
 
 Autumn is dark on the mountains ; gray mist rests 
 on the hills. The whirlwind is heard on the heath . 
 Dark rolls the river througli the narrow plain. A 
 tree stands alone on the hill, and marks the slumber- 
 ing 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. War- 
 riors 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 
 
188 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 like two caves in a rock. Bright rose their swords 
 on. each side ; loud was the clang of their steel. 
 
 The daughter of Rinval was near ; Crimora bright 
 in the armour of man ; her yellow hair is loose be- 
 hind, her bow is in her hand. She followed the youth 
 to the war, Connalher much-beloved. She drew the 
 string on Dargo ; but, erring, she pierced her Connal. 
 He falls like an oak on the plain ; like a rock from 
 the shaggy hill. What shall she do, hapless maid ! 
 He bleeds; her Connal dies! All the night long she 
 cries, and all the day, * O Connal, my love, and my 
 friend!' With grief the sad mourner dies ! Earth here 
 incloses the loveliest pair on the hill. The grass 
 grows between the stones of the tomb : I often sit in 
 the mournful shade. The wind sighs through the 
 grass ; their memory rushes on my mind. Undis- 
 turbed you now sleep together ; in the tomb of the 
 mountain you rest alone ! 
 
 And soft be their rest, said Utha, hapless children 
 of streamy Lotha ! I will remember them with tears, 
 and my secret song shall rise ; when the wind is in 
 the groves of Tora, when the stream is roaring near. 
 Then shall they come on my soul, with all their 
 lovely grief ! 
 
 Three days feasted the kings : on the fourth their 
 white sails arose. The winds of the north drove 
 Fin gal 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 ! 
 
189 
 
 CARTH ON. 
 
 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 Finga!, Cles- 
 sammor, 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 Bri- 
 tons between the walls. He was hospitably received by Reutha- 
 mir, the principal man in the place, who gave him Moina, 
 his only daughter, in marriage. Reuda, the son of (Torino, a 
 Briton, who was in love with Moina, came to Reuthamir's 
 house, and behaved haughtily towards Clessammor. A quarrel 
 ensued, in which Reuda was killed; the Britons, who attended 
 him, pressed so bard on Clessammor, that he was obliged to 
 throw himself into the Clyde, and swim to his -hip. He hoisted 
 sail, and the wind being favourable, bore him out to sea. He 
 often endeavoured to return, and carry off his beloved Moina 
 by night; but the wind continuing contrary, he was forced to 
 desist. 
 
 Moina, who had been left with child by her husband, brought 
 forth a son, and died soon alter. Keuthumir named the child 
 Carthon, i.e. 4 the murmur of waves,' from the storm which 
 carried off Clessaromor Ins father, who was supposed to have 
 been cast away. When Carthon was three years old, Comhal, 
 the father of Finga], in one of his expeditions ag;iinst the Bri- 
 tons, took and burnt Balclutha. Rcaulhamir 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 Clessammor, in a single combat. This story 
 is the foundation of the present poem, which opens on the night 
 preceding the death of Carihonf so that what passed before is 
 introduced by way of episode. The poem is addressed to Mal- 
 vina, the daughter of Toscar. 
 
 A Ta le of the times of old ! The deeds of days of other 
 years ! 
 
 The murmur of thy streams, O Lora ! brings back 
 the memory of the past. The sound of thy woods, 
 Garmallar, is lovely in mine ear. Dost thou not be- 
 hold, Malvina, a rock with its head of heath ! Three 
 aged pines bend from its face; green is the narrow 
 plain at its feet ; there the flower of the mountain 
 grows, and shakes its white head in the breeze. The 
 thistle is there alone, shedding its aged beard. Two 
 stones, half sunk in the ground, shew their heads of 
 moss. The deer of the mountain avoids the place, for 
 
190 THE POEMS OP OSSIAN. 
 
 he beholds a dim ghost standing there. The mighty 
 He, 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 sun-beam 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 Com- 
 hal'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 landJ 
 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 stran- 
 ger's land rose in the midst of his people. The feast 
 is spread around; the night passed away in joy. 
 Where is$he noble Clessammor? 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 : bu.t, behold, he comes from the 
 hill, like a steed in his strength, who finds his com- 
 panions in the breeze, and tosses his bright mane in 
 the wind. Blest be the soul of Clessammor, why so 
 long from Selma ? 
 
 Returns the chief, said Clessammor, 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 youth- 
 ful days. Sorrow, like a cloud on the sun, shades 
 
CARTHON. 
 
 191 
 
 ' the soul of Clessammor. 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 1 
 
 ' It was in the days of peace,' replied the great 
 Clessammor, * I came, in my bounding ship, to Balclu- 
 tha'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 Reutha- 
 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 
 wave, aad 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 Clessammor 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 
 Clessammor is alone. But my sword trembles by my 
 side, and longs to glitter in my hand. Speak no more 
 of Comhal, son of the winding Clutha! 
 
 'The strength of his pride arose. We fought; he 
 fell beneath my sword. The banks of Clutha heard 
 his fall ; 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 
 
192 
 
 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 the gathered mist : when the sky pours down its flaky 
 snow, and the world is silent and dark.' 
 
 Raise, ye bards, said the mighty Fingal, the praise 
 of unhappy Moina. Call her ghost, with your songs, 
 to our hills, that she may rest with the fair of Morven , 
 the sun-beams of other days, the delight of heroes of 
 old. I have seen the walls of Balclutha, but they 
 were desolate. The fire had resounded in the halls : 
 and the voice of the people is heard no more. The 
 stream of Clutha was removed from its place by the 
 fall of the walls. The thistle shook there its lonely 
 head : the moss whistled to the wind. The fox looked 
 out from the windows, the rank grass of the wall 
 waved round its head. Desolate is the dwelling of 
 Moina, silence is in the house of her fathers. Raise 
 the song of mourning, O bards ! over the land of stran- 
 gers. They have but fallen before us : for one day we 
 must fall. Why dost thou build the hall, son of the 
 winged days 1 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 1 But thou standest alone, my father ! who 
 can equal the king of Selma 1 
 
 The night passed away in song; morning returned 
 in joy. The mountains shewed 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 notjoaove 
 
CART HON. 
 
 193 
 
 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 arni3 ; they drew a thousand swords. The hall 
 cf Selma brightened around. The clang of arms as- 
 cends. The gray dogs howl in their place. No word 
 is among the mighty chiefs. Each marked the eyes 
 of the king, and half-assumed hi? spear. 
 
 Sons of Morven, begun the king, this is no time to 
 fill the shell; the battle darkens near us, death ho- 
 vers 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 be- 
 fore 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 
 
194 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 war; that the ghosts of our foes are many. But re- 
 nowned are they who have feasted in my halls; they 
 shew the arms of my fathers in a foreign land ; the 
 sons of the strangers wonder, and bless the friends of 
 Morven's race; for our names have been heard afar: 
 the kings of the world shook in the imdstof their host. 
 
 Ullin went with his song. Fingal rested on his 
 spear : he saw the mighty foe in his armour : he blest 
 the stranger's son. * How stately art thou, son of the 
 sea ! said the king of woody Morven. Thy sword is 
 a beam of fire by thy side ; thy spear is a pine that 
 defies the storm. The varied face of the moon is not 
 broader than thy shield. Ruddy is thy face of youth ! 
 soft the ringlets 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 mo- 
 ther'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 be- 
 fore 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 1' 
 
 * Dost thou speak to the weak in arms V said Car- 
 thon, ' 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 glad- 
 
CARTHON. 
 
 195 
 
 ness, 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 1 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 trem- 
 bled 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 Fiugal'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. 
 
 Clessammor, said the king of Morven, where is the 
 spear of thy strength 1 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 Mor- 
 ven'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 valour. 
 
 Carthon stood on a rock : he saw the hero rushing 
 
19G THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 on. He loved the dreadful joy of his face: his strength 
 in the locks of age! ' Shall I lift that spear,' he said, 
 1 that never strikes but once a foe? Or shall I, with 
 the words of peace, preserve the warrior's life ? Stately 
 aTe his steps cf age ! iovely 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 Clessammor 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 V 
 
 It will be great, thou son of pride ! begun the tall 
 Clessammor. I have been renowned in battle, but I 
 never told my name to a foe.* Yield to me, son of 
 the wave, then shalt thou know that the mark of my 
 sword is in many a field. 1 1 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 I my arm, my spear is 
 strong. Retire among thy friends; let younger he- 
 roes fight.' Why dost thou wound my soul ? replied 
 Clessammor, with a tear. Age does not tremble on my 
 hand. I still can lift the sword. Shall I fly in Fin- 
 gal'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 roll the wave. Carthon bade his spear to err : he 
 still thought that the foe was the spouse of Moina. 
 He broke Clessammor's beamy spearin twain : he seized 
 his shining sword. But as Carthon was binding the 
 chief, the chief drew the dagger of his fathers. He 
 
 * 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 ance;tors 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. 
 
CARTHON. 
 
 19T 
 
 saw the foe's uncovered side, and opened there a 
 wound. 
 
 Fingal saw Clessarnmor 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 rush- 
 ing 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 
 furce 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 
 60 far renowned 1 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 
 ^yes, behold the rock where Carthon fell. He shall 
 turn to his son, and shew the place where the mighty 
 fought: ' There the king of Balclutha fought, like the 
 strength of a thousand streams.' 
 
 Joy rose in Carthon's face; he lifted his heavy eyes. 
 He gave his sword to Fingal, to lie within his hall, that 
 the memory of Balclutha's king might remain in Mor- 
 ven. The battle ceased along the field, the bard had 
 sung the song of peace. The chiefs gathered round 
 
198 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 the falling Carthon ; they heard his words with sighs. 
 Silent they leaned on their spears, while Kalclutha's 
 hero spoke. His hair sighed in the wind, and his 
 voice was sad and low. 
 
 * King of Morven,' Carthon said, ' 1 fall in the midst 
 of my course. A foreign tomb receives, in youth, the 
 last of Reuthamir's race. Darkness dwells in Balclu- 
 tha : 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 Clessammor: 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, w T hen the sun-beam darts 
 on the rock, and all around is dark. There she is 
 seen, Malvina ; but not like the daughters of the hill. 
 Her robes are from the stranger's land, and she is 
 still alone ! 
 
 Fingal was sad for Carthon ; he commanded his 
 hards to mark the day when shadowy autumn re- 
 turned : 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 trem- 
 bling in his hand ! his eyes are flames of fire ! Who 
 roars along dark Lora's heath 1 ? 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 V Such w T ere 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 Clessammor ! 
 
CARTHON. 
 
 199 
 
 where is thy dwelling in the wind ? Has the youth 
 forgot his wound ? Flies he on clouds with thee 1 I 
 feel the sun, O Malvina ! leave me to my rest. Per- 
 haps 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 for ever the same, rejoicing in 
 the brightness of thy course. When the world is dark 
 with tempests, when thunder rolls and lightning flies, 
 thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, andlaughest 
 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 morn- 
 ing. 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 tho 
 midst of his journey. 
 
200 
 
 OINA-MORUL. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 After an address to Malvina, the daughter of Toscar, Ossian 
 proceeds to relate his own expedition to Fuarfed, an island of 
 Scandinavia. Mal-orchol, king- of Fuarfed, being- hard pressed 
 in war by Ton-thormod, chief of Sar-dronlo (who had demanded 
 in vain the daughter of Mal-orchol in marriage), Fingal sent 
 Ossian to his aid. Ossian, on the day after his arrival, came 
 to battle with Ton-thormod, and took him prisoner. Mal-orchol 
 offers his daughter Oina-morul to Ossian; but he, discovering 
 her passion for Ton-thormod, generously surrenders her to her 
 lover, and brings about a reconciliation between the two kings. 
 
 As flies the unconstant sun over L arm oil's grassy bill, 
 so pass the tales of old along my soul by night ! When 
 bards are removed to their place, when harps are bung 
 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 1 We call back, maid of Lutha, the years 
 that have rolled away! It was in the days of the king, 
 while yet my locks were young, that I marked Con- 
 cathlin* on high, from ocean's nightly wave. My 
 course was towards the isle of Fuarfed, woody dweller 
 of seas ! Fingal had sent me to the aid of Mal-orchol, 
 king of Fuarfed 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 1 Ton-thormod of many 
 spears is the chief of wavy Sar-dronlo. He saw and 
 loved my daughter, white-bosom'd Oina-morul. He 
 
 * Con-cathlin, * mild beaaa of the wave.' What star was eo 
 called of old is not easily ascertained. Some now distinguish the 
 pole-star by that name. 
 
OINA-MORUL. 
 
 201 
 
 sought I denied the maid, for our fathers had been 
 foes. He came with battle to Fuarfed ; my people are 
 rolled away. Why comes the race of heroes to a fall- 
 ing king V 
 
 I come not, I said, to look, like a boy, on the strife. 
 Fingal remembers Mal-orchol, and his hall for stran- 
 gers. 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 Fuarfed 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 Fuarfed, 
 for the foe had failed. Ton-thormod turned his face 
 away from Oina-morul cf isles. 
 
 Son of Fingal, begun Mal-orchol, not forgot shalt 
 thou pass from me. A light shall dwell in thy ship, 
 Oina-morul of slow-rolling eyes. She shall kindle glad- 
 ness 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- 
 
202 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 Fuarfed 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 f 
 
 ' Soft voice of the streamy isle,' I said, f 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 Fuarfed wild, why 
 should Ton-thormod mourn ? He is of the race of he- 
 roes, 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. W e call back, maid 
 of Lutha, the years that have rolled away ! 
 
203 
 
 COLN A-D ON A. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Fingal dispatches Ossian, and Toscar, the son of Conloch and 
 father of Malvina, to raise a stone on the banks of the streatu 
 oTCrona, to perpetuate the memory of a victory which lie had 
 obtained in that place. When they were employed in that work, 
 Car-iil, a neighbouring chief, invited them to a feast. They 
 went, and To>car fell desperately in love with Colna-dona, the 
 daughter of Car-til. Colna-dona became no less enamoured of 
 Toscar. An incident at a hunting party brings their loves to 
 a happy issue. 
 
 Col amon* of troubled streams, dark wanderer of dis- 
 tant 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 Cronaf 
 of the streams, Toscar of grassy Lutha, and Ossian 
 young in fields. Three bards attended with songs. 
 Three bos3y 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 shields of foes, as rose or fell the sound of Ullin's 
 nightly song. Toscar laid a dagger in earth, a mail 
 of sounding steel. We raised the mould around the 
 stone, and bade it speak to other years. 
 
 Oozy daughter of streams, that now art reared on 
 
 * Colna-dona signifies 1 the love of heroes.' Col-amon, ' nar- 
 row river.' Car-ul, 'dark- eyed.' 
 
 t Crona, * murmuring,' was the name of a small stream which 
 discharged itself in the river Carron. 
 
204 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 high, speak to the feeble, O stone ! after Selma's race 
 have failed ! Prone from the stormy night, the tra- 
 veller 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 Dutbmocarglos, 
 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 death. I 
 feasted three days in the hall, and saw the blue eyes of 
 Erin, Roscrana, daughter of heroes, light of Cormac's 
 race. Nor forgot did my steps depart; the kings gave 
 their shields to Car-ul: they hang on high in Col-amon, 
 in memory of the past. Sons of the daring kings, ye 
 bring back the days of old !' 
 
 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 hi 
 
COLNA-DONA. 
 
 205 
 
 his place before the love of heroes. She came on his 
 troubled soul, like abeam to the dark-heaving ocean, 
 when it bursts from a cloud, aud brightens the foamy 
 side of a wave.* 
 
 With morning we awaked the woods, and hung for- 
 ward on the path of the roes. They fell by their wonted 
 streams. We returned through Crona's vale. From 
 the wood a youth came forward, with a shield and 
 pointless spear. — * Whence,' said Toscar of Lutha, ' is 
 the flying beam? Dwells there peace at Col-amon, 
 round bright Colna-dona of harps V 
 
 * 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 be- 
 hind 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 ! 
 
 * Mere an episode is entirelylost ; or, at least, ig handed down 
 so imperfectly, that it does not deserve a place in the poem. 
 
206 
 
 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 Nuath, tlie father of 
 JLathnion, and fell in love with his daughter Oithona. The 
 lady was no less enamoured of Gaul, and a day was fixed for 
 their marri.ge. 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, if he survived the war, by a certain day. Lathmon too 
 was obliged to attend his father Nuath in his wars, and Oithona 
 was left alone at Dunlathmon, the seat of the family. Dun- 
 rommath, lord of Uthal, supposed to be one of the Orkneys, 
 taking advantage of the absence of her friends, came and car- 
 ried off, by force, Oithona, who had formerly rejected his love, 
 into Tromathon, a desert island, where he concealed her in a 
 cave. 
 
 Gaul returned on the day appointed ; heard of the rape, and 
 sailed to Tromathon, to revenge himself on Dunrommath. 
 "When he landed, he found Oithona disconsolate, and resolved 
 not to survive the loss of her honour. She told him the story 
 of her misfortunes, and she scarce ended when Dunrommath 
 with his followers appeared at the farther end of the island. 
 Gaul prepared to attack him, recommending to Oithona tore- 
 tire till the battle was over. She seemingly obeyed; but she 
 secretly armed herself, rushed into the thickest of the battle 
 and was mortally wounded. Gaul, pursuing the flying enemy* 
 found her just expiring on the field : he mourned over her' 
 raised her tomb, and returned to Morven. Thus is the story 
 handed down by tradition; nor is it given with any material 
 difference in the poem, which opens with Gaul's return to 
 Dunlathmon, after the rape of Oithona. 
 
 Darkness dwells around Dunlathmon, though the 
 moon shews half her face on the hill. The daughter 
 of night turns her eyes away ; she beholds the ap- 
 proaching grief. The son of Morni is on the plain : 
 there is no sound in the hall. No long-streaming 
 beam of light comes trembling through the gloom. 
 The voice of Oithona is not heard amidst the noise of 
 the streams of Duvranna. * Whither art thou gone 
 in thy beauty, dark-haired daughter of Nuath? Lath- 
 mon is in the field of the valiant, but thou didst pro- 
 mise to remain in the hall till the son of Morni re- 
 turned. Till he returned from Strum on, to the maid 
 of his love! The tear was on thy cheek at his de- 
 parture ; the sigh rose in secret in thy breast. But 
 thou dost not come forth with songs, with the lightly- 
 trembling sound of the harp!' 
 
OITHONA. 
 
 207 
 
 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 Gawl ! 
 
 Sleep descended on the chiefs. The visions of night 
 arose. Oithona stood, in a dream, before the eyes of 
 Morni'sson. 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 Nuath low ? The sea 
 rolls round the dark isle of Tromathon. I sit in my 
 tears in the cave ! Nor do I sit alone, O Gaul ! the 
 dark chief of Cuthal is there. He is there in the rage 
 of his love. What can Oithona do?' 
 
 A rougher blast rushed through the oak. The dream 
 of night departed. Gaul took his aspen spear. He 
 stood in the rage of his soul. Often did his eyes turn 
 to the east. He accused the lagging light. At length 
 the morning came forth. The hero lifted up the sail. 
 The winds came rustling from the hill; he bounded 
 on the waves of the deep. On the third day arose 
 Tromathon, like a blue shield in the midst of the sea. 
 The white wave roared against its rocks ; sad Oithona 
 sat on the coa3t! 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'ath,' said the hero, ' why dost thou 
 fly from Gaul? Do my eyes send forth the flame of 
 death I Darkens hatred in my soul ? Thou art to me 
 the beam of the east, rising in a land unknown. But 
 
208 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 thou coverest thy face with sadness, daughter of car- 
 home Nuath ! Is the foe of Oithona near ? My snul 
 burns to meet him in fight. The sword trembles by 
 the side of Gaul, and longs to glitter in his hand. 
 Speak, daughter of Nuath! Dost thou not behold my 
 tears V 
 
 * Young chief of Strumon,' replied the maid, 'why 
 comest thou over the dark-blue wave, to Nuath'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 1 Why didst thou come, O Gaul ! to hear my 
 departing sigh 1 I vanish in my youth ; my name 
 shall not be heard. Or it will be heard with grief : 
 the tears of Nuath 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 Stru- 
 mon ! to the sea-beat rocks of Tromathon 1 
 
 ' I came to meet thy foes, daughter of car-borne 
 Nuath ! The death of CuthaPs 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 towar dsthe desert for the return of his 
 son !' 
 
 * Shall the daughter of Nuath live V 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 to- 
 gether, 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 
 Tromathon! 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 Duthormoth. 
 Night came on. I sat in the hall, at the beam of the 
 
OITHONA. 
 
 209 
 
 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 de- 
 fended 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 come3 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 cease on the field. Son of Leth, 
 bring the bows of our fathers I the sounding quiver of 
 Morni ! Let our three warriors bend the yew. Our- 
 selves wilt lift the spear. They are an host on the 
 rock! our souls are strong in war!' 
 
 Oithona went to the cave. A troubled joy rose on 
 her mind, like the red path of lightning on a stormy 
 cloud! Her soul was resolved; the tear was dried 
 from her wildly-looking eye. Dunrommath slowly 
 approached. He saw the son of Morni. Contempt 
 contracted his face, a smile is on his dark-brown cheek ; 
 his red eye rolled, half-concealed, beneath his shaggy 
 brows ! 
 
 * Whence are the sons of the sea V begun the gloomy 
 chief. * Have the winds driven you on the rocks of 
 Tromathon ? 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, 
 
210 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 1 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 bend- 
 ed 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 be- 
 neath 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 mourn- 
 ful brow 1 I have searched for the herbs of the moun- 
 tains; 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. Bat 
 
OITHONA. 
 
 211 
 
 I fall in youth, son of Morni! my father shall blush in 
 his hall!' 
 
 She fell pale on the rock of Tromathon. The mourn- 
 ful warrior raised her tomb. He came to Morven ; 
 we saw the darkness of his soul. Ossian took the harp 
 in the praise of Oithona. The brightness of the face 
 of Gaul returned. But his sigh rose, at times, in the 
 midst of his friends ; like blasts that shake their un- 
 frequent wings, after the stormy winds are laid ! 
 
212 
 
 CROM A. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Malvina, the daughter of Toscar, is overheard by Ossian lament- 
 ing the death of Oscar her Io\er. Ossian, to divert her grief, 
 relates his own actions, in an expedition which he undertook, 
 at Fingal's command, to aid Crothar the petty king of Croma, 
 a country in Ireland, against Kothmar, who invaded iiis domi- 
 nions. The story is delivered down thus in tradition. Cro- 
 thar, king of Croma, being blind with age, and his son too 
 young for the field, Roth mar, the chief of Tromlo, resolved 
 to avail himself of the opportunity offered of annexing the do- 
 minions 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. lint before his arrival 
 Fovar-gormo, 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 ray 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 sun-beam was 
 on his skirts, they glittered like the gold of the 
 stranger. It was the voice of my love ! seldom comes 
 he to my dreams ! 
 
 * But thou dwellest in the soul of Malvina, son of 
 mighty Ossian! My sighs arise with the beam of the 
 east; my tears descend with the drops of night. I 
 was a lovely tree, in thy presence, Oscar, with all my 
 branches 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 
 
CROMA. 
 
 213 
 
 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 de- 
 parted 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.* 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 Os- 
 sian 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, on 
 which the warrior leaned. He hummed the song of 
 other times, when the sound of our arms reached his 
 ears. Crothar rose, stretched his aged hand, and blessed 
 the son of Fingal. 
 
 < Ossian !' said the hero, ' the strength of Crothar's 
 arm has failed. O could I lift the sword, as on the 
 day that Fingal fought at Strutha ! He was the first 
 of men ; but Crothar had also his fame. The king 
 of Morven praised me ; he placed on my arm the 
 
 * Inisfail, one of the ancient names of Ireland. 
 
214 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 bossy shield of Calthar, whom the king had slain in his 
 wars. Dost thou not behold it on the wall? for Cro- 
 thar's eyes have failed. Is thy strength like thy fa- 
 ther's, Ossian ! let the aged feel thine arm !» 
 
 I gave ray 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 echo- 
 ing 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 Fin- 
 gal! in the wars of his father. Rothmar the chief of 
 grassy Tromlo heard that these eyes had failed; he 
 heard that my arms were fixed in the hall, and the 
 pride of his soul arose ! He came towards Croma; my 
 people fell before him. I took my arms in my wrath, 
 but what could sightless Crothar do? My steps were 
 unequal ; my grief was great. I wished for the days 
 that were past. Days ! wherein I fought ; and won 
 in the field of blood. My son returned from the 
 chase : the fair-haired Fovar gormo. He had not 
 lifted his sword in battle, for his arm was young. But 
 the soul of the youth was great ; the fire of valour 
 burned in his eyes. He saw the disordered steps of his 
 father, and his sigh arose. — t King of Croma,' he said, 
 * is it because thou hast no son ; is it for the weakness 
 of Fovar-gormo's arm that thy sighs arise ? I begin, 
 my father, to feel my strength ; I have drawn the 
 sword of my youth ; and I have bent the bow. Let 
 
CROMA. 
 
 215 
 
 me meet this Rothmar, with the sons of Croma : let 
 me meet him, Omy father! I feel my burning soul!* — 
 'And thou shalt meet him,* I said, ' son of the sight- 
 less Crothar ! But let others advance before thee, that 
 I may hear the tread of thy feet at thy return ; for 
 my eyes behold thee not, fair-haired Fovar-gormo!' 
 He went, he met the foe; he fell. Rothmar advances 
 to Croma. He who slew my son is near, with all his 
 pointed spears/ 
 
 This is no time to fill the shell, I replied, and took 
 my spear! My people 3aw the fire of my eyes; they 
 all arose around. Through night we strode along the 
 heath. Gray morning rose in the east. A green nar- 
 row 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 an- 
 swered 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 raise my voice for Fovar-gormo, when they laid 
 the chief in earth. The aged Crothar was there, but 
 his sigh was not heard. He searched for the wound 
 of his son, and found it in his breast. Joy rose in the 
 face of the aged. He came and spoke to Ossian. 
 ' King of spears!' he said, 'my son has not fallen 
 without his fame. The young warrior did not fly ; 
 but met death as he went forward in his strength. 
 Happy are they who die in youth, when their renown 
 is heard ! The feeble will not behold them in the hall ; 
 or smile at their trembling hands. Their memory 
 
216 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 shall be honoured in song; the young tear of the vir- 
 gin will fall. But the aged wither away by degrees ; 
 the fame of their youth, while yet they live, is all for- 
 got. 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 I* 
 
217 
 
 CALTHON AND COLMAL. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 This piece, as many more of (Asian's compositions, is addressed 
 to one of the- first Christian missionaries. The story or the 
 poem is handed down by tradition, thus In the country of the 
 Britons between the walls, two chiefs lived in the days of Fin- 
 ed, Dunthalmo, Lord of Teutha, supposed to be the 1 weed ; 
 and Rathmor, who dwelt at Clutha, well known to be the river 
 Clyde. Rathnior was not more renowned for his generosity 
 and hospitality, than Dunthalmo was inlamous 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 Rathnior, Calthon and 
 Colmar, in his own house. They growing up to man 1 i estate, 
 dropped some hints that they intended to revenge the death ot 
 their father, upon which Dunthalmo shut them up in two caves, 
 on the banks of Teutha, intending to take them off privately. 
 Colmal, the daughter of Dunthalmo, who was secretly in love 
 with Calthon, helped him to make his escape from prison, 
 and fled with him to Fingal, disguised in the habit of a young 
 warrior, and implored his aid against Dunthalmo. Fingal 
 sent Ossian with three hundred men to Colmar's relief. Dun- 
 thalmo having previously murdered Colmar, came to a battle 
 with Ossian, but he was killed by that hero, and his army to- 
 tally 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 1 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; his gray hair glitters in the 
 beam. Dost thou not behold, son of the rock ! a shield 
 in Ossian >s hall 1 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. 
 
218 
 
 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 Rathmor was a chief of Clutha. The feeble dwelt 
 in*his hall. 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. 
 
 Colraar 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 Dun- 
 thalmo 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 Rath- 
 mor 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 
 Oolmal do 1 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 
 
CALTHON AND COLMAL. 219 
 
 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 lly 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 Cal- 
 thon 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 
 swor.d is round the weak. Arise, thou son of Rath- 
 mor; 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 hel- 
 met covered her lovely face. Her bosom heaved be- 
 neath 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 our fathers. 
 Ossian ! be thou a storm in war ; but mild when the 
 foe is low ! It was thus my fame arose, O my son ! 
 
220 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 rat- 
 tling 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 un- 
 settled host moved on the hill ; like the mountain cloud, 
 w hen 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 I113 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 woe to rise, to sooth the mourn- 
 ful chief ; but he stood beneath a tree, and often threw 
 his spear on the earth. The humid eye of Colmal 
 rollednear in a secrettear : she foresaw the fall of Dun- 
 thalmo, 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 
 
CALTHON AND COLMAL. 221 
 
 in his ear. Pale, and shewing his wounds, the ghost 
 of Colmar came : he bent his head over the hero, and 
 raised his feeble voice ! 
 
 • Sleeps the son of Rathmor in his night, and his 
 brother low? Did we not rise to the chase together? 
 Pursued we not the dark-brown hinds ? Colmar was 
 not forgot till he fell, till death had blasted his youth. 
 I lie pale beneath the rock of Lona. O let Calthon 
 rise ! the morning comes with its beams ; Dunthalnio 
 will dishonour the fallen.' He passed away in his blast. 
 The rising Calthon saw the steps of his departure. He 
 rushed in the sound of his steel. Unhappy Colmal rose. 
 She followed her hero through night, and dragged her 
 spear behind. But when Calthon came to Lona's rock, 
 he found his fallen brother. 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 valour rose. 1 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 ea- 
 gles 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 con- 
 quers not at Teutha? Rise in your steel, ye warriors ! 
 follow the sound of Ossian's course. He will not re- 
 turn, but renowned, to the echoing walls of Selma,' 
 
 Morning rose on the blue waters of Teutha. Col- 
 mal 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 trem- 
 bled for Calthon. * Son of the feeble hand!' I said, 
 ' do Teutha's warriors fight with tears 1 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 
 L 
 
222 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 Teu- 
 tha's warriors died 1 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 mould- 
 ered 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 CABOS. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Caros is probably the noted usurper Carausius, by birth, a Mena 
 piaii, who assumed the purple in the year 284 ; and, seizing on 
 Britain, defeated the Emperor Maximinian Herculius in se 
 veral naval engagements, which gives propriety to his being 
 railed in this poem ' the king of ships.' He repaired Agri 
 cola's wall, in order to obstruct the incursions ot the Caledo 
 nians ; and when he was employed in that work, it appears he 
 was attacked by a party under the command of Oscar, the soi 
 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 ligh 
 of the song rises in Ossian's soul ! It is like the field, 
 when darkness covers the hills around, and the sha- 
 dow 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 
 
THE WAR OF CAROS. 223 
 
 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 ray son, with the murmur of a 
 song? His staff is in his hand, his gray hair loo?e 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 : 
 1 spreads he the wings* of his pride, bard of the times 
 of old?' — ' He spreads them, Oscar,' replied the bard, 
 t but it is behind his gathered heap.f 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, 1 take the 
 spear of Fin gal. Fix a flame on its point. Shake it 
 to the winds of heaven. Bid him, in songs, to advance, 
 and leave the rolling of his wave. Tell to Caros that 
 I long for battle ; that my bow is weary of the chase 
 of Cona. Tell him the mighty are not here ; and that 
 my arm is young.' 
 
 He went with the murmur of songs. Oscar reared 
 his voice on high. It reached his heroes on Ardven, 
 like the noise of a cave, when the sea of Togorma 
 rolls before it, and its trees meet the roaring winds. 
 They gather round my son like the streams of the 
 hill; when, after rain, they roll in the pride of their 
 course. Ryno came to the mighty Caros. He struck 
 his flaming spear. Come to the battle of Oscar, O 
 thou that sittest on the rolling of waves ! Fingal is 
 distant far ; he hears the songs of bards in Morvcn : 
 the wind of his hall is in his hair. His terrible 
 spear is at his side ; his shield that is like the dark- 
 ened 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 , 
 
 * The Roman eagle, 
 f Agricola's wall, which Carausius repaired. 
 
224 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 and shew their dim and distant forms. Comala* is 
 half unseen on her meteor ; Hidallan is sullen and 
 dim, like the darkened moon behind the mist of 
 night. 
 
 ' Why art thou sad V said Ryuo ; for he alone be- 
 held the chief. * Why art thou sad, Hidalian ! hast 
 thou not received thy fame 1 The songs of Ossian have 
 been heard; thy ghost has brightened in wind, when 
 thou didst bend from thy cloud to hear the song of 
 Morven's bard!' — 'And do thine eyes/ said Oscar, 
 ' behold the chief, like the dim meteor of night? Say, 
 Ryno, say, how fell Hidallan, the renowned in the 
 days of my fathers! His name remains on the rocks 
 of Cona. I have often seen the streams of his hills !> 
 
 Fingal, replied the bard, drove Hidallan from his 
 wars. The king's soul was sad for Comala, and his 
 eyes could not behold the chief. Lonely, sad, along 
 the heath he slowly moved, with silent steps. His 
 arms hang disordered on his side. His hair flies loose 
 from his brow. The tear is in his down-cast 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. Sight- 
 less 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 1 Hast thou fallen on the banks of Carun, 
 son of the aged Lamor 1 Or, if I hear the sound of Hi* 
 dallan's feet, where are the mighty in the war 1 where 
 are my people, Hidallan ! that were wont to return 
 with their echoing shields 1 Have they fallen on the 
 banks of Carun V 
 
 * No/ replied the sighing youth, ' the people of La- 
 mor live. They are renowned in war, my father ! 
 but Hidallan is renowned no more. I must sit alone 
 
 * This is the scene of Comala's death, which is the subject 
 
 of the dramatic poem. 
 
THE WAR OF CAROS. 
 
 225 
 
 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 Garmallon, who never fled from war! Come, 
 thou renowned in battle, he says, come to thy father's 
 tomb. How am I renowned, Garmallon ? my son has 
 fled from war !' 
 
 ' King of the streamy Balva !' said Hidallan M ith 
 a sigh, 1 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 re- 
 nowned in battle, shall he bend over my gray streams ? 
 Spirit of the noble Garmallon ! carry Lamor to his 
 place ; his eyes are dark, his soul is sad, his son has 
 lost his fame !' 
 
 * Where,' said the youth, ' shall I search for fame, 
 to gladden the soul of Lamor? From whence shall I 
 return with renown, that the sound of my arms may 
 be pleasant in his ear? If I go to the chase of hinds, 
 my name will not be heard. Lamor will not feel my 
 dogs with his hands, glad at my arrival from the hill. 
 He will not inquire of his mountains, or of the dark- 
 brown deer of his deserts I' 
 
 ' 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, goto Lamor's hall: there 
 the arms of our fathers hang. Bring the sword of 
 Garmallon : he took it from a foe !' 
 
 He went and brought the sword with all its stud- 
 ded thongs. He gave it to his father. The gray-haired 
 hero felt the point with his hand. 
 
 * My son, lead me to Garmallon's tomb: it rises be- 
 side that rustling tree. The long grass is withered ; I 
 
226 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 Garmallon's tomb. Lamor pierced 
 the side of his son. They sleep together : their an- 
 cient 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 
 me the deeds of future times ; and your converse in 
 your caves, when you talk together, and behold your 
 sons in the fields of the brave.' 
 
 Trenmor came from his hill at the voice of his 
 mighty son. A cloud, like the steed of the stranger, 
 supported his airy limbs. His robe is of the mist of 
 Lano, that brings death to the people. His sword is 
 a green meteor half-extinguished. His face is with- 
 out 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, 
 
THE WAR OF CAROS. 227 
 
 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 lied, 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 Ca- 
 ros 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 i3 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 bat- 
 tie 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 
 
228 THE POEMS OP OSSIAN. 
 
 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 bat- 
 tles ? 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 Tos- 
 car! I behold not the form of my son at Carun, nor 
 the figure of Oscar on Crona. The rustling winds 
 have carried him faraway, 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. 
 
220 
 
 CATHLIN OF CLUTHA. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 An address to Malvina, the daughter of Toscar. The Poet re- 
 lates the arrival of Cathlin in Silma, to solicit aid against 
 Duth-carmor of Cluba, who had killed Cathmol for the take of 
 his daughter Lanul. Pineal declining to make a choice ?.mong 
 his heroes, who were all claiming the command of the expe- 
 dition, they retired 1 each to his hill of ghosts,' to be deter- 
 mined by dreams. The spirit of Trenmor appears to Ossian 
 and Oscar. They sail from the bay of Carmoua, and, on the 
 fourth day, appear on" the valley of Rath-col, in lnishuna, 
 where Duth-carmor had fixed his residence. Ossian dispatches 
 a bard to Duth-carmor to demand battle. Night comes on.' 
 The distress of Cathlin of Clutha. Ossian devolves the com- 
 mand on Oscar, who, according to the custom of the kings of 
 Morven, before battle, retired to a neighbouring hill. Upon the 
 coming-on of day, the battle joins. Oscar 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 Lu- 
 tha ? 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 tbat 
 watchest lonely by night! Why didst thou withhold 
 the song from Ossian's failing soul ? As the falling 
 brook to the ear of the hunter, descending from his 
 storm-covered hill, in a sun-beam rolls the echoing 
 stream, he hears and shakes his dewy locks: such is 
 the voice of Lutha to the friend of the spirits of heroes. 
 My swelling bosom beats high. I look back on the 
 days that are past. Come, thou beam that art lonely, 
 from 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 
 L2 
 
230 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 stranger arose. ' In his hall lies Cathmol of Clutha, 
 by the winding of his own dark streams. Duth-car- 
 mor saw white-bosomed Lanul, and pierced her fa- 
 ther'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 1 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,» red 
 
 * Ton-thena, c fire of the wave/ was the remarkable star men- 
 tioned in the seventh book of Temora, which directed the course 
 f Larthon to Ireland. 
 
CATHUN OF CLUTHA. 
 
 231 
 
 traveller between the clouds. Four days caine the 
 breeze abroad. Lumon came forward in mist. In 
 winds were its hundred groves. Sun-beams 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.* 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 time3 
 of old, ere yet the song had bursted forth, like the sud- 
 den 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.' 
 
 f Wide, in Caracha's echoing field, Carmal had 
 
 * 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. 
 
232 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 poured his tribes. They were a dark ridge of waves. 
 The gray-haired bards were.like moving foam on their 
 face. They kindled the strife around with their red- 
 rolling eyes. Nor alone were the dwellers of rocks : 
 a son of Loda was there, a voice in his own dark 
 land, to call the ghosts from high. On his hill he had 
 dwelt in Lochlin, in the midst of a leafless grove. Five 
 stones lifted near their heads. Loud roared his rushing 
 stream. He often raised his voice to the winds, when 
 meteors marked their nightly wings, when the dark- 
 robed moon was rolled behind her hill. Nor unheard 
 of ghosts was he ! They came with the sound of eagle- 
 wings. They turned battle, in fields, before the kings 
 of men. 
 
 * But Trenmor they turned not from battle. He 
 drew forward that troubled war: in its dark skirt was 
 Trathal, like a rising light. It was dark, and Loda's 
 son poured forth his signs on night. The feeble were 
 not before thee, son of other lands ! Then rose the 
 strife of kings about the hill of night; but it was soft 
 as two summer 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 foo 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 fore- 
 see the storm ! — Duth-carmor is low in blood ! The son 
 of Ossian overcame ! Not harmless in battle was he, 
 Malvina, hand of harps ! 
 
 Nor, in the field, were the steps of Cathlin. The 
 stranger stood by a secret stream, where the foam of 
 Rath-col skirted the mossy stones. — Above bends the 
 branchy birch, and strews its leaves on wind. The 
 inverted spear of Cathlin touched at times the stream. 
 Oscar brought Duth-carmor's mail : his helmet with 
 its eagle-wing. He placed them before the stranger, 
 
CATHLIN OF CLUTHA. 233 
 
 and his words were heard. 1 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?' 
 
 1 Son of Ossian of harps, my soul is darkly sad. I 
 behold the arms of Cathmol, which he raised in war. 
 Take the mail of Cathlin, place it high in Selma'shail, 
 that thou may'st 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 ! 
 
234 
 
 SUL-MALLA OF LUMON. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 This poem, which, properly speaking-, is a continuation of th# 
 last, opens with an address to Sul-malla, the daughter of the 
 king of Inis-huna, whom Ossian met nt the chase, as here- 
 turned 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 fa- 
 mily, 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 Culg-orm and Suran dronlo, two Scandinavian kings, in 
 whose wars Ossian himself and Cathmor were engaged on op- 
 posite sides. The story is imperfect, a part of the original 
 being lost. Ossian warned in a dream by the ghost of Tren- 
 mor, 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 alight through 
 a cloudy field ? The young roes are panting by their 
 secret rocks. Return, thou daughter of kings ! the 
 cloudy night is near ! It was the young branch of green 
 Inis-huna, Sul-malla of blue eyes. She sent the bard 
 from her rock to bid us to her feast. Amidst the song 
 we sat down in Cluba's echoing hall. White moved 
 the hands of Sul-malla on the trembling strings. Half- 
 heard, amidst the sound, was the name of Atha's king : 
 he that was absent in battle for her own green land. 
 Nor absent from her soul was he : he came midst her 
 thoughts by night. Ton-thena looked in from the sky, 
 and saw her tossing arms. 
 
 The sound of shells had ceased. Amidst long locks 
 Sul-mulla 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, e 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 
 
SUL-MALLA OF LUMON. 
 
 235 
 
 father's hall, in memory of the past, when Fin gal came 
 to Cluha, in the days of other years. Loud roared the 
 boar of Culdarnu, ill the midst of his rocks and woods. 
 Inis-huna sent her youths ; but they failed, and virgins 
 wept oyer tombs. Careless went Fin gal to Culdarnu. 
 On his spear rolled the strength of the woods. He 
 was bright, they said, in his locks, the first of mortal 
 men. Nor at the feast were heard his words. His 
 deeds passed from his soul of fire, like the rolling of 
 vapours from the face of the wandering sun. Not 
 careless looked the blue eyes of Cluba on his stately 
 steps. In white bosoms rose the king of Selma, in the 
 midst of their thoughts by night. But the winds bore 
 the stranger to the echoing vales of his roes. Nor 
 lost to other lands was he, like a meteor, that sinks in 
 a cloud. He came forth, at times, in his brightness, 
 to the distant dwelling of foes. His fame came, like 
 the sound of winds, to Cluba's woody vale. 
 
 * 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 dark- 
 ening alone are they ; abeam from other lands is nigh; 
 the friend of strangers* 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 Cathraor 
 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 
 echoingHsle, 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. Cath- 
 mor came from Erin to Culgorm, red-eyed king ; I 
 aided Suran-dronlo in his land of boars. 
 
 ' We rushed on either side of a stream, which roared 
 * Cathmor, the son of Borbar-duthol. 
 
236 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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. Morn- 
 ing 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 armour came a stately form : I mixed my strokes 
 with the chief. By turns our shields are pierced : 
 loud rung our steely mails. His helmet fell to the 
 ground. In brightness shone the foe. His eyes two 
 pleasant flames, rolled between his wandering locks. 
 I knew Cathmor of Atha, and threw my spear on earth. 
 Dark we turned, and silent passed to mix with other 
 foes. 
 
 ' Not so passed the striving kings. They mixed in 
 echoing fray, like the meeting of ghosts in the dark 
 wing of winds. Through either breast rushed the 
 spears, nor yet lay the foes on earth ! A rock received 
 their fall ; half-reclined they lay in death. Each 
 held the lock of his foe : each grimly seemed to roll 
 bis 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'sbay. 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. For- 
 ward is her white arm with the spear ; her high-heav- 
 ing breast is seen, white as foamy waves that rise, by 
 
THE WAR OF INIS-THONA. 237 
 
 turns, amidst rocks. They are beautiful, but terrible, 
 and mariners call the winds ! 
 
 *" Come, ye dwellers of Lodal' she said: * come, 
 Carchar, pale in the midst of clouds ! Sluthmor that 
 stridest in airy halls! Corchtur, terrible in winds! 
 Receive, from his daughter's spear, the foes of Suran- 
 dronlo. No shadow at his roaring streams, no mildly 
 looking form, was he ! When he took up his spear, the 
 hawks shook their sounding wings : for blood was 
 poured around the steps of dark- eyed Suran-dronlo. 
 He lighted me no harmless beam to glitter on his 
 streams. Like meteors I was bright, but I blasted the 
 foes of Suran-dronlo.' * 
 
 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 sad- 
 dens 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 shewed its streams 
 to the morn. 
 
 Come from the watching of night, Malvina, lonely 
 beam ! 
 
 THE WAR OF INIS-THONA. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Reflections on the Poet's youth. An apostrophe to Selma. Oscar 
 obtains leave to go to Iuis-thon-a, 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 thePoet himself. 
 
 Ouk 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 
 
238 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 1 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 he- 
 roes 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* 
 from the wall ; his eyes were filled 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, re- 
 gard our fame ; thou art of the race of renown : lei 
 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 
 * The father of Everallin, and grandfather to Oscar. 
 
THE WAR OF INIS-THONA. 
 
 239 
 
 we strove in the combat together, in the days of 
 Agandecca.' 
 
 They lifted up the sounding sail : the wind whis- 
 tled through the thongs* of their masts. Waves lash 
 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 cf 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.f 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 chil- 
 dren 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 1 The wild boar rushes over their 
 
 tombs, but he does not disturb their repose. They 
 
 pursue deer formed of clouds, and bend their airy 
 
 * Leather thongs were used among the Celtic nations, instead 
 of ropes. 
 
 t To ' rejoice in the shell/ is a phrase for feastinsr sumptu- 
 ously and drinking freely. 
 
210 
 
 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 bow. They still love the sport of their youth ; and 
 mount the wind with joy.' 
 
 ' Cormalo/ replied the king, ' is a chief of ten thou- 
 sand spears. He dwells at the waters of Lano,* which 
 sends forth the vapour of death. He came to Runa's 
 echoing halls, and sought the honour of the spear, f 
 The youth was lovely as* the first beam of the sun ; 
 few were they who could meet him in fight ! My he- 
 roes yielded to Cormalo: my daughter was seized in 
 his love. Argon and Ruro returned from the chase ; 
 the tears of their pride descend : they roll their silent 
 eyes on Runa's heroes, who had yielded to a stranger. 
 Three days they feasted with Cormalo; on the fourth 
 young Argon fought. But who could fight with Ar- 
 gon 1 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, 'Ogar, king of 
 spears ! call my heroes to my side, the sons of streamy 
 Morven. To-day we go to Lano's water, that sends 
 forth the vapour of death. Cormalo will not long 
 rejoice: death is often at' the point of our swords !' 
 
 They came over the desert like stormy clouds, when 
 the winds roll them along the heath ; their edges are 
 tinged with lightning; the echoing groves foresee the 
 
 * Lano was a lake of Scandinavia, remarkable in the days of 
 Ossian for emitting a pestilential vapour in autumn. 
 
 t By ' the honour of the spear,' is meant the tournament prac- 
 tised among the aucient northern nations. 
 
THE WAR OF INIS-THONA. 241 
 
 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 rus- 
 ling 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 ! 1 see the heroes 
 of Morven ; I hear the song of bards ; Oscar lifts the 
 sword of Carmalo ; 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 dis- 
 turb my rest. The bard of other times hold 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 
 
242 
 
 THE SONGS OF SELMA. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Address to the evening star. Apostrophe to Fingal and bis 
 times. Minona sings before the king the song of the unfor- 
 tunate Colma; and the bards exhibit other specimens of their 
 poetical talents ; according to an annual custom established 
 by the monarchs of the ancient Caledonians. 
 
 Star of descending night ! fair is thy light in' the 
 west! thou liftest thy unshorn head from thy cloud : 
 thy steps are stately on thy hill. What dost thou be- 
 hold in the plain 1 The stormy winds are laid. The 
 murmur of the torrent comes from afar. Roaring 
 waves climb the distant rock. The flies of evening 
 are on their feeble wings : the hum of their course is 
 on the field. What dost thou behold, fair light ? But 
 thou dost smile and depart. The waves come with 
 joy around thee : they bathe thy lovely hair. Farewell, 
 thou silent beam ! Let the light of Ossian's soul arise ! 
 
 And it does arise in its strength ! I behold my de- 
 parted friends. Their gathering is on Lora, as in the 
 days of other years. Fingal comes like a watery co 
 lumn 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 
 
THE SONGS OF SELMA. 
 
 243 
 
 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 wan- 
 derer 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 ! 
 ray brother! why hast thou slain my Salgar? why, 
 O Salgar! hast thou slain my brother? Dear were ye 
 both to me! what shall I say in your praise? Thou 
 wert fair on the hill among thousands! he was terri- 
 ble in fight. Speak to me; hear my voice; hear me, 
 sons of ray 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 ! 
 
2-14 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 Rear the tomb, ye friends of the dead. Close it not 
 till Colma coine. My life flies away like a dream: 
 why should I stay behind? Here shall I rest with 
 my friends, by the stream of the sounding rock. 
 When night comes on the hill ; when the loud winds 
 arise; my ghost shall stand in the blast, and mourn 
 the death of my 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 daugh- 
 ter 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 plea- 
 sant : the soul of Ryno was a beam of fire ! But they 
 had rested in the narrow house : their voice had. 
 ceased in Selma. Ullin had returned, one day, from 
 the chase, before the heroes fell. He heard their 
 strife on the hill ; their song was soft but sad! They 
 mourned the fall of Morar, first of mortal men ! His 
 soul was like the soul of Fingal ; his sword like the 
 sword of Oscar. But he fell, and his father mourned: 
 his sister's eyes were full of tears. Minona's eyes 
 were full of tears, the sister of car-borne Morar. She 
 retired from the song of Ullin, like the moon in the 
 west, when she foresees the shower, and hides her 
 fair head in a cloud. I touched the harp with Ullin; 
 the song of 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 
 
THE SONGS OF SELMA. 
 
 245 
 
 thy tomb. The hills shall know thee no more; thy 
 bow shall lie in thy hall unstrung! 
 
 Thou wert swift, O Morar ! as a roe on the desert ; 
 terrible as a meteor of fire. Thy wrath was as the 
 storm. Thy sword in battle, as lightning in the field. 
 Thy voice was a stream after rain ; like thunder on 
 distant hills. Many fell by thy arm; they were con- 
 sumed 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 I 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 
 heareththee 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 sluraberer awake 1 Fare- 
 well, thou bravest of men ! thou conqueror in the 
 field ! but the field shall see thee no more ; nor the 
 dark wood be lightened with the splendour of thy 
 steel. Thou hast left no son. The song shall pre- 
 serve 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 he hero, 
 M 
 
246 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 the chief of the echoing Galmal. Why bursts the sigh 
 of Armin ? he said. Is there a cause to mourn 1 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 1 
 
 Sad I am ! nor small is my cause of woe ! Carmor, 
 thou hast lost no son ; thou hast lost no daughter of 
 beauty. Colgar the valiant lives ; and Annira, fairest 
 maid. The boughs of thy 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 1 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! shew thy pale face, at intervals! bring to my 
 mind the night, when all my children fell; when 
 Arindal the qyghty fell ! when Daura the lovely failed ! 
 Daura, my daughter ! thou wert fair; fair as the moon 
 on Fura ; white as the driven snow ; sweet as the 
 breathing gale. Arindal, thy bow was strong. Thy 
 spear was swift in the field. Thy look was like mist 
 on the wave : thy shield, a red cloud in a storm. Ar- 
 mar, 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 an- 
 swered, but the son of the rock.* Armar, my love ! 
 my love! why tormentest thou me with fear! hear, 
 
 * By ' the son of the rock' the poet means the echoing 
 back of the human voice from a rock. 
 
THE SONGS OF SELMA. 247 
 
 son of Arnart, hear : it is Daura who calleth thee ! 
 Erath the traitor fled laughing to the land. She 
 lifted up her voice ; she called for her brother and her 
 father. Arindal ! Arrain! none to relieve your Daura ! 
 
 Her voice came over the sea. Arindal my son de- 
 scended from the hill ; rough in the spoils of the chase. 
 His arrows rattled by his side; his bow was in his 
 hand : live 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 wind with his groans. Arin- 
 dal ascends the deep in his boat, to bring Daura to 
 land. Armar came in his wrath, and let fly the gray- 
 feathered shaft. It sung, it sunk in thy heart, O Arin- 
 dal, my son ! for Erath the traitor thou diedst. The 
 oar is stopped at once ; he panted on the rock and ex- 
 pired. What is thy grief, O Daura, when round thy 
 feet is poured thy brother's blond ! 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 Carraor, nor small is my cause of woe. 
 
 Such were the words of the bards in the days of song ; 
 when the king heard the music of harps, the tales of 
 other times ! The chiefs gathered from all their hills, 
 and heard the lovely sound. They praised the voice 
 
248 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 of Cona :* the first among a thousand bards ! but age 
 is now on my tongue ; my soul has failed : I hear, at 
 times, the ghosts of bards, and learn their pleasant 
 song. But memory fail3 on my mind. I hear the call 
 of years ; they say, as they pass along, Why does O3- 
 sian sing 1 Soon shall he lie in the narrow house, and 
 no bard shall raise his fame ! Roll on, ye dark-brown 
 years; ye bring no joy on your course! Let the tomb 
 open to Ossian, for his strength has failed. The sons 
 of song are gone to rest. My voice remains, like a 
 blast, that roars, lonely, on a sea-surrounded rock, after 
 the winds are laid. The dark moss whistles there ; the 
 distant mariner sees the waving trees ! 
 * Ossian is sometimes poetically called 1 the voice of Cona.' 
 
219 
 
 FINGAL: 
 
 AN ANCIENT EPIC POEM. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Cuthullin (general of the Irish tribes, in the minority of Cor- 
 mac, king of Ireland) sitting alone beneath a tree, at the gate 
 of Tura, a castle of Ulster (the other chiefs having gone on a 
 hunting party to Croinla, a neighbouring hill), is iutormed of 
 the landing of Swaran, king or Lochliii, by Moran, the son of 
 Fithil, one of his scouts. He convenes the chiefs; a coun- 
 cil is held, and disputes run high about giving battle to the 
 enemy. Connal, the petty king of Togornia, and an intimate 
 friend of Cuthullin, was for retreating, till Fingal, king of those 
 
 I 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 him- 
 self willing to fight, went into the opinion of Calmar. March- 
 ing towards the enemy, he missed three of his bravest heroes, 
 Fergus, buchomar, and Cathba. Fergus arriving, tells Cu- 
 thullin 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 Cuthuliin's cha- 
 riot, and the terrible appearance of that hero. The armies en- 
 gage, but night coming on, leaves the victory undecided. Cu- 
 thullin, 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 Con- 
 nal'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 I 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, 
 
250 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 ' 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 pre- 
 sence: 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, Fin- 
 gal 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 V 
 
 '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 sound- 
 ing shield of Semo. It hangs at Tura's rustling gate. 
 The sound of peace is not its voice ! My heroes shall 
 hear and obey.' He went. He struck the bossy 
 shield. The hills, the rocks reply. The sound spreads 
 along the wood : deer start by the lake of roes. Cu- 
 rach leaps from the sounding rock ! and Connal of the 
 bloody spear! Crugal's breast of snow beats high. The 
 son of Favi leaves the dark-brown hind. It is the shield 
 of war, said Ronnar! the spear of Cuthullin, said Lu- 
 gar! Son of the sea, put on thy arms ! Calmar, lift 
 thy sounding steel ! Puno ! dreadful hero, arise ! Cair- 
 bar from thy red tree of Cromla ! Bend thy knee, O 
 Eth ! descend from the streams of Lena. Ca.olt, 
 stretch thy side as thou movest along the whistling 
 heath of Mora : thy side that is white as the foam of 
 the troubled sea, when the dark winds pour it on rocky 
 Cuthon. 
 
 Now I behold the chiefs, in the pride of their former 
 deeds ? Their souls are kindled at the battles of old ; 
 at the actions of other times. Their eyes are flames 
 of fire. They roll in search of the foes of the land. 
 
FINGAL. 
 
 251 
 
 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 
 armour of their fathers. Gloomy and dark their heroes 
 follow, like the gathering of the rainy clouds behind 
 the red meteors of heaven. The sounds of crashing 
 arms ascend. The 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 V 
 
 * Cuthullin !' calm the chief replied, ' the spear of 
 Connal is keen. It delights to shine in battle ; to mix 
 with the blood of thousands. But though my hand 
 is bent on fight, my heart is for the peace of Erin.* 
 Behold, thou first in Cormac's war, the sable fleet of 
 Swaran. His masts are many on our coasts, like 
 reeds in 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! Fin gal 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 I' 
 
 * Fly, thou man of peace !' said Calmar ; ' fly,' said 
 the son of Matha ; ' go, Connal, to thy silent hills, 
 where the spear never brightens in war ! Pursue the 
 dark-brown deer of Cromla : stop with thine arrows 
 the bounding roes of Lena. But, blue-eyed son of 
 Semo, Cuthullin, ruler of the field, scatter thou the 
 sons of Lochlin !f roar through the ranks of their 
 
 * Erin, a name of Ireland ; for * ear,' or ' iar,' west, and 'in' 
 an island. 
 
 t The Gaelic name of Scandinavia in general. 
 
252 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 pride. Let no vessel of the kingdom of snow bound 
 on the dark- rolling waves of Inistore.* Rise, ye dark 
 winds of Erin, rise! roar, whirlwinds of Lara of 
 hinds I 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 If 
 
 ' 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 J But, son of 
 Semo, hear my voice, regard the ancient throne of 
 Cormac. Give wealth and half the land for peace, 
 till Fingal shall arrive on our coast. Or, if war be thy 
 choice, I lift the sword and spear. My joy shall be in 
 the midst of thousands ; my soul shall lighten through 
 the gloom of the fight!' 
 
 * To me,' Cuthullin replies, ' pleasant is the noise 
 of arms ! pleasant as the thunder of heaven, before 
 the shower of spring ! But gather all the shining 
 tribes, that I may view the sons of war ! Let them 
 pass along the heath, bright as the sun-shine before 
 a storm ; when the west wind collects the clouds, and 
 Morven echoes over all her oaks ! But where are my 
 friends in battle 1 the supporters of my arm in danger 1 
 Where art thou, white-bosomed Cathba ? Where is 
 that cloud in war, Duchomar? Hast thou left me, O 
 Fergus ! in the day of the storm ? Fergus, first in our 
 joy at the feast ! son of Rossal arm of death ! comest 
 thou like a roe from Malmor? like a hart from thy 
 echoing hills? Hail, thou son of Rossa ! what shades 
 the soul of war V 
 
 ' Four stones/f replied the chief, * rise on the grave 
 of Cathba. These hands have laid in earth Ducho- 
 mar, that cloud in war ! Cathba, son of Torman ! thou 
 
 * The Orkney islands, 
 t This passage alludes to the manner of burial among the an- 
 cient 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 tliey 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. 
 
FINGAL. 
 
 253 
 
 w-ert a sun-beam in Erin. And thou, O valiant Du- 
 chomar ! a mist of the marshy Lano ; when it moves 
 on the plains of autumn, bearing the death of thou- 
 sands 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 V 
 
 ' Cathba/ replied the hero, ' fell by the sword of 
 Duchomar at the oak of the noisy streams. Duchd- 
 mar came to Tura's cave ; he spoke to the lovely 
 Morna. " Morna, fairest among women, lovely daugh- 
 ter 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 Fin gal." 
 
 1 "From whence," the fair-haired maid replied, "from 
 whence, Duchomar, most gloomy of men ? Dark are 
 thy brows and terrible! Red are thy rolling eyes! 
 Does Swaran appear on the sea? What of the foe, 
 Duchomar?" " From the hill I return, O Morna, from 
 the hill of the dark-brown hinds. Three have I slain 
 with my bended yew. Three with my long bounding 
 dogs of the chase. Lovely daughter of Cormac, I 
 love thee as my soul! I have slain one stately deer 
 for thee. High was hi3 branchy head — and fleet his 
 feet of wind." " Duchomar!" calm the maid replied, 
 " I love thee not, thou gloomy man ! hard is thy heart 
 of rock; dark is thy terrible brow. But, Cathba, 
 young son of Torman, thou art the love of Morna. 
 Thou art a sun-beam, in the day of the gloomy storm. 
 Sawest thou the son of Torman, lovely on the hill of 
 M2 
 
254 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 his hinds? Here the daughter of Cormac waits the 
 coming of Cathba!" 
 
 1 " Long shall Morna wait," Duchomar said, w long 
 shall Morna wait for Cathba ! Behold this sword un- 
 sheathed ! Here wanders the blood of Cathba. 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 Duchomar thine eyes; 
 his arm is strong as a storm." " Is the son of Torman 
 fallen?" said the wildly-bursting -voice of the maid; 
 *' is he fallen on his echoing hills, the youth with the 
 breast of snow? the first in the chase of hinds! the 
 foe of the strangers of ocean ? Thou art dark* to me, 
 Duchomar; cruel is thine arm to Morna! Give me 
 that sword, my foe! I loved the wandering blood of 
 Cathba!" 
 
 * 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. Ducho- 
 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 i 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 shew their features of war. 
 My soul shall then be firm in danger ; mine arm like 
 the thunder of heaven ! But be thou on a moon-beam, 
 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 : 
 * She alludes to his name, ' the dark man. » 
 
FINGAL. 
 
 255 
 
 follow the bounding of my steeds ! that my soul may 
 be strong in my friends, when battle darkens around 
 the beams of my steel !' 
 
 As rushes a stream of foam from the dark shady 
 deep of Cromla, when the thunder is travelling above, 
 and dark-brown night sits on half the hill. Through 
 the breaches of the tempest look forth the dim faces 
 of ghosts. So fierce, so vast, so terrible, rushed on the 
 sons of Erin. The chief, like a whale of ocean, whom 
 all his billows pursue, poured valour forth, as a stream, 
 rolling his might along the shore. The sons of Loch- 
 lin heard the noise, as the sound of a winter-storm. 
 Swaran struck his bossy shield: be called the son of 
 Arno. ' What murmur rolls along the hill, like the 
 gathered flies of the eve 1 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 po • 
 lished 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 I 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 is 
 Sulin-Sifadda! 
 
 1 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, 
 
256 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 among the stormy sons of the sword ! A thousand 
 thoDgs bind the car on high. Hard polished bits 
 shine in a wreath of foam. Thin thongs, bright- 
 studded with gems, bend on the stately necks of the 
 steeds. The steeds, that like wreaths of mist fly over 
 the streamy vales ! The wildness of deer 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 po- 
 lished yew. The look of his blue-rolling eye is wide, 
 beneath the dark arch of his brow. His hair flies f rom 
 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 V replied the king ; ' when fled 
 Swaran from the battle of spears 1 When did I shrink 
 from danger, chief of the little soul 1 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 Fin gal himself before me, my soul should 
 not darken with fear. Arise to battle, my thousands! 
 pour round me like the echoing main, gather round the 
 bright steel of your king ; strong as the rocks of my 
 land ; that meet the storm with joy, and stretch their 
 dark pines to the wind I 9 
 
 Like autumn's dark storms pouring from two echo- 
 ing hills, towards each other approached the heroes. 
 Like two deep streams from high rocks meeting, mix- 
 ing roaring on the plain ; loud, rough, and dark in 
 battle meet Lochlin and Inis-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 
 
FINGAL. 
 
 257; 
 
 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 Sithallin. 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 Swa- 
 ran ; when, in the midst of thousands, he roared ; like 
 the shrill spirit of a storm. He sits dim on the clouds 
 of the north, and enjoys the death of the mariner. 
 Nor slept thy hand by thy side, chief of the isle of 
 mist!* many were the deaths of thine arm, Cuthullin, 
 thou son of Semo! His sword was like the beam of 
 heaven when itpierces the sons of the vale; when the 
 people are blasted and fall, and alf the hills are burn- 
 ing 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 Inis- 
 tore ! Bend thy fair head over the waves, thou love- 
 lier than the ghost of the hills, when it moves in a 
 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 valour raise thy love to 
 match the blood of king3. 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 a beam of fire 
 in his hand. The field echoes from wing to wing, as 
 a hundred hammers, that rise, by turns, on the red 
 son of the furnace. Who are these on Lena's heath 
 
 * 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. 
 
253 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 but ocean's son and 
 the car-borne chief of Erin? Many are the anxious 
 eyes of their friends, as they see them dim on the heath. 
 But night conceals the chiefs in clouds, and ends the 
 dreadful fight ! 
 
 It was on Cromla's shaggy side that Dorglas had 
 placed the deer : the early fortune of the chase, before 
 the heroes left the hill. A hundred youths collect the 
 heath; ten warriors wake the fire; three hundred 
 choose the 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, and softly roll their 
 eyes of love, yet fixed as Lochlin's thousand rocks 
 here Swaran should remain, till morn, with the young 
 beams of the east, shall light me to the death of Cu- 
 thullin. 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 
 
FINGAL. 
 
 259 
 
 dark Cuthullin yield to me the ancient throne of Cor- 
 mac, or Erin's torrents shall shew from their hills the 
 red foam of the blood of his pride !' 
 
 « Sad is the sound of Swaran's voice,' said Carrilof 
 other times ! * Sad to himself alone/ said the blue- 
 eyed son of Semo. • But, Carril, raise the voice on 
 high ; tell the deeds of other times. Send thou the 
 night away in song, and give the joy of grief. For 
 many heroes and maids of love have moved on Inis- 
 fail, and lovely are the songs of woe that are heard in 
 Albion's rocks, when the noise of the chase is past, and 
 the streams of Cona* answer to the voice of Ossian.' 
 
 * In other days/ Carril replies, ' came the sons of 
 ocean to Erin; a thousand vessels bounded on waves 
 to Ullin's lovely plains. The sons of Inis-fail arose to 
 meet the race of dark-brown shields. Cairbar, first of 
 men, was there, and Grudar, stately youth ! Long had 
 they strove for the spotted bull that lowed on Golbun's 
 echoing heath. Each claimed him as his own. Death 
 was often at the point of their steel. Side by side the 
 heroes fought ; the strangers of ocean fled. Whose 
 name was fairer on the hill than the name of Cairbar 
 and Grudar ? But, ah ! why ever lowed the bull on 
 Golbun's echoing heath ? They saw him leaping like 
 snow. The wrath of the chiefs returned. 
 
 ' On Lubar'sf 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 it3 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, 
 
 * The Cona here mentioned is that small river that runs through 
 Glenco in Argyleshire. 
 
 t Lubar, a river in Ulster. * Labhar/ loud, noisy. 
 
260 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 Brassolis, this shield of blood. Fix it on high within 
 my hall, the armour of my foe \" Her soft heart heat 
 against her side. Distracted, pale, she flew. She 
 found her youth in all his blood ; she died on Crom- 
 la'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 pre- 
 serve their names, and send them down to future 
 times !' 
 
 ' Pleasant is thy voice, O Carril/said the blue-eyed 
 chief of Erin. ' Pleasant are the words of other times ! 
 They are like the calm shower of spring, when the 
 sun looks on the field, and the light cloud flies over 
 the hills. O strike the harp in praise of my love, the 
 lonely sun-beam of Dunscaith! Strike the harp in the 
 praise of Bragela, she that I left in the isle of mist, 
 the spouse of Semo's son ! Dost thou raise thy fair face 
 from the rock to find the sails of Cuthullin ? The sea 
 is rolling distant far : its white foam deceives thee for 
 my sails. Retire, for it is night, my love ; the dark 
 winds sing in thy hair. 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, c 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 Fin gal come, 
 the first of men, and beam, like the sun, on our fields!' 
 The hero struck the shield of alarms, the warriors of 
 the night moved on. The rest lay in the heath of the 
 deer, and slept beneath the dusky wind. The ghosts* 
 of the lately dead were near, and swam on the gloomy 
 clouds; and far distant, in the dark silence of Lena, 
 the feeble voices of death were faintly heard. 
 
 * It was lon°r the opinion of the ancient Scots, that a ghost 
 was heard shrieking near the place where a death was to nap- 
 pen soon after. 
 
FINGAL. 
 
 261 
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 The ghost of Crugal, one of the Irish heroes who was killed in 
 battle, appearing to Connal, foretels 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 honour he would not be the 
 first to sue for peace, and he resolved to continue the war. 
 Morning comes ; Swaran proposes dishonourable terms to 
 Cuthullin, which are rejected. The battle begins, and is ob- 
 stinately fought for some time, until, upon the flight of Gru- 
 mal, the whole Irish army gave way. Cuthullin and Connal 
 cover their retreat. Carril leads thern to a neighbouring hill, 
 whilher they are soon followed by Cuthullin himself, who de- 
 scries the fleet of Fingal makingtowards 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 shew 
 that ill success did not always attend those who innocently 
 killed their friends, introduces the episode of Comal and Gal- 
 vina. 
 
 Connal lay by the sound of the mountain-stream, 
 beneath the aged tree. A stone, with its moss, sup- 
 ported 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 I 
 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! 1 Cru- 
 gal/ 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 6ands of Erin. Thou shalt never talk with Cru- 
 gal, 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 : 
 
262 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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. 1 Stay,' said the mighty Connal ; « stay, 
 my dark-red friend. Lay by that beam of heaven, son 
 of the windy Cromla ! What cave is thy lonely house 
 What green-headed hill the place of thy repose 1 Shall 
 we not hear thee in the storm 1 in the noise of the 
 mountain -stream 1 when the feeble sons of the wind 
 come forth, and, scarcely seen, pass over the desert V 
 
 The soft- voiced Connal rose, in the midst of his 
 sounding arms. He struck his shield above Cuthul- 
 lin. 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 V replied the chief, ' the ghost of Cru- 
 gal came from his cave. The stars dim-twinkled 
 through his form. His voice was like the sound of a 
 distant stream. He is a messenger of death ! He 
 speaks of the dark and narrow house ! Sue for peace, 
 O chief of Erin ! or fly over the heath of Lena.' 
 
 • He spoke to Connal,' replied the hero, ' though 
 stars dim-twinkled through his form! Son of Colgar, 
 it was the wind that murmured across thy ear. Or 
 if it was the form of Crugal, why didst thou not force 
 him to my sight? Hast thou inquired where is his 
 cave 1 the house of that son of wind 1 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 mor- 
 tal 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 Bragela. I fear not death* 
 
FINGAL. 
 
 263 
 
 to fly I fear ! Fingal has seen roe victorious ! Thou 
 dim phantom of the hill, shew thyself tome! come 
 on thy beam of heaven, shew me my death in thine 
 hand : yet I will not fly, thou feeble son of the wind ! 
 Go, son of Colgar, strike the shield. It hangs between 
 the spears. Let my warriors rise to the sound in the 
 midst of the battles of Erin. Though Fingal delays 
 his coming with the race of his stormy isles, we shall 
 fight, O Colgar's son, and die in the battle of heroes \ 9 
 
 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 daik-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 ex- 
 pel 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 be- 
 neath 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 ghost sporting in the beam ! Dimly gleam 
 the hills around, and shew indistinctly their oaks! A 
 blast from the troubled ocean removed the settled 
 mist. The sons of Erin appear, like a ridge of rocks 
 on the coast; when mariners, on shores unknown, 
 are trembling at veering winds ! 
 
 ' Go, Morla, go,' said the king of Lochlin, « offer 
 
264 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 peace to these. Offer the terms we give to kings when 
 nations bow down to our swords. When the valiant 
 are dead in war; when virgins weep on the field!' 
 Tall Morla came, the son of Swarth, and stately 
 strode the youth along ! He spoke to Erin's blue-eyed 
 chief, among the les«er 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 pleashag sun -beam of my love. No deer 
 shall fly on Lochlin's hills, before swift-footed Luath.' 
 ' Vain ruler of the car,' said Moria, ' 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 worda 
 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 nearest 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 1 The narrow house shall re- 
 ceive 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 inclose 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. 
 
FIN GAL. 
 
 265 
 
 ' Where/ said the mouth of the song, * where is the 
 fallen Crugal ? He lies forgot on earth; the hall of 
 shells* is silent. Sad is the spouse of Crugal. She 
 is a stranger in the hall of her grief. But who is she 
 that, like a sun-beara. flies before the ranks of the 
 foe 1 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 M'asted 
 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 bills are rolled in its 
 course, the rocks are half-sunk by its side ! But Cu- 
 thullin 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, 
 
 * The ancient Scots, as well as the present Highlanders, 
 drunk in shells; hence it is, that we so often meet in the old 
 poetry, with * chief of shells,' and ' the hall of shells.' 
 
266 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 So Cuthullin shaded the sons of Erin, and stood in 
 the midst of thousands. Blood rises like the fount of 
 a rock from panting heroes around. But Erin falls 
 on either wing, like snow in the day of the sun. 
 
 ' O sons of Erin,' said Grumal, ' Lochlin conquers 
 on the field. Why strive we as reeds against the 
 wind 1 Fly to the hill of dark-brown hinds.' He fled 
 like the stag of Morven ; his spear i3 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. 
 Sithfadda panted up the hill, and Sronnal haughty 
 steed. Like waves behind a whale, behind them 
 rushed the foe. Now on the rising side of Cromla 
 stood Erin's few sad sons: like a grove through 
 which the flame had rushed, hurried on by the winds 
 of the stormy night ; distant, withered, dark they 
 stand, with not a leaf to shake in the 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!' f 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 hea- 
 ven ; and thou thyself a pillar of fire that beams on 
 the world by night. O Connal, first of men, how 
 
FINGAL. 
 
 267 
 
 pleasing in grief are our friends ! But the night is ga- 
 thering around. Where now are the ships of Fingal 1 
 Here let us pass the hours of darkness ; here wish 
 for the moon of heaven.' 
 
 The winds come down on the woods. The torrents 
 rush from the rocks. Rain gathers round the head 
 of Cromla. The red stars tremble between the flying 
 clouds. Sad, by the side of a stream, whose sound is 
 echoed by a tree, sad by the side of a stream the chief 
 of Erin sits. Connal, son of Colgar, is there, and Car- 
 ril of other times, ' Unhappy is the land of Cuthullin,' 
 said the son of Semo, * unhappy is the hand of Cuthul- 
 lin 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 1 Well I remember,' said Connal, 1 the 
 son of the noble Damman. Tall and fair, he was like 
 the rainbow of heaven.' Ferda from Albion came, 
 the chief of a hundred hills, In Muri's* hall he 
 learned the sword, and won the friendship of Cuthul- 
 lin. We moved to the chase together: one was our 
 bed in the heath. 
 
 Deugala was the spouse of Cairbar, chief of the 
 plains of Ullin. She was covered with the light of 
 beauty, but her heart was the house of pride. She 
 loved that sun-beam of youth, the son of 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,' begun 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 wan- 
 der near thee, and mourn the wound of my pride. 
 Pour out the blood of Cuthullin, or pierce this heav- 
 ing breast/ * Deugala,' said the fair-haired youth, 
 ' how shall I slay the son of Selmo? He is the friend 
 * A place in Ulster. 
 
268 THE POEMS OF OSSIANT. 
 
 of my secret thoughts. Shall I then lift the swot<1 V 
 She wept three days before the chief ; on the fourth 
 he said he would fight. * I will fight my friend, Deu- 
 gala, but may I fall by his sword! Could I wander 
 on the hill alone 1 Could I behold the grave of Cu- 
 thullin V We fought on the plain of Mori. Our swords 
 aToid 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 Damroan : ' Thine 
 arm is feeble, sun-beam 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 sun-beam 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 1 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 hun- 
 dred 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 sun-beam among women. Her hair was the wing 
 of the raven. Her dogs were taught to the chase. 
 Her bow-string sounded on the winds. Her soul was 
 fixed on Comal. Often met their eyes of love. Their 
 course in the chase was one. Happy were their words 
 in secret. But Grumal loved the maid, the dark chief 
 of the gloomy Ardven. He watched her lone steps 
 in the heath, the foe of unhappy Comal! 
 
 One day, tired of the chase, when the mist had con- 
 cealed their friends, Comal and the daughter of Con- 
 
FINGAL. 
 
 269 
 
 loch 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, 1 my 
 love, Galbina : thou light of the cave of Ronan! A deer 
 appears on Mora's hrow. I go; but I will soon return.' 
 ' I fear/ she said, ' dark Grumal, my foe : he haunts 
 the cave of Ronan ! I will rest among the arms ; but 
 soon return, my love.' 
 
 He went to the deer of Mora. The daughter of 
 Conloch would try his love. She clothed her fair 
 sides with his armour : she strode from the cave of 
 Ronan ! He thought it was his foe. His heart beat 
 high. His colour changed, and darkness dimmed his 
 eyes. He drew the bow. The arrow llew. 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 1 He saw at 
 length her heaving heart, beating around the arrow 
 he threw. 'O Conloch's daughter! is it thou?' He 
 sunk upon her breast ! The hunters found the hapless 
 pair! He afterwards walked the hill. But many and 
 silent were his steps round the dark dwelling of his 
 love. The fleet of the ocean came. He fought; the 
 strangers fled. He searched for death along the held. 
 But who could slay the mighty Comal ? He threw 
 away his dark brown shield. An arrow found his 
 manly breast. He sleeps with his loved Galbina at 
 the noise of the sounding surge ! Their green tombs 
 are seen by the mariner, when he bounds on the waves 
 of the north. 
 
 N 
 
270 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 BOOK III * 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Cuthullin pleased with the story of Carril, insists with that bar tf 
 for more of his songs. He relates the actions of Fingal in 
 Lochlin, and death of Agandecca rhe beautiful sister of Swa- 
 ran. He trad 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. Cnthullin, touched with the 
 gallant proposal of Calmar, resolves to accompany him, and 
 order? 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 lri-h, and returns to oppose Fingal's landing. Cuthullin, 
 ashamed, after his defeat, to appear before Fingal, retires to 
 the cave of Tura. Fingal engages the enemy, puts them to 
 flight; but the coming on of night makes the victory not deci- 
 sive. The king, who had observed the gallant behaviour of 
 his grandson Oscar, gives him advice concerning his conduct 
 in peace and war. He recommends to him to place the exam- 
 ple of his fathers before his eyes, as the best model for his 
 conduct ; which introduces the episode concerning Fainasollis, 
 the daughter of the king of Craca, whom Fingal had taken 
 under his protection in his youth. Fillan and Oscar are dis- 
 patched 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 re- 
 flections 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 in 
 the vale. O Carril, raise again thy voice ! let me hear 
 the song of Selma : which was sung in my halls of 
 joy, when Fingal, king of shields, was there, and 
 glowed at the deeds of his fathers.' 
 
 ' 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 
 
 * 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. 
 
FINGAL. 
 
 271 
 
 war ; they restored him to his ships. His big heart 
 swelled with pride ; the death of the youth was dark 
 in his soul. For none ever, but Fingal, had overcome 
 the strength of the mighty Starno. He sat in the hall 
 of his shells in Lochlin's woody land. He called the 
 gray-haired Snivan, that often sung round the circle* 
 of Loda ; when the stone of power heard his voice, 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 brecst 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 I" Snivan came to Selraa's 
 hall: fair-haired Fingal attended his steps. His kin- 
 dled soul flew to the maid, as he bounded on the waves 
 of the north. " Welcome," said the dark browed 
 Starno, " welcome, king of rocky Morven ! welcome 
 his heroes of might, sons of the distant isle ! Three 
 days within my halls shall we feast; three days pur- 
 sue 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. Thevoice of sprightly 
 mirth arose. The trembling harps of joy were strung. 
 Bards sung the battles of heroes : they sung the heav- 
 ing breast of love. Ullin, Fingal's bard, was there: 
 the sweet voice of resounding Cona. He praised the 
 daughter of Lochlin ; and Morven'sf 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 
 
 * This passage most certainly alludes to the relisrion of Loch- 
 lin, and 1 the .-tone of power, ' here mentioned, is the image of 
 one of the deities of Scandinavia. 
 
 t All the north-west coast of Scotland probably went of old 
 under the name of Morven, which signifies a ridge of very high 
 hills. 
 
272 
 
 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 blest the chief of resounding Morven. 
 
 ' The third day, with all its beams, shone bright on 
 the wood of boars. Forth moved the dark-browed 
 Starno; and Fingal, king of shields. Half the day 
 they spent in the chase ; the spear of Selma was red 
 in blood. It was then the daughter of Starno, with 
 blue eyes rolling in tears ; it was then she came with 
 her voice of love, and spoke to the king of Morven. 
 " Fingal, high-descended chief, trustnot 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 
 Gormal echoed around ! Before the halls of Starno 
 the sons of the chase convened. The king's dark 
 brows were like clouds ; his eyes like meteors of 
 night. " Bring hither," he said, " Agandecca to her 
 lovely king of Morven ! His hand is stained with the 
 blood of my people ; her words have not been in vain I" 
 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 clesed 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 Fin- 
 gal ; strong is his arm of age. Lochlin shall fall again 
 before the king of echoing Morven. Shew thy face 
 from a cloud, 0 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 \* 
 
FINGAL. 
 
 273 
 
 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 light- 
 ning flies on wings of fire. He feared, and came to 
 land, then blushed that he feared at all. He rushed 
 again among the waves, to find the son of the wind. 
 Three youths guide the bounding bark : he stood with 
 sword unsheathed. When the low-hung vapour passed , 
 he took it by the curling head. He searched its dark 
 womb with his steel. The son of the wind forsook the 
 air. The moon and stars returned! Such was the 
 boldness of my race. Calmar is like his fathers. 
 Danger flies from the lifted sword. They best succeed 
 who dare ! 
 
 f 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 thou- 
 sands were behind me. But, son of Semo, remem- 
 ber 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 unequal fight : my soul 
 increases in danger. Connal, and Carril of other 
 
274 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 times, carry off the sad sons of Erin. When the 
 battle is over, search for us in this narrow way. lor 
 near this oak we shall fall, in the stream of the battle 
 of thousands ! O Fithil's son, with flying speed rush 
 over the heath of Lena. Tell to Fingal tbt&M 
 fallen. Bid the king of Morven come. O let him 
 come, like the sun in a storm, to lighten, to restore 
 
 ^ Moving is gray on Cromla. The sons of the sea 
 ascend. Calmar stood forth to meet them m the pr.de 
 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 h.s 
 I herwassad" the soulof thelonely Alcletha , wan- 
 in* in the sorrow of years. But slowly now the hero 
 afls lik a "ree on tfao plain. Dark CuthuIHn stand, 
 alonelikearockinasandyvale 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 
 thdr mas?s,astheynod,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 ; soloud, so vast so.m- 
 mense returned the sons of Lochlin against theking^ 
 But biding, weeping, sad and slow and dragg ng 
 his lone spear behind, Cuthulhn sunk n Cromtas 
 wood and mourned his fallen friends He feared he 
 face of Fingal. who was wont to greet him from the 
 
 fle l d H ot r ma°»yHe there of my heroes , the ,chiefsof 
 Erin" race ! they that were cheerful in the hall, when 
 the sound of the shells arose! No more shall I And 
 their steps in the heath ! No more shall I hear then 
 lo r et?he chase. Pale, silent low on 
 are thev who were my friends ! O spirits of the lately 
 dead mee\ Cuthullin on his heath ! Speak to him on 
 the wtods when the rustling tree of Tuva's cave re- 
 soundi There, far remote, I shall He unknown No 
 bardtall hear'of me. Nogray ■ .tone shal lr.se tomy 
 renown. Mourn me with the dead, O Bragela de 
 
FINGAL. 
 
 275 
 
 parted is my fame.' Such were the words of Cuthul- 
 lin, when he sunk in the woods of Cromla ! 
 
 Fingal, tall in his ship, stretched his bright lance 
 before him. Terrible was the gleam of the steel : it 
 was like the green meteor of death, setting in the heath 
 of Maimer, when the traveller is alone, and the broad 
 moon is darkened in heaven. 
 
 1 The battle is past/ said the king. * I behold the 
 blood of my friends. Sad is the heath of Lena ! mourn- 
 ful 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 valour. 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, rnd 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 Fin - 
 gal shall lie on earth.'—' To-morrow let his feast be 
 spread,' said Fingal, with a smile. • To-day, 0 my 
 
276 
 
 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 sons! we shall break the echoing shields. Ossian, 
 stand thou near nay arm, Gaul, lift thy terrible sword. 
 Fergus, bend thy crooked yew. Throw, Fillan, thy 
 lance through heaven. Lift your shields, like the 
 darkened moon. Be your spears the meteors of death. 
 Follow me in the path of my fame. Equal my deeds 
 in battle.' 
 
 As a hundred winds on Morven; as the streams of 
 a hundred hills ; as clouds fly successive over heaven ; 
 as the dark ocean assails the shore of the desert : so 
 roaring, so vast, so terrible, the armies mixed on Lena's 
 echoing heath. The groan of the people spread over 
 the hills : it was like the thunder of night, when the 
 cloud bursts on Cona ; and a thousand ghosts shriek 
 at once on the hollow wind. Fingal rushed on in his 
 strength, terrible as the spirit of Trenmor ; when in a 
 whirlwind he comes 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. Fil- 
 lan 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 1 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 
 
FINGAL. 
 
 277 
 
 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,' begun the king, * O Oscar, pride 
 of youth : I saw the shining of thy 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 fee- 
 ble hand. Be thou a stream of many tides against the 
 foes of thy peeple ; but like the gale, that moves the 
 grass, to those who ask thine aid. So Trenmor lived ; 
 such Trathal was ; and such has Fingal been. My 
 arm was the support of the injured ; the weak rested 
 behind the lightning of my steel. 
 
 ' Oscar ! I was young, like thee, when lovely Faina- 
 sollis came : that sun-beam ! that mild light of love ! 
 the daughter of Craca's* king. I then returned from 
 Cona's heath, and few were in my train. A white- 
 sailed boat appeared far off ; we saw it like a mist, 
 that rode on ocean's wind. It soon approached. We 
 saw the fair. Her white breast heaved with sighs. 
 The wind was in her loose dark hair; her rosy cheek 
 had tears. u Daughter of beauty," calm I said, " what 
 sigh is in thy breast? Can I, young as I am, defend 
 thee, daughter of the sea 1 My sword is not unmatched 
 in war, bat dauntless is my heart." 
 
 ' " To thee I fly," with sighs she said, "0 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 sun-beam of his race. Crom- 
 la's hills have heard the sighs of love for unhappy 
 Fainasollis ! Sora's chief beheld me fair ; he loved the 
 daughter of Craca. His sword is abeam of light upon 
 the warrior's side. But dark is his brow ; and tem- 
 pests are in his soul. I shun him, on the roaring sea ; 
 but Sora's chief pursues." 
 
 * What the Craca here mentioned was, it is not, at Ih's distance 
 of time, easy to determine. The most probable opinion is, that 
 it was one of the Shetland isles. 
 
 N 2 
 
278 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 * " Rest thou," I said, 14 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. 
 
 1 Fillan and Oscar of the dark-brown hair ! ye, that 
 are swift in the race ! fly over the heath in my pre- 
 sence. 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 sooth 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 ; 
 
FINGAL. 
 
 279 
 
 that bards may sing of me. Such was the custom 
 heretofore of Fingal's noble race. Such was thine 
 own, thou ting 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 sit- 
 test on a blast of wind, among the high-shrouded masts 
 of Lochlin ; come to my dreams, my fair one ! Shew 
 thy bright face to my soul.' 
 
 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 re- 
 nowned on the hills of Cona ! 
 
280 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 over- 
 powered. 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 fa- 
 ther, conquered in one wing, Gaul, who was attacked by 
 Swaran in person, was cn the point of retreating in the other. 
 Fingal sends Ullin his bard to encourage them with a w ar 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 Con- 
 nal from joining Fingal, who was himself upon the point of 
 obtaining a complete victory, sends Carril to congratulate that 
 hero on his 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. Dost thou come to the wars of thy people? 
 to hear the actions of Oscar? When shall I cease to 
 mourn, by the streams of resounding Cona? My years 
 have passed away in battle. My age is darkened 
 with grief! 
 
 * 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, 
 
FINGAL. 
 
 281 
 
 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 1 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 1" 
 
 4 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 ap- 
 peared 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 vic- 
 torious 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 TScelacha. 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 1 
 
 * 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 ; un- 
 matched his arm in war/ 
 
 On Lena's gloomy heath the voice of music died 
 away. The unconstant blast blew hard. The high 
 oak shook its leaves around. Of Everallin were my 
 thoughts, when in all the light of beauty she came ; 
 
282 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 her blue eyes rolling in tears. She stood on a cloud 
 before my sight, and spoke with feeble voice ! ' Rise, 
 Ossian, rise, and save my son ; save Oscar, prince of 
 men. Near the red oak of Luba's stream, he fights 
 with Lochlin's sons.' She sunk into her cloud again. 
 I covered me with steel. My spear supported my 
 steps ; my rattling armour rung. I hummed, as I 
 was wont in danger, the songs of heroes of old. Like 
 distant thunder Lochlin heard. They fled; my son 
 pursued. 
 
 I called him like a distant stream. ' Oscar, return 
 over Lena. No further pursue the foe/ I said, 
 ' though Ossian is behind thee.' He came ! and plea- 
 sant to my ear was Oscar's sounding steel. ' Why 
 didst thou stop my hand/ he said, ' till death had 
 covered all? For dark and dreadful by the stream 
 they met thy son and Fillan. They watched the ter- 
 rors of the night. Our swords have conquered some. 
 But as the winds of night pour the ocean over the 
 white sands of Mora, so dark advance the sons of 
 Lochlin, over Lena's rustling heath ! The ghosts of 
 night shriek afar: 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 fa- 
 thers, which they had lifted of old in war. The hero 
 had seen, in his rest, the mournful form of Agan- 
 decca. She came from the way of the ocean. She 
 slowly, lonely, moved over Lena. Her face was pale, 
 like the mist of Cromla. Dark were the tears of her 
 cheek. She often raised her dim hand from her robe, 
 her robe which was of the clouds of the desert : she 
 raised her dim hand over Fingal, and turned away 
 her silent eyes ! ' Why weeps the daughter of Starno V 
 said Fingal with a sigh ; ' why is thy face so pdle, 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 
 
FINGAL. 
 
 283 
 
 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 1 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. 
 
 1 Come to battle,' said the king, * ye children of 
 echoing Selma ! Come to the death of thousands. 
 Comhal's son will see the light. My sword shall wave 
 on the hill, the defence of my people in war. But 
 never may you need it, warriors ; while the son of 
 Morni fights, the chief of mighty men ! He shall lead 
 my battle, that his fame may rise in song ! O ye 
 ghosts of heroes dead ! ye riders of the storm of 
 Cromla ! receive my falling people with joy, and bear 
 them to your hills. And may the blast of Lena carry 
 them over my seas, that they may come to my silent 
 dreams, and delight my soul in rest. Fillan and 
 Oscar of the dark-brown hair! fair Ryno, with the 
 pointed steel ! advance with valour to the fight. Be- 
 hold 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 armour ; two spears are in 
 
284 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 sun-beam 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 Gor- 
 mal! 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 great- 
 est son! I rejoiced in my secret soul, when his sword 
 
FINGAL. 
 
 285 
 
 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 thun- 
 der 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,' begun the king of 
 Morven. 1 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 arise. Swaran beheld the ter- 
 rible 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. Dark- 
 ness gathers on the hill ! 
 
28G THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 Fingal, like a beam from heaven, shone in the 
 midst of his people. His heroes gather around him. 
 He sends forth the voice of his power. * Raise my 
 standards on high; spread them on Lena's wind, like 
 the flames of a hundred hills ! Let them sound on the 
 winds of Erin, and remind us of the fight. Ye sons 
 of the roaring streams, that pour from a thousand 
 hills, be near the king of Morven ! attend to the words 
 of his power! Gaul, strongest arm of death! O Oscar 
 of the future fights ! Connal, son of the blue shields 
 of Sora! Dermid, of the dark-brown hair! Ossian, 
 king of many songs, be near your father's arm !' We 
 reared the sun beam* of battle; the standard of the 
 king ! Each hero exulted with joy, as, -waving, it flew 
 on the wind. It was studded with gold above, as the 
 blue wide shell of the nightly sky. Each hero had 
 his standard too, and each his gloomy men! 
 
 ' Behold,' said the king of generous shells, « how 
 Lochlin divides on Lena! They stand like broken 
 clouds on a hill, or 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 Fin- 
 gal 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 re- 
 
 * Fingal's standard was distinguished by the name of 'sun- 
 beam :' probably on account of its bright colour, and by its being 
 studded with gold. To begin a battle is expressed, in old com- 
 position, by * lifting of the sun-beam.' 
 
FINGAL. 
 
 287 
 
 late the deaths, when we closed in the strife of arms ! 
 O daughter of Toscar, bloody were our hands ! The 
 gloomy ranks of Lochlin fell like the banks of the 
 roaring Cona ! Our arms were victorious on Lena : 
 each chief fulfilled his promise ! Beside the murmur 
 of Branno thou didst often sit, O maid ! thy white 
 bosom rose frequent, like the down of the swan when 
 slow she swims on the lake, and sidelong winds blow 
 on her ruffled wing. Thou hast seen the sun retire, 
 red and slow, behind his cloud : night gathering round 
 on the mountain, while the unfrequent blast roared 
 in the narrow vales. At length the rain beats hard : 
 thunder rolls in peals. Lightning glances on the 
 rocks ! Spirits ride on beams of fire ! The strength of 
 the mountain- streams comes roaring down the hills. 
 Such was the noise of battle, maid of the arms of 
 snow ! Why, daughter of Toscar, why that tear? The 
 maids of Lochlin have cause to weep ! The people of 
 their country fell. — Bloody were the blue swords of 
 the race of my heroes ! But I am sad, forlorn, and 
 blind : no more the companion of heroes! Give, lovely 
 maid, to me thy tears. I have seen the tombs of all 
 my friends!' 
 
 It was then, by Fingal's hand, a hero fell, to his 
 grief! 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 
 
288 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 on his brow. His hand is on the sword of his fathers : 
 his red rolling eyes on the foe. He thrice attempted 
 to rush to battle. He thrice was stopt by Connal. 
 * Chief of the isle of mist,' he said, ' Fingal subdues 
 the foe. Seek not a part of the fame of the king ; 
 himself is like the storm !' 
 
 ' Then, Carril, go/ replied the chief, *, go greet the 
 king of Morven. When Lochlin falls away like a 
 stream after rain ; when the noise of the battle is 
 past; then be thy voice sweet in his ear to praise the 
 king of Selma ! Give him the sword of Caithbat. Cu- 
 thullin 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 Cuthul- 
 lin ; talk to him in the cave of his grief. Nevermore 
 shall I be renowned among the mighty in the land. 
 I am a beam that has shone; a mist that has fled 
 away : when the blast of the morning came, and 
 brightened the shaggy side of the hill. Connal, talk 
 of arms no more ! departed is my fame. My sighs 
 shall be on Cromla's wind, till my footsteps cease to 
 be seen. And thou, white-bosomed Bragela, mourn 
 over the fall of my fame : vanquished, I will never 
 return to thee, thou sun-beam of my soul !' 
 
FINGAL. 
 
 289 
 
 BOOK V. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Cuthullin and Connal still remain on the hill. Fingal and Swa- 
 ran 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; frugal; his younger sons, and 
 Oscar, still pursue the enemy. The episode of Orla, a chief of 
 Lochlin, who was mortally wounded in the baitle,is introduced 
 Fins all touched with the death of Oiia, orders the pursuit to 
 be discontinued ; and calling his sons together, he is informed 
 that Ryno, the youngest of them, was slain. He lamints 
 hi.* death, hears the story of Laniderg and Gelchossa, and re- 
 turns towards the place where he had left Swaran. Carril, who 
 had been sent by Cuthullin, to congratulate Fingal on his vic- 
 tory, 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 Serao. 
 Our friends are the mighty in fight. Renowned art 
 thou, O warrior.' many were the deaths of thy steel. 
 Often has Bragela met, with blue rolling eyes of joy r 
 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 ! Ke 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 Selnia. 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 hill. He 
 sees the high billows advancing to Ardven's shore. 
 
 Such were the words of Connal when the heroes 
 
290 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 met in fight. There was the clang of arras ! 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 sun-beam ; terrible as the streaming meteor 
 of night. He came toward a chief of Lochlin. He 
 spoke to the son of the wave. — 1 Who is that so dark 
 and sad, at the rock of the roaring stream 1 He can- 
 not bound over its course. How stately is the chief ! 
 His bossy shield is on his side; his spear like the tree 
 of the desert. Youth of the dark-red hair, art thou of 
 the foes of Fingal f 
 
 * I am a son of Lochlin/ he cries, ' strong is my arm 
 in war. My spouse is weeping at home. Orla shall 
 
FINGAL. 
 
 291 
 
 never return!' ' Or fights or yield3 the hero V 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 tby 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 shew it to her 
 son, with tears to kindle his soul to war.' ' Son of 
 the mournful tale,' said Fingal, 1 why dost thou awaken 
 my tears 1 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 !' 
 
 I 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 his son with 
 his hant's!' 'But never will he find him, Fingal,' said 
 the youth of the streamy Lota : ' on Lena's heath I 
 
292 
 
 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 Fil- 
 lan, 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 th^ arm of battle ! the 
 mighty among the valiant is low ! Exalt the voice, 
 and blow the horn, ye sons of the king of Morven ! 
 Let us go back to Swaran, to send the night away on 
 song. Fillan, Oscar, and Ryno, fly over the heath 
 of Lena. Where, Ryno, art thou, young son of fame 1 
 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, 1 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. Fare- 
 well, thou first in every field. No more shall I direct 
 thy dart. Thou that hast been so fair ! 1 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 V begun 
 the king of generous shells : * four stones with their 
 
FINGAL. 
 
 293 
 
 heads of muss stand there. They mark the narrow 
 house of death. Near it let Ryno rest. A neighbour 
 to the brave let him lie. Some chief of fame is here, 
 to fly with my son on clouds. O Ullin ! raise the songs 
 of old. Awake their memory in their tomb. If in the 
 field they never fled, my son shall rest by their side. 
 He shall rest, far distant from Morven, on Lena's re- 
 sounding plains.' 
 
 ' Here,' said the bard of song, ' here rest the first 
 of heroes. Silent is Lamderg in this place : dumb is 
 Ullin, king of swords. And who, soft smiling from 
 her cloud, shews me her face of love? Why, daughter, 
 why so pale art thou, first of the maids of Cromla ? 
 Dost thou sleep with the foes in battle, white-bosomed 
 daughter of Tuathal % Thou hast been the love of thou- 
 sands, 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 1 I left her in the hall of Tura, when I 
 fought with the great Ulfada. Return soon, O Lam- 
 derg ! she said, for here I sit in grief. Her white 
 breast rose with sighs. Her cheek was wet with tears. 
 But I see her not coming to meet me, to sooth my 
 soul after war. Silent is the hall of my joy. I hear 
 not the voice of the bard. Bran does not shake his 
 chains at the gate, glad at the coming of Lamderg. 
 Where is Gelchossa, my love, the mild daughter of 
 the generous Tuathal V * 
 
 * " Lamderg," says Ferchios, son of Aidon, " Gel- 
 chossa moves stately on Cromla. She and the maids of 
 the bow pursue the flying deer !" 11 Ferchios!" replied 
 the chief of Cromla, 4 '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 !" 
 
 1 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 V "I saw/' answered 
 Allad the old, " Ullin the son of Cairbar. He came, 
 O 
 
294 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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, 
 light 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 1 remain on Cromla, to wait that son of 
 battle, Lamderg. On the fourth Gelchossa is mine, 
 if the mighty Lamderg flies.' " 
 
 ' f* Allad," said the chief of Cromla, " peace to thy 
 dreams in the cave ! Ferchio?, sound the horn of Lam- 
 derg, that Ullin may hear in his halls." Lamderg, 
 like a roaring storm, ascended the hill from Tura. He 
 hummed a surly song as he went, like the noise of a 
 falling stream. He darkly stood upon the hill, like a 
 cloud varying its form to the wind. He rolled a stone, 
 the sign of war. Ullin heard in Cairbar's hall. The 
 hero heard, with joy, his foe. He took his father's 
 spear. A smile brightens his dark-brown cheek, as 
 he places his sword by his side. The dagger glittered 
 in his hand, he whistled as he went. 
 
 t Gelchossa saw the silent chief, as a wreath of mist 
 a-cending the hill. She struck her white and heav- 
 ing breast; and silent, tearful, feared for Lamderg. 
 « Cairbar, hoary chief of shells," said the maid of the 
 tender hand," I must bend the bow cn 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 1 Fierce 
 Ullin fell. Young Lamderg came, all pale, to the 
 daughter of generousTuathal ! " What blood, my love," 
 she trembling said, " what blood runs down my war- 
 rior'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 V 
 Three days she mourned beside her love. The hunt- 
 ers found her cold. They raised this tomb above the 
 
FINGAL. 
 
 295 
 
 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 Fer- 
 gus, 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 1 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 eye3 to Cromla's brow. I saw the son 
 of generous Semo. Sad and slow he retired from his 
 hill, towards the lonely cave of Tura. He saw Fingal 
 victorious, and mixed his joy with grief. The sun is 
 bright on his armour. Connal slowly strode behind. 
 They sunk behind the hill, like two pillars of the fire 
 of night, when winds pursue them over the mountain, 
 and the flaming heath resounds! Beside a stream of 
 roaring foam his cave is in a rock. One tree bends 
 above it. The rushing winds echo against its sides. 
 
296 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 Gona. O Bragela ! 
 thou art too far remote, to cheer the soul of the hero. 
 But let him see thy bright fcrm in his mind, that 
 his thoughts may return to the lonely sun-beam 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 V 
 
 * 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 Ever- 
 allin. 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 !' 
 
 1 Bring not, Carril,' I replied, 'bring not her me- 
 mory to my mind. My soul must melt at the remem- 
 brance. 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. 
 
 297 
 
 BOOK VI. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Night comes on. Fingal gives a feast to his army, at which 
 Svvaran 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 lnibaca, the 
 daughter of a king of Lochlin, who was ancestor to Swaran: 
 which consideration, together with his being brother to Agan- 
 decca, 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. Morn- 
 ing comes. Svvaran departs. Fingal g-oes 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 come rolling down. Darkness 
 rests on the steeds of Cromla. The stars of the north 
 arise over the rolling of Erin's waves : they shew 
 their heads of fire through the flying mist of heaven. 
 A distant wind roars in the wood. Silent and dark 
 is the plain of death! Still on the dusky Lena arose 
 in my ears the voice of Carril. He sung of the friends 
 of our youth; the days of former years; when we 
 met on the banks of Lego; when we sent round the 
 joy of the shell. Cromla auswered 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 ed- 
 dying 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 shells goes round. The 
 
298 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 souls of warriors brighten with joy. But the king of 
 Lochlin is silent. Sorrow reddens in the eyes of his 
 pride. He often turned toward Lena. He remem- 
 bered 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 sooth my 
 soul from war ! Let mine ear forget, in the sound, the 
 dismal noise of arms. Let a hundred harps be near 
 to gladden the king of Lochlin. He must depart 
 from us with joy. None ever went sad from Fingal. 
 Oscar ! the lightning of my sword is against the strong 
 in fight. Peaceful it lies by my side when warriors 
 yield in war.' 
 
 * Trenmor/ said the mouth of songs, ' lived in the 
 days of other years. He bounded over the waves of 
 the north : companion of the storm ! The high rocks 
 of the land of Lochlin, its groves of murmuring sounds, 
 appeared to the hero through mist; he bound his 
 white-bosomed sails. Trenmor pursued the boar that 
 roared through the woods of Gormal. Many had fled 
 from its presence ; but it rolled in death on the spear 
 of Trenmor. Three chiefs, who beheld the deed, told 
 of the mighty stranger. They told that he stood, like 
 a pillar of fire, in the bright arms of his valour. The 
 King of Lochlin prepared the feast. He called the 
 blooming Trenmor. Three days he feasted at GormaPs 
 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. Co- 
 vered over with arms of steel, a son of the woody Gor- 
 mal 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. 
 
FINGAL. 
 
 299 
 
 ■ " Stay, Trenrnor, 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," Trenrnor replied, " I will 
 not fight with LonvaPs son. Thine arm is feeble, sun 
 beam of youth ! Retire to Goimal's dark brown hinds.' 
 " But I will retire," replied the youth, " with the 
 sword of Treumor; and exult in the sound of my fame. 
 The virgins shall gather with smiles around him who 
 conquered mighty Trenrnor. 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 shall 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 3teel. Trenrnor 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 Trenrnor: 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 
 revbit the fields of the sun, and bend their aching 
 eyes ! 
 
 ' 11 Chief of the windy Morven," begun the maid 
 of the arms of snow, "let me rest in thy bounding 
 ship, far from the love of Corlo. For he, like the 
 thunder of the desert, is terrible to Inibaca. He 
 loves me in the gloom of pride. He shakes ten 
 thousand spears!" — " Rest thoci in peace," said the 
 mighty Trenrnor, " rest, behind the shield of my fa- 
 thers. 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 
 
300 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 He feasted on the roaring shore. He gave the maid 
 to Trenmor V 
 
 * King of Lochlin/ said Fingal, * thy blood flows in 
 the veins of thy foe. Our fathers met in battle, be- 
 cause they loved the strife of spears. But often did 
 they feast in the hall : and send round the joy of the 
 shell. Let thy face brighten with gladness, and thine 
 ear delight in the harp. Dreadful as the storm of 
 thine ocean, thou hast poured thy valour forth ; thy 
 voice has been like the voice of thousands when they 
 engage in war. Raise, to-morrow, raise thy white 
 sails to the wind, thou brother of Agandecca! Bright 
 as the beam of noon, she comes on my mournful soul. 
 I have seen thy tears for the fair one. I spared thee 
 in the halls of Starno; when my sword was red with 
 slaughter; when my eye was full of tears for the 
 maid. Or dost thou choose the fight? The combat 
 which thy fathers gave to Trenmor is thine ! that thou 
 mayest depart renowned, like the sun setting in the 
 west!' 
 
 ' King of the race of Morven !' said the chief of re- 
 sounding 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 wave* 
 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 ot 
 Malmor! But many of the ships of Lochlin have lost 
 their youths on Lena. Take these, thou king of Mor- 
 ven, 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 echo 
 ing hills of Gormal.' — * Blest be thy soul, thou king 
 of shells,' said Swaran of the dark-brown shield. 1 In 
 
FINGAL. 
 
 301 
 
 peace thou art the gale of spring ; in war the moun- 
 tain-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 here- 
 after shall he say, and our fame shall last for ever.' 
 
 ' Swaran,' said the king of hilJs, 1 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,whenourstrength hath ceased? 0 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 Swa- 
 ran 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, 1 Carril of 
 other times ! where is the son of Scmo, the king of 
 the isle of mist? Has he retired like the meteor of 
 death, to the dreary cave of TuraT — * Cuthullin,' said 
 Carril of other times, ' lies in the dreary cave of Tura. 
 His hand is on the sword of bis 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 
 O 2 
 
302 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 bat- 
 tle 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 to- 
 gether, 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 after- 
 wards 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 1 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 Fin- 
 gal, * 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 
 
FINGAL. 
 
 303 
 
 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 bat- 
 tles 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. 1 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. Re- 
 sign to me these arms of light. Yield them, thou 
 
304 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 Eragela leaning 
 on her rock. Her tender eye is in tears, the winds 
 lift her long hair from her heaving breast. She lis- 
 tens 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 Bragela, to raise the 
 sigh of her breast? Fingal, I was always victorious, 
 in battles of other spears.' ' And hereafter thou shalt 
 be victorious,' said Fingal of generous shells. 'The 
 fame of Cuthullin shall grow, like the branchy tree 
 of Croma. 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 Cu- 
 thullin 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- 
 ward the plains of Lena. We followed in all our arms. 
 
 1 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. 
 
305 
 
 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 surpiised by night, and himself taken pri- 
 soner by Ossian and Gaul the son of iMorni. The poem opens 
 with the first appea ranee of Fingal on the coast of Morven, 
 and ends, it may be supposed, ahout 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 ? pur- 
 suest 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 ab- 
 sent far. Bat let each bind on his mail, and each 
 assume his shield. Stretch every spear over the wave ; 
 
306 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN, 
 
 let every sword be unsheathed. Lathmon is before 
 us W1 th 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 
 Cannon'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 for- 
 ward on his staff ; young Gaul is near the hero, hear- 
 ing 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. He remembered the 
 deeds of other years. 
 
 ' My son,' he said to fair-haired Gaul, ' I hear the 
 sound of war. The king of Morven is returned ; his 
 signals are spread on the wind. Go to the halls of 
 Strumon ; bring his arms to Morni. Bring the shield 
 of my father's latter years, for my arm begins to fail. 
 Take thou thy armour, O Gaul ! and rush to the first 
 of thy battles. Let thine arm reach to the renown of 
 thy fathers. Be thy course in the field like the eagle's 
 wing. Why shouldst thou fear death, my son ? the 
 valiant fall with fame ; their shields turn the dark 
 stream of danger away ; renown dwells on their aged 
 hairs. Dost thou not see, O Gaul ! how the steps of 
 my age are honoured? Morni moves forth, and the 
 young 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, 
 
LATHMON. 
 
 307 
 
 The son of Comhal arose before him with joy, when 
 he came in his locks of age. 
 
 ' Chief of roaring Strumon!' said the rising soul of 
 Fingal ; ' do I 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, c 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 de- 
 part not from the side of Fingal lest the foe should 
 find you alone, and your fame fail in my presence.' 
 
 ' * 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 
 
 * Ossian speaks. 
 
308 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 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. O ur 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 I* 
 
 * 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, 
 
 0 Fingal ! the feeble remain on the hills ! How many 
 heroes have passed away in the days of Morni ! Yet 
 
 1 did not shun the battle ; neither did 1 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 not near to shield you. Let not your fame fall at 
 once. The valour of youth may fail !' 
 
 We heard the words of the chief with joy. We 
 moved in the clang of our arms. Our steps are on the 
 woody hill. Heaven burns with all its stars. The 
 meteors of death fly over the field. The distant noise 
 of the foe reached our ears. It was then Gaul spoke, 
 in his valour : his hand half-unsheathed his sword. 
 
 * Son of Fingal!' he said, 1 why burns the soul of 
 Gaul 1 my heart beats high. My steps are disordered ; 
 my hand trembles on my sword. When I look to- 
 
LATHMON. 
 
 309 
 
 wards the foe my soul lightens before me. I see 
 their sleeping host. Tremble thus the souls of the va- 
 liant in battles of the spear ? How would the soul of 
 Momi rise if we should rush on the foe ? Our renown 
 would grow in song : our steps would be stately in the 
 eyes of the brave.' 
 
 ' Son of Morni,' I replied, * my soul delights in war. 
 I delight to shine in battle alone, to give my name to 
 the bards. But what if the foe should prevail? can I 
 behold the eyes of the king ? They are terrible in his 
 displeasure, and like the flames of death. But I will 
 not behold them in his wrath 1 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 valour when 
 they mourn our fall. A beam of gladness shall rise 
 on their souls, when their eyes are full of tears. They 
 will say, " Our sons have not fallen unknown : they 
 spread death around them." But why should we think 
 of the narrow house ? The sword defends the brave. 
 But death pursues the flight of the feeble ; their re- 
 nown 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. 
 
310 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 1 
 Shall he come like a blast by night, when it overturns 
 the young trees in secret 1 Fingal did not 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 1 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. Cremor fell ; 
 and mighty Leth ! Dunthormo struggled in his blood. 
 The steel rushed through Crotho's side, as bent he 
 rose on his spear ; the black stream poured from the 
 wound, and hissed on the half extinguished oak. 
 Cathmin saw the steps of the hero behind him: he 
 ascended a blasted tree ; but the spear pierced him 
 from behind. Shrieking, panting, he 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 
 
LATHMON. 
 
 311 
 
 the staff of the boy, when he whistles along the field 
 and the gray beard of the thistle falls. But careless 
 the youth moves on ; his steps are towards the desert. 
 Gray morning rose around us; the winding streams 
 are bright along the heath. The foe gathered on a 
 hill ; and the rage of Lathmon rose. He bent the red 
 eye of his wrath : he is silent in his rising grief. He 
 often struck his bossy shield : and his steps are un- 
 equal on the heath. I saw the distant darkness of 
 the hero, and I spoke to Morni's son. 
 
 ' Car borne chief of Strumon, dost thou behold the 
 foe? They gather on the hill in their wrath. Let our 
 steps be towards the king.* He shall rise in his 
 strength, and the host of Lathmon vanish. Our fame 
 is around us, warrior ; the eyes of the aged+ will re- 
 joice. 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/ Be- 
 hold the warriors of night! They are, like ghosts, ter- 
 rible in darkness; theymelt away before the beam of 
 the ea*t.' Ossian, take the shield of Gormar, who fell 
 beneath thy spear. The aged heroes will rejoice, be- 
 holding the deeds of their sons.' 
 
 Such were our words on the plain, when Sulmath 
 came to car-borne Lathmon : Sulmath chief of Dutha 
 at the dark-rolling stream of Duvranna. ' Why dost 
 thou not rush, son of Nuath, 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 V 
 
 * Son of the feeble hand,' said Lathmon, ' shall my 
 host descend? They are but two, son of Dutha ! shall 
 .thousand lift the steel? Nuath would mourn, in his 
 hall, for the departure of his fame. His eyes would 
 turn from Lathmon, when the tread of his feet ap- 
 proached. Go thou to the heroes, chief of Dutha! I 
 behold the stately steps of Ossian. His fame isworthy 
 of my steel ! let us contend in fight.' 
 
 The noble Sulmath came. I rejoiced in the words 
 of the kin^. I raised the shield on my arm ; Gaul 
 * Fingal. A Fing-al and Morni. 
 
312 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 placed in my hand the sword of Morni. We return- 
 ed to the murmuring stream ; Lathmon came down in 
 his strength, His dark host rolled, like clouds, be- 
 hind him ; but the son of Nuath 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 Nuath 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 SM'ord rested by his side : the blue eyes of 
 Cutha would roll in tears ; her steps be lonely in the 
 vales of Dunlathmon !' 
 
 ' Neither shall it be told/ I replied, ' that the son 
 of Fingal fled. Were his steps covered with dark- 
 ness, yet would not Ossian fly ! His soul would meet 
 him and say, " Does the bard of Selma fear the foe V 
 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 
 Nuath burnt in his wrath. He lifted high his sound- 
 ing shield. His dark eyes rolled above it, as, bend- 
 ing forward, it shone like a gate of brass. But Os- 
 sian'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 1 Your souls are beams from heaven ; your 
 swords the flames of death! Who can equal the re- 
 nown of the heroes, whose deeds are so great in youth 1 
 0 that ye were in the halls of N uath, in the green 
 
LATHMON. 
 
 313 
 
 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 Mor- 
 ven. 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 into our presence, and the mildly blushing Ever- 
 allin! 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 
 Nuath,' 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 de- 
 parture of my soul shall be a stream of light. Lath- 
 mon ! retire to thy place ! Turn thy battles to other 
 lands ! The race of Morven are renowned ; their foes 
 are the sons of the unhappy!' 
 
314 
 
 D AR-THULA. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 It may not be improper here to give the story which is the foun- 
 dation of this poem, as it is handed down by tradition. Us- 
 noth, lord of Etna, 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 Slisj-ama, the daughter of 
 Semo, and sister to the celebrated CuthuUin. The three bro- 
 thers, when very young, were sent over to Ireland by their 
 father, to learn the use of arms under their uncle CuthuUin, 
 who made a great figure in that kingdom. They were just 
 landed in Ulster, when the news of Cuthulliu's death arrived. 
 Nathos, though very young, took the command of Cuthullin's 
 army, made head against Cairbar tlie 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 or- 
 der to pass over into Scotland. 
 
 Dar-thula, the daughter of Colla, with whom Cairbar was in 
 love, resided at that time in Selama, 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-thu!a*ki.led herself upon the body of her be- 
 loved Nathos. 
 
 The poem opens on the night preceding the death of the sons of 
 Usnoth, and brings in by way of enisode what passed before, 
 ltrelatesthe death of Dar-thula differently from the common 
 tradition. This account is the most probable, as suicide seems 
 to have been unknown in th jse 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 heaver, 
 light of the silent night? The stars are ashamed in 
 thy presence. They turn away their sparkling eyes. 
 Whither dost thou retire from thy course when the 
 darkness of thy countenance grows ? Hast thou thy 
 hall, like Ossian? Dwellest thou in the shadow of 
 grief? Have thy sisters fallen from heaven? Are 
 they who rejoiced with thee, at night, no more ? Yes! 
 they have fallen, fair light! and thou dost often retire 
 to mourn. But thou thyself shalt fail one night, and 
 leave thy blue path in heaven. The stars will then 
 
DAR-THULA. 
 
 315 
 
 lift up their heads : they, who were ashamed in thy 
 presence, will rejoice. Thou art now clothed with 
 thy brightness. Look from thy gates in the sky. 
 Burst the cloud, O wind ! that the daughter of night 
 may look forth; that the shaggy mountains may 
 brighten, and the ocean roll its white waves in light. 
 
 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 his shadowy mist. 
 Who is it but Dar-thula, the first of Erin's maids 1 
 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 re- 
 ceives 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 
 the hour of the setting sun. Thy words were the gale 
 of the reeds; the gilding 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 vanish- 
 ed at the sound of thy course. It was then Dar-thula 
 beheld thee, from the top of her mossy tower : from 
 the tower of Selama, where her fathers dwelt. 
 
 4 Lovely art thou, O stranger!' she said, for her 
 
316 
 
 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 trembling soul arose. ' Fair art thou in thy battles, 
 friend of the fallen Cormao ! Why dost thou rush on 
 in thy valour, 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 re- 
 joice 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 
 Selama's mossy towers. But now the night is around 
 thee. The winds have deceived thy sails — the winds 
 have deceived thy sails, Dar-thula ! Their blustering 
 sound is high. Cease a little while, O north wind ! 
 Let me hear the voice of the lovely. Thy voice is 
 lovely, Dar-thula, between the rustling blasts ! 
 
 * Are these the rocks of Nathos she said, * this 
 the roar of his mountain streams 1 Comes that beam 
 of light from Usnoth's nightly hall 1 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 streams. No light comes 
 from Etha's halls, for they are distant far. We are 
 in the land of strangers, in the land of cruel Cairbair. 
 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 rolling of 
 the wave. The big tear is in her eye. She looks for 
 returning Nathos. Her soul trembles at the blast. 
 She turns her ear towards the tread of his feet. The 
 tread of his feet is not heard. « Where art thou, son 
 of my love ! The roar of the blast is around me. 
 Dark is the cloudy night. But Nathos does not re- 
 
D AR-THULA. 
 
 turn. What detains thee, chief of Etha? Have the 
 foes met the hero in the strife of the night V 
 
 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 is watery and dim. 
 
 i Why art thou sad, O Nathos!' said the lovely 
 daughter of Colla. ' Thou art a pillar of light to Dar- 
 thula. The joy of her eyes is in Etha's chief. Where 
 is my friend, but Nathos? My father, my brother is 
 fallen ! Silence dwells on Selama. 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 Na- 
 thos ! 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 Sehima'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 hi3 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 Selama is no more! Cairbar comes, 
 with his thousands, towards Selama'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 sun -beam of hea- 
 ven, 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? 
 P 
 
318 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 V 
 
 * 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 j ** 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 Selama, 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 trem- 
 bling on his band. The strength of his arm has fail- 
 ed. His soul is darkened with grief." 
 
 ' We passed the night in sorrow. The light of 
 morning rose. I shone in the arms ef battle. The 
 gray-haired hero moved before. The sons of Selama 
 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 de- 
 sert. My shield is worn with years! my sword is 
 fixed in its place !* I said to my soul, Thy evening 
 shall be calm ; thy departure like a fading light. But 
 the storm has returned. I bend like an aged oak. 
 My boughs are fallen on Selama. 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." 
 
 * It was the custom of ancient times, that every warrior, at a 
 certain age, or when he became unfit for the field, fixed liis arms 
 in the great hall, where the tribe 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. 7 
 
DAR THULA. 
 
 31J 
 
 ' 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 Salama's maid. Joy rose 
 on his dark-brown face. He stayed his lifted steel. 
 He raised the tomb of Colla. He brought me weep- 
 ing to Selama. 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 V 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 dan 
 ger 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 Selarna's fair ; be- 
 fore 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 bro- 
 thers of Nathos are brave, and his own sword has 
 shone in fight. But what arc the sons of Usnoth to 
 
320 
 
 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 the host of dark-browed Cairbar ! O that the winds 
 had brought thy sails, Oscar king of men ! Thou 
 didst promise to come to the battles of fallen Cormac ! 
 Then would my hand be strong as the flaming arm 
 of death. Cairbar would tremble in his halls, and 
 peace dwell round the lonely Dar-thula. But why 
 dost thou fail, my soul ? The sons of Usnoth may 
 prevail f' 
 
 * And they will prevail, O Nathos!' said the rising 
 soul of the maid. ' Never shall Dar-thula behold the 
 halls of gloomy Cairbar. Give me those arms of brass, 
 that glitter to the passing meteor. I see them dimly 
 in the dark-bosomed ship. Dar-thula will enter the 
 battle of steel. Ghost of the noble Colla ! do I behold 
 thee on that cloud! Who is that dim beside thee? Is 
 it the car borne Truthil ? Shall I behold the halls of 
 him that slew Selama'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 Seldma! thou 
 shinest along my soul. Come, with thy thousands, 
 Cairbar! the strength of Nathos is returned! Thou, 
 
 0 aged Usnoth ! shalt not hear that thy son has fled. 
 
 1 remember thy words on Etna, 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 Cu- 
 thullin, 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, thatEtha'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 Tura were 
 silent. I looked around, and there was none to tell 
 of the son of generous Semo. I went to the hall of 
 shells, where the arms of his fathers hung. But the 
 arms were gone, and aged Lamhor sat in tears. 
 " Whence are the arms of steel?" said the rising Lam- 
 hor. ** 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?" 
 
DAR-THULA. 
 
 321 
 
 ' " We come from the sea," I said, " from Usnoth's 
 rising towers. We are the sons of Slissama, 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 1 struck the shield of Caith- 
 bat. 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 threat- 
 ened rain, vanish behind the hills. The sons of Us- 
 noth moved, in their grief, towards Tura's sounding 
 bay. We passed by Selama. 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 earnest 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 p the foe is near/ said the rushing strength of 
 
322 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 Althos. ' I heard their clanging arras 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 1 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 1 
 No: his soul detains him, children of the night! Al- 
 thos, bring my father's arms : thou seest them beam- 
 ing to the stars. Bring the spear of Semo. It stands 
 in the dark-bosomed ship!' 
 
 He brought the arms. Nathos covered his limbs 
 in all their shining steel. The stride of the chief is 
 lovely. The joy of his eyes was terrible. He looks 
 towards the coming of Cairbar. The wind is rustling 
 in his hair. Dar-thula is silent at his side. Her look 
 is fixed on the chief. She strives to hide the rising 
 sigh. Two tears swell in her radiant eyes! 
 
 ' Althos!' said the chief of Etha, ' 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 sound- 
 ing 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 
 
DAR-THULA. 
 
 323 
 
 not on Lena when the battle rose 1 Then would the 
 sword of Ossian defend thee, or himself fall lowP 
 
 We sat that night in Selma, round the strength of 
 the shell. The wind was abroad in the oaks. The 
 spirit of the mountain* roared. The blast came rus- 
 tling through the hall, and gently touched my harp. 
 The sound was mournful and low, like the song of 
 the tomb. Fin gal 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' 
 1 touched the harp before the king ; the sound was 
 mournful and low. ' Bend forward from your clouds/ 
 I said, ' ghosts of my fathers! bend. Lay by the red 
 terror of your course. Receive the falling chief ; 
 whether he comes from a distant land, or rises from 
 the rolling sea. Let his robe of mist be near ; his 
 spear that is formed of a cloud. Place an half extin- 
 guished 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-trem- 
 bling harp. But Nathos was on Erin's shore, sur- 
 rounded 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. 4 And who are these, 
 in their armour, in the pride of youth ? Who but the 
 sons of Usnoth, Althos and dark-haired Ardan V 
 
 * Come,' said Nathos, ' come ! chief of high Temora ! 
 Let our battle be on the coast, for the white- bosomed 
 
 * By the spirit of the mountain, is meant that deep and me- 
 lancholy sound which precedes a storm, well known to those who 
 live in a high country. 
 
324 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 maid. His people are not with Nathos ; they are be- 
 hind 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 re- 
 nowned, 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 wi- 
 thered, and the heath was bare \ 
 
 Dar-thula stood in silent grief, and beheld their fall I 
 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 SeimaP Her shield fell 
 from Darthula'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 ! 
 
 1 Daughter of Colla! thou art low !' said Cairbar's 
 hundred bards. ' Silence is at the blue streams of Se- 
 lama. Truthil's race have failed. When wilt thou 
 rise in thy beauty, first of Erin's maids? Thy sleep is 
 
THE DEATH OP CUTHULLIN. 325 
 
 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 I 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! 
 
 THE DEATH OF CUTHULLIN. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Cutliullin, after the arms of Fingal had expelled Swarm 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 admini>tration, Torlath, the son of Cantela, re- 
 belled 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 moitally wounded. The affairs of Cor- 
 mac, though" for some time supported by Nathos, as m< niioned 
 in the preceding poem, fell into confusion at the death of Cu- 
 thullin. 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 1 Or is the voice 
 of past times in my hall? Sing on, sweet voice! for 
 thou art pleasant. Thou carriest away my night 
 with joy. Sing on, O Bragela, daughter of car-borne 
 Sorglan ! 
 
 ' It is the white wave of the rock, and not Cuthullin's 
 sails. Often do the mists deceive me for the ship of 
 my love! when they rise round some ghost, and spread 
 their 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,* since thou hast been in the roar of 
 
 * Togorma, i. e. ' the island of blue waves,' one 
 of the Hebrides. 
 P 2 
 
326 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 battles, and Bragela distant far ! Hills of the isle of 
 mist! when will ye answer to his hounds? But ye are 
 dark in your clouds. Sad Bragela calls in Tain ! 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, () 
 chief of Erin's wars V 
 
 Pleasant is thy voice in Ossian's ear, daughter of 
 car-borne Sorglan! But retire to the hall of shells; to 
 the beam of the burning oak. Attend to the murmur 
 of the sea : it rolls at Dunscai's walls : let sleep de- 
 scend 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 
 vapour of death, slowly borne by sultry winds. The 
 sun reddens in its presence : the people fall around.' 
 
 Such was the song of Carril, when a son of the foe 
 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 hall3 : 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 
 
THE DEATH OP CUTHULLIN. 327 
 
 light! Cuthullin rose before the bard, that came from 
 generous Torlath. He offered him the shell of joy. 
 He honoured 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 V 
 
 * He comes to thy battle,' replied the bard, 1 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, 1 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 V 
 
 * 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 moon-beam on thy side. But the 
 meteors of death are there: the gray watery forms of 
 ghosts. Why art thou dark, Slimora! with thy silent 
 woods?' He retired, in the sound of his song. Carril 
 joined his voice. The music was like the memory of 
 joys that are past, pleasant and mournful to the soul. 
 The ghosts of departed bards heard on Slimora's side. 
 Soft sounds spread along the wood. The silent val- 
 leys 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 : 
 
328 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 toward the desert, to be- 
 hold 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 ! — * " 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 1" 
 
 * " 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 !" — 
 " * 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 toward the desert, mo- 
 ther of low laid Calmar?' 
 
 Such was the song of Carril, when Cuthullin lay on 
 his shield. The bards rested on their harps. Sleep 
 fell softly around. The son of Semo was awake alone. 
 His soul was fixed on war. The burning oaks began 
 to decay. Faint red light is spread around. A feeble 
 voice is heard! The ghost of Calmar came ! He stalked 
 * Alcletha speaks. 
 
THE DEATH OF CUTHULLIN. 329 
 
 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 1 if thou 
 now dost advise to fly! But, Calmar, I never fled. I 
 never feared the ghosts of night. Small is their know- 
 ledge, 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 Cal- 
 mar's ghost. He delighted in battle. His arm was 
 like the thunder of heaven I? 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 V 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 uur hosts 
 behold our deeds 1 Let them behold us like roaring 
 waves, thot 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 ab- 
 sent 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 ter- 
 rible spirit of Loda, when he comes, in the roar of a 
 thousand storms, and scatters battles from his eyes. 
 
330 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 ter- 
 rible was Cuthullin in the day of his fame. Torlath 
 fell by his hand. Lego's heroes mourned. They ga- 
 ther 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 roar- 
 ing sea. They fell around. He strode in blood. 
 Dark Slimora echoed wide. The sons of Ullin came. 
 The battle spread over Lego. The chief of Erin over- 
 came. 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, un- 
 sheathed, 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. Cor- 
 mac 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 Dunscai. Thy spouse is left alone in her youth. 
 The son of thy love is alone ! He shall come to Bra- 
 gela, and ask her why she weeps ! He shall lift his 
 eyes to the wall, and see his father's sword. Whose 
 sword is that 1 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 1 His eyes look wildly 
 round in search of his friend. Connal, son of Colgar, 
 where hast thou been, when the mighty fell 1 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 
 
THE DEATH OF CUTHULLIN. 331 
 
 Selma, nor in Morven's woody land. Fingal will be 
 sad, and the sons of tbe 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. 
 
 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 Dunscai! 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 ! 
 Bragela 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, 0 chief 
 of shady Tura !' 
 
 * This is the song of the bards over Cuthullin's tomb. 
 
332 
 
 THE BATTLE OF LORA. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Fingal, on his return from Ireland, after he had expelled Swaran 
 from that kingdom, made a least to all his heroes; he forgot 
 to invite Ma-ronnaii 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 Scan- 
 dinavia, the declared enemy of Fingal. The valour of Aldo 
 soon gained him a grett 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 Scot- 
 land, 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 streams which the storms have bent, spread 
 their whistling branches around. This is thy dwel- 
 ling, 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 1 Son of the 
 secret cell ! dost thou delight in songs ? Hear the bat- 
 tle 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 glitter- 
 ing rocks, and the green heads of the mountains, 
 smile. 
 
 The bay of Cona received our ships from Erin's rol- 
 ling waves. Our white sheejs hung loose to the masts. 
 
THE BATTLE OF LORA. 333 
 
 The boisterous winds roared behind the groves of Mor- 
 ven. 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 for- 
 got 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 sup- 
 ported 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 
 speais. 
 
 'Aldo of the heart of pride!' said Fingal, rising in 
 wrath ; ' shall I defend thee from the rage of Sora's 
 
334 
 
 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 injured king ? Who will now receive my people into 
 their halls 1 Who will give the feast of strangers, since 
 Aldo, of the little soul, has dishonoured 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 Fin gal cease to fight? I was 
 born in the midst of battles,* 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 over- 
 turn 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 j in song. My deeds shall be as a 
 dream to future times V 
 
 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 
 ton thousand swords. Gloomy is the king among his 
 chiefs ! he is like the darkened moon amidst the me- 
 teors of night; when they sail along her skirts, and 
 give the light that has failed o'er her orb.' 1 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 
 
 * Tomhal, the father of Fing;il, was slain in battle, against the 
 tr.be 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.' 
 
THE BATTLE OF LORA. 335 
 
 him, 0 Bosmina 1 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. Tn her right hand was seen a spark- 
 ling 3hell. 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 gene- 
 rous Aldo. He gives to Frragon a hundred steeds, 
 the children of the reio ; a hundred maids from dis 
 tant lands ; a hundred hawks with fluttering wing, 
 that fly across the sky. A hundred girdles* 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,f in the midst of their echoing halls. 
 These, 0 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 is arm is strong!' 
 
 ' Soft voice of Cona !' replied the king, 1 tell him, 
 he spreads his feast in v;iin. Let Fingal pour his 
 spoils around me. Let him bend beneath ray power. 
 Let him give me the swrrds 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." * 1 Never shall they behold them in thy 
 
 * Sanctified girdles, till very lately, were kept in many fami- 
 lies in the north of Scotland ; they were bound about women in 
 labour, and were supposed to alleviate ihiir pains, and to acce- 
 lerate the birth. They were impressed wiih several mystical 
 figures : and the ceremony of binding them about the woman's 
 waist, was accompanied with words and gestures which shewed 
 the custom to have come originally from the Druids. 
 
 t The Roman emperors. 
 
336 
 
 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 halls said the rising pride of the maid. * They are 
 in the hands of heroes, who never yielded 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 be- 
 held 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 he- 
 roes. 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 fol- 
 lowed. He stopped in the midst of his course. Oscar 
 appeared the first; then Morni's son, and Nemi's race. 
 Fercuth shewed 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, un- 
 sheathed, 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 sun beam 
 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, mind- 
 ful 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 1 
 
 ' Who comes/ said Fingal, * like the bounding roe ; 
 like the hart of echoing Cona? His shield glitters on 
 
THE BATTLE OF LORA. 
 
 337 
 
 his side. The clang of his armour 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, un- 
 happy Lorma ! Aldo is no more V The king took the 
 spear of his strength. He was sad for the fall of Aldo. 
 He bent his deathful eyes on the foe: but Gaul met 
 the king of Sora. Who can relate the fight of the 
 chiefs ? The mighty stranger fell ! * Sons of Cona !' 
 Fingal cried aloud, ' stop the hand of death. Mighty 
 was he that is low. Much is he mourned in Sora! 
 The stranger will come toward his hall, and wonder 
 why it is so silent. The king is fallen, O stranger. 
 The joy of hi3 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. 1 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 is in his breast. 1 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 toward 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 
 
338 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 Loraia 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 ! 
 
339 
 
 TEMORA : 
 
 AN EPIC POEM. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Cairbar, the son of Borbar-duthul, lord of Athain Connaught, 
 the most patent chief of the race of the Fir-holg. having mur- 
 dered, at Temora, the royal palace, Cormac, the son of Ar- 
 tho, 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. F.ngal relented the 
 behaviour of Cairbar, and resolved to pass o\er 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 re- 
 tired from the rest of the army, when one of his scouts brought 
 lain news of the landing of Fin gal. He assembles- a council 
 of his chiefs. Foldath, the chief of Moma, haughtily despises 
 the enemy : and is reprimanded warmly by Malthos. Cair- 
 bar, after hearing their debate, orders a feast to be prepared, 
 to which, by his bard Olla, he invites Oscar, the son of Os- 
 sian ; 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 1o the army of Cathmor, who 
 was advanced to the banks of the river Lubar, on the hearh 
 of Moi-Iena. Fingal, after mourning: over his grandson, or- 
 dered DUin, the chief of his bards, to carry his body to Mor- 
 ven, to be there interred. Ni^ht coming on, Althau, the son 
 of Conachar, relates to the king the particulars of the mur- 
 der 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 
 
310 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 step?- 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 ! 
 
 i 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 V ' In peace he 
 comes not, king of Erin; I have seen his forward* 
 spear.* It is a meteor of death. The blood of thou- 
 
 * 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 he was immediately invited to the feast, 
 according to the hospitality of the times. 
 
TEMORA. 
 
 341 
 
 sands 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 Mor- 
 ni'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 ter- 
 rible 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 inclosed 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 V 
 
 * Then fly, thou feeble man/ said Foldath's gloomy 
 wrath. e Fly to the gray streams of thy land, son of 
 the little soul! Have not I seen that Oscar? I be- 
 held the chief in war. He is of the mighty in dan- 
 ger: 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 V 
 
 * 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 iled? Shall Foldath meet their bravest 
 hero 1 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 V 
 
 * 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 
 
 Q 
 
342 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 cloud of death, they will say, while shadows fly over 
 their face. Fingal will mourn in bis 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 light- 
 ning 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 hun- 
 dred 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 w ith 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. Cath- 
 mor, 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 feastl 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 depart- 
 ing hero. The soul of the king was sad. He dreaded 
 Cairlar's gloomy thoughts, amidst the feast of shells. 
 
TEMORA. 
 
 343 
 
 My son raised high the spear of Cormac. A hun- 
 dred 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, whon 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* is heard. Far distant on the heath Olla 
 raised a song of woe. My son knew the sign of 
 death ; and rising seized his spear. ' Oscar/ said the 
 dark- red Cairbar, * Ibehold 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 V 
 
 ' 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 Mor- 
 ven's hundred groves ! He has fought with little 
 men. But he mu3t 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 re- 
 nowned ! the first of mortal men !' 
 
 Their people saw the darkening chiefs. Their 
 
 * 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 sound 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. 
 
344 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 crowding steps are heard around. Their eyes roll in 
 fire. A thousand swords are half unsheathed. Red- 
 haired Olla raised the song of battle. The trembling 
 joy of Oscar's soul arose : the wonted joy of his soul 
 when FingaFs 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 for- 
 ward 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 woe. ' I hear the noise of war. Young Oscar is 
 lone. Rise, sons of Morven : join the hero's sword I' 
 
 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 pur- 
 sued their flight. We saw Oscar on his shield. We 
 saw his blood around. Silence darkened every face. 
 
TEMORA. 
 
 345 
 
 Each turned his hack 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: Fin- 
 gal 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 hi3 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'ssword,the pride of other years!'" 4 Fallestthou, 
 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, per- 
 
34G THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 haps, shall hear his voice. A beam of joy will rise in 
 my soul.' 
 
 Night would have descended in sorrow, and morn- 
 ing 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 begun, 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 
 
TEMORA. 
 
 Cuthullin. He dwelt with Cormac in windy Temora, 
 when Semo's sen 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 even- 
 ing began to descend. Temora's woods shook witn 
 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 darken- 
 ing 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 m 
 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 Artno 
 was in the band 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 saidwitha smile, "didst thou behold 
 my father? Heavy is the sword of the king ; surely 
 his arm was strong. O that 1 were like him in battle, 
 when the rage of his wrath arose ! then would I have 
 met, with Cuthullin, the car-borne son of Cantela ! But 
 years may come on, O Althan ! and my arm be strong. 
 Hast thou heard of Semo's son, the ruler of high Te- 
 mora? 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 de- 
 scends the tear ? Comes the car-borne Torlath ? Comes 
 the sound of red-haired Cairbar ? They come! for I be- 
 hold thy grief. Mossy Tura's chief is low ! Shall I not 
 rush to battle ? But I cannot lift the spear ! O had 
 
348 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 mine arm the strength of Cuthullin, soon would Cair- 
 bar 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 lo'ne 
 blast touched their trembling strings. 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-Toiced Carril, "who comes 
 like bounding roes 1 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 1 
 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 pre- 
 vails. 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 the 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 Gellama. " 1 
 behold," he said, " a cloud in the desert, king of Erin ! 
 
 * That prophetic sound, mentioned in other poems, which the 
 harps of the bards emitted before the death of a person worthy 
 and renowned. 
 
TEMORA. 
 
 349 
 
 a cloud it seemed at first, bat now a crowd of men ! 
 One strides before tbem in his strength. His red hair 
 flies in 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 the house of strangers, son of generous Gellama ! 
 It is perhaps the chief of Etha, coming in all his re- 
 nown. Hail, mighty stranger ! art thou of the friends 
 of Cormac .' But, Carril, he is dark and unlovely. He 
 draws his sword. 13 that the son of Usnoth, bard of 
 the times of old V* 
 
 ' " It is not the son of Usnoth !" said Carril. " It is 
 Cairbar, thy foe." " Why comest thou in thy arms to 
 Temora 1 chief of the gloomy brow. Let not thy sword 
 rise against Cormac ! Whither dost thou turn thy 
 speed 1 ?" 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 fathers. His fair hair 
 is in the dust. His blood is smoking round. 
 
 Art thou fallen in thy halls?" said Carril. u 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 lo v ! 
 Blest be thy soul, O Cormac! Thou art darkened in 
 thy youth.'' 
 
 « His words came to the ears of CairbaT. 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 1 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 
 Q 2 
 
350 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 Temera have failed. We 
 came forth at the words of the chief. We saw himin 
 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 thou- 
 sands 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 vapour 
 that hovers round the marshy lake. It never rises on 
 the green hill, lest the winds should meet it there. 
 Its dwelling is in the cave : it sends forth the dart of 
 death I 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 
 clouds, and silently descend. Soon shall the gray 
 beam of the morning rise, and shew 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 : ob- 
 serve the course of generous Cathmor. I hear a dis- 
 tant sound, like falling recks in the desert. But strike 
 thou thy shield, at times, that they may not come 
 through night, and the fame of Morven cease, I be- 
 gin 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 sleep- 
 ing around. Dark-haired Fillan observes the foe. His 
 steps are on the distant hill. We hear, at times, his 
 clanging shield. 
 
TEMORA. 
 
 351 
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 This book, opens, we may. suppose, about midnight, with a soli- 
 loquy of Ossian, who had retired from the rest of the army, to 
 mourn for his son Oscar. Upon hearing the noise of Cath- 
 mor's army approaching, he went to find out his brother Fil- 
 lan, who Kept the watch on the hill of Mora, in the front of 
 Fingal's army, In the conversation of the brothers, the epi- 
 sode of Conar, the son of Trenmor, who was the first king of 
 Ireland, is introduced, which lays open the origin of the con- 
 tests between the Cael 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 be 
 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 Cro- 
 thar, the ancestor of the king, which throws further light on 
 the history of" Ireland, and the original pretensions of the fa- 
 mily of Atha to the throne of that kingdom. The Irish chiefs 
 lie down to rest, and Cathmor himself undertakes the watuh. 
 In his circuit round the army, he is met by Ossian. The in- 
 terview of the two heroes is described. Cathmor obtains ;i 
 promise from Ossian, to order a funeral elegy to be sung 
 over the grave of Cairbar ; it beins: 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 6ou 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 bis 
 streams! It is the car-borne Oscar, from the field of 
 wai . 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 ! Do.st thou not be- 
 hold 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 
 
352 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 gleam- 
 ed 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 Tain, the shield of Morven's race.' ' Never 
 mayst thou stand in vain, son of blue-eyed Clatho ! 
 Fingal begins to be alone. Darkness gathers on the 
 last of his days. Yet he has 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* crowd around the shield of generous Cath- 
 mor. Their gathering is on that heath. Shall my 
 steps approach their host ? I yielded to Oscar alone 
 in the strife of the race, on 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 
 
 * 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 4 Fir-bolg,' i. e. ' bowmen :* so called from their using 
 bows more than any of the neighbouring nations. 
 
TEMORA. 
 
 353 
 
 volled 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 fol- 
 lowed the departure of war: when the tumult of bat- 
 tle 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 
 ifilled 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 dark- 
 ness of their pride. In the horrid cave of Moma they 
 mixed their secret words. Thither often, they said, 
 the spirits of their fathers came ; shewing their pale 
 forms from the chinky rocks ; reminding them of the 
 honour of Bolga. " Why should Conar reign," they 
 said, " the son of resounding Morven ?" 
 
 4 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 thundc-r,4>ouring the dark storm before 
 him over the troubled sea : so Colgar descended to 
 battle, and wasted the echoing field. His father re- 
 joiced 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 
 
354 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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.' 
 
 1 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 skyT 
 
 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 over 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 for- 
 ward 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,* 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 1 Fails his arm in battle, in 
 
 * Bruno was a place of worship (Fing. b. 6.) in Craca, which 
 
 is supposed to be one of the isles of Shetland. 
 
TEMORA. 
 
 355 
 
 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 
 before 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, pursuedst the 
 thistle's beard. With Moma's sons I shall rush 
 abroad, and find the foe on his dusky hills. Fingal 
 shall lie, without his song, the gray-haired king of 
 Selma.' 
 
 * Dost thou think, thou feeble man/ replied Cath- 
 mor, half-enraged : ' Dost thou think Fingal can fall, 
 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 fill, 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* of Inis-huna: that beam of 
 light, with wandering locks, from Lumon of the roes. 
 
 * By ' the stranger of fnis-huna,' is meant Sulmalla.— B. 4, 
 
356 
 
 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 At 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,' begun the bard, ' first dwelt at Atha's 
 mossy stream ! A thousand oaks, from the mountains, 
 formed his echoing hall. The gathering of the people 
 was there, around the feast of the blue eyed king. 
 But who, among his chiefs, was like the stately Cro- 
 thar 1 Warriors kindled in his presence. The young 
 sigh of the virgins rose. In Alnecma* was the war- 
 rior honoured: the first of the race of Bolga. 
 
 * He pursued the chase in Uilin : on the moss-co- 
 vered top of Drumardo. From the wood looked the 
 daughter of Cathmin, the blue-rolling eye of Con-lama. 
 Her sigh rose in secret. She bent her head, 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 -lama moved 
 to the chase, with all her lovely steps. She met Cro 
 thar 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. 
 
 * Ttifi pride of Turloch rose, a youth who loved the 
 white-handed Con-lama. 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-lama. 
 
 'f Rattle on battle comes. Blood is poured on blood. 
 The tombs of the valiant ri-je. Erin's clouds are hung 
 round with ghosts. The chiefs of the south gathered 
 round the echoing shield of Crothar. He came, with 
 
 * Alnecma, or Alnecmacht, was the ancient name of Con- 
 naught. Uilin is still the Irish name of the province of Ulster. 
 
TEMORA. 
 
 357 
 
 death, to the paths of the foe. The virgins wept, by 
 the streams of Ullin. They looked to 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 ; Cnnar, arm of death, from 
 Morven of the groves. He poured his might along 
 green Erin. Death dimly strode behind his sword. The 
 sons of Bol^a 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 
 afterwards 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 1 D wellers 
 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 he 
 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 Cath- 
 mor'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. 
 
 4 Fillan,' I said, ' the foes advance. I hear the 
 shield of war. Stand thou in the narrow path. Os- 
 sian shall mark their course. If over my fall the host 
 
358 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 bend- 
 ing 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, rust- 
 ling 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, gleam- 
 ing 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 dread- 
 ful 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, shaltfail; 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 
 
TEMORA. 
 
 359 
 
 eyes of bards. But darkness is roiled 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 thun- 
 der.' 
 
 ' 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. Cair- 
 bar shall rejoice on his winds.' 
 
 Cathmor's swelling soul arose. He took the dag- 
 ger 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 gbost, which meets a tra- 
 veller 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 Lubar'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 vapours before thee, over the blasted host. 
 But pleasant is thy beam to the hunter, sitting by the 
 rock in a storm, when thou shewest thyself from the 
 parted cloud, and brightenest his dewy locks: he looks 
 down on the streamy vale, and beholds the descent of 
 roes! How long shalt thou rise on war, and roll, a 
 bloody shield, 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 ? He is unstained in his 
 course, ever rejoicing in his fire. Roll on, thou care- 
 less light. Thou too, perhaps, must fall. Thy dark- 
 ening hour may seize thee, struggling as thou rollest 
 
360 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 through thy sky. But pleasant is the voice of the 
 bard: pleasant to Ossian'ssoul ! 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 I Let thy song be a stream 
 of joy to Cairbar's darkened ghost V 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Morning coming on, Fingal, after a speech to his people, de- 
 volves the command on Gaul, the son of Morni; it being the 
 custom of the times, that the king should not engage, till the 
 necessity of affairs required his superior valour and conduct. 
 The king and Ossian retire to the hill of Cormul, which over- 
 looked the field of battle. The bards sing the war-song. The 
 general conflict is described. Gaul, the son of Morni, dis- 
 tinguishes himself; kills Tur-lathon, chief of Moruth, and 
 other chiefs of lesser name. On tlie other hand, Foldath, who 
 commanded the Irish army (for Cathmor, after the example of 
 Fingal, kept himself from batile), fights gallantly ; kills Con- 
 nal, chief of Dun-lora, and advance* to engage Gaul himself. 
 Gaul, in the mean time, being wounded in the hand, by a ran- 
 dom arrow, is covered by Fillan, the son of Fingal, who per- 
 forms prodigies of valour. Night comes on. The horn of Fin- 
 gal recals his army. The bards meet them, with a congra- 
 tulatory soiig, in which the praises of Gaul and Fillan are 
 particularly celebrated. The chiefs sit down at a feast; Fin- 
 gal misses Connal. The episode of Connal and Duth-caron is 
 introduced ; which throws farther light on the ancient history 
 of Ireland. Carril is dispatched to raise the tomb of Connal. 
 The action of this book takes up the second day from the open- 
 ing 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-unsheaths the sword 
 of Luno. His eyes are turned to Moi-lena, to the dark 
 moving of foes. Dost thou hear the voice of the 
 
TEMORA. 
 
 361 
 
 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 I 
 
 * Wide-skirted comes down the foe ! Sons of woody 
 Selma, arise! Be ye like the rocks of our land, on 
 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 hi3 tomb. Who shall lead the 
 war, against the host of Alnecma ? It is only when 
 danger grows, that my sword shall shine. Such was 
 the custom, heretofore, of Trenmor the ruler of winds ! 
 and thus descended to battle the blue shielded Tra- 
 thal!' 
 
 The chiefs bend toward 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 1 
 They rose within his soul. His hand, in secret, seized 
 the sword. The sword which he brought from Stru- 
 mon, 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 dis- 
 tant stream he standa : the tear hangs in his eye. He 
 strikes, at times, the thistle's head, with his inverted 
 spear. Nor is he unseen of Fingal. Side long he be- 
 holds 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 harm- 
 less 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 
 
3C2 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 lat- 
 ter 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 morn- 
 ing'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! 
 
 4 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 dis- 
 tant sun beam 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 1 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 
 
TEMORA. 
 
 363 
 
 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, gleam- 
 ing to the early beam : toward it he turns his ear, and 
 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 Fin - 
 gal on Mora, his generous pride arose. ' Shall the 
 chief of Atha fight, and no king in the field 1 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; hst Selma 
 should escape from my sword. Bards of green-val- 
 leyed 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 Cwrmul ! Let thine arm be strong ! When he 
 is low, son of Fingal, remember Gaul in war. Here 
 I fall forward into battle, 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 
 
364 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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-lora. When the skies were rolled together: then 
 thy feast was spread. The stranger heard the winds 
 without ; and rejoiced at thy burning oak. Why, son 
 of Duth-caron, art thou laid in blood? the blasted 
 tree bend sabove 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 CormuVs 
 shield! He stretched it large before the chief. Fol- 
 dath sent his shouts abroad, and kindled all the field: 
 as a blast that lifts the wide-winged flame over Lu- 
 mon*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 
 
TEMORA. 
 
 365 
 
 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 Stru- 
 mon, when he called them to the chase of the hind*?. 
 He stands tall amid the war, as an oak in the skirts 
 of a storm, which now is clothed on high, in mist : 
 then shews 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 dew, 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 ! 
 
 f Joy, like the rustling gale, comes on the soul of 
 the king. He remembers the battles of old ; the days 
 wherein his fathers v fought. The days of old return 
 on Fingal's mind, as he beholds the renown of his son. 
 As the sun rejoices, from his cloud, over the tree his 
 beams have raised, as it shades its lonely head on the 
 heath ; so joyful is the king over Fillan I 
 
 * 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 
 R 
 
366 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 1 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 tire : 
 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 our 
 bows, against the roes of Dun-lora.' 
 
 ' Many/ I said, ' are our paths to battle in green- 
 Talleyed Erin. Often did our sails arise, over the 
 blue tumbling waves ; when we came in other days, 
 to aid the raee of Ccnar. 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 
 
TEMORA. 
 
 367 
 
 stands my father V* 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 cai on 
 dies. 
 
 ' Day rose, and night returned. No lonely bard 
 appeared, deep musing on the heath : and could Con- 
 nal leave the tomb of his father, till he 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. He saw him rolled, dark in a blast, like the 
 vapour 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 bat- 
 tle; 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 
 own dark rill, is wkiding 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-forraed, the words of my song burst 
 
368 THE POEMS OF OSSUN. 
 
 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 Pingal, f 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 de- 
 scended 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 ! 
 
 BOOK IV. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 The second night continues. Fingal relates, at the feast, his 
 own first expedition into Ireland, and his marriage with Ros- 
 crana, the daughter of Cormac, king of that island. The 
 Irish chiefs convene in the presence of Cathmor. The situa- 
 tion of the king described. The story of Sul-malla, the daugh- 
 ter of Conmor, king of Inis-huna, who, in the disguise of a 
 young warrior, hath followed Cathmor to the war. The sullen 
 behaviour of Foldath, who had commanded in the battle of 
 the preceding day, renews the difference between him and 
 Malthos ; but Cathmor, interposing, ends it. The chiefs feast, 
 and hear the song of Fonar the bard. Cathmor returns to 
 rest, at a distance from the army. The ghost of his brother 
 Cairbar appears to him in a dream; and obscurely foretels 
 the issue of the war. The soliloquy of the king. He discovers 
 Sul-malla. Morning comes. Her soliloquy closes the book. 
 
 f 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 remem- 
 
TEMORA. 
 
 369 
 
 bered the steps of his father, on his own green hills. 
 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 warn- 
 ing boss : I struck, and looked on high, for fiery-hair- 
 ed Ul-erin.* Nor absent was the star of heaven. It 
 travelled red between the clouds. I pursued the 
 lovely beam, on the faint-gleaming deep. With morn- 
 ing, Erin rose in mist. We came into the bay of 
 Moi-lena, where its blue waters tumbled, in the bosom 
 of echoing woods. Here Cormac, in his secret hall, 
 avoids the strength of Colc-ulla. Nor he alone avoids 
 the foe. The blue eye of Ros-crana is there : Ros- 
 crana, white-handed maid, the daughter of the king ! 
 
 1 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 I 
 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 i 
 The soul of the valiant grows, when foes increase in 
 the field. Roll no darkness, king of Erin, on the young 
 in war." 
 
 1 The bursting tears of the king came down. He 
 
 • Ul-erin, ' the guide to Ireland,' a star known by that 
 name in the days of Fingal. 
 
370 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 be- 
 hold thy fame. It marks thy course in battle, like a 
 stream of light. But wait the coming of Cairbar ; 
 my son 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 shady grove, Ros-crana raises the song. 
 Her white hands move on the harp. I beheld her 
 blue 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 ap- 
 peared : 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 i3 low. One song 
 contains his fame. His name is on 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 Dun-lora's chief. The voice of morn- 
 ing 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, 
 
TEMORA. 
 
 371 
 
 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 hall 
 of feasts. Nor careless rolled the eyes of Cathmor on 
 the long-haired maid! 
 
 The third clay 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 Caiibar. Cath- 
 mor 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 remem- 
 bered 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-arm- 
 ed 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 whiter 
 bosomed sails. The maid is near thee, O Cathmor! 
 leaning on her rock. 
 
 The tall form3 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 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 wreaths of waving light. 
 Soft was his voice in Clonra, in the valley of his fa- 
 thers. Soft was his voice when he touched the harp, 
 in the hall near his roaring stream ! 
 
 f King of Erin/ said Hidalla, * now i3 the time to 
 
372 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 feast. Bid the voice of bards arise. Bid them roll the 
 night away. The soul returns, from song, more ter- 
 rible 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. 1 Did not I fail in the field 1 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 Clonra'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 past over hosts. Thou 
 hast laid them low in blood. Bat 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 for- 
 ward 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 cloud3, 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 
 
TEMORA. 
 
 373 
 
 them, on his glittering rocks. Dark is their rolling on 
 either side : each toward 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 as- 
 cends 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.* A blast sustained his 
 dark-skirted cloud : which he seized in the bosom of 
 night, as he rose, with his fame, towards his airy hall. 
 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 Cair- 
 bar. He travels on the wind. My form is in my 
 father's hail, 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! Ah! 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 I Your joys 
 * The funeral elegy at the tomb of Cairbar. 
 R 2 
 
374 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 1 Away, thou shade ! to fight is mine! All further 
 thought away! I rush forth on eagle's wings, to seize 
 my beam of fame. 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 vapour of the fenny field. Its course is never 
 on hills, nor mossy vales of wind. So shall not Cath- 
 mor 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. Valour, like a pleasant flame, is gleam- 
 ing 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 care'ess 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 1 ? His sighs 
 
TEMORA. 
 
 375 
 
 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,* 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 remem- 
 bered 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. Ker soul is 
 darkly sad. She pours her words on wind. 
 
 ' The dreams of Inis huna departed. They are dis- 
 persed 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 warrior low ; for the broad- 
 shielded king is near, he that overcomes in danger, 
 Fingal, from Selma of spears ! Spirit of departed Con- 
 mor ! 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 ray, call away the souls of 
 their race, while they behold them lonely in the midst 
 of woe. Call me, my father, away! When Cathmor 
 is low on earth, then shall Sul malla be lonely in the 
 midst of woe f* 
 
 * In order to understand this passage, it is necessary to look 
 to the description of Cathmor 'a 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. 
 
376 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN, 
 
 BOOK V. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 The poet, after a short address to the harp of Cona, describes 
 the arrangement of both armies on cither 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-boljris commanded by Foldath. 
 The general onset is described. The great actions of Fillan. 
 He kills Rothmar and Culmin. But v. hen Fillan conquers in 
 one wing, Foldath presses hard on the other. He wounds 
 Dermid, the son of Duthno, and puts the whole wing to flight. 
 Dermid deliberates with himself, and, at last, resolves to put 
 a stop to the progress of Foldath, by engaging him in single 
 combat. When the two chiefs were approaching towards one 
 another, Fillan came suddenly to the relief of Dermid ; engaged 
 Foldath, and killed him. The behaviour of Malthos towards 
 the fallen Foldath. Fillan puts the whole army of the Fir-bolg 
 to flight. The book closes with an address to Clatho, the mo- 
 ther 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 toward 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, rise the tall forms 
 of the kings. Their people are poured around them 
 bending forward to their words : as if their fathers 
 spoke, descending from the winds. But they them- 
 selves 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^ 
 
TEMORA. 
 
 377 
 
 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 hlood. A valley 
 spreads green behind the hill, with its three blue 
 streams. The sun is there in silence. The dun moun- 
 tain-roes come down. On theye are turned the eyes 
 of Sul-malla in her thoughtful mood. 
 
 Fingal beholds Cathmor, on high, the son of Bor- 
 bar-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 vapour, 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'ssons! 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 pre- 
 sence, darkened into wrath. My voice was no thunder 
 to your ears. Mine eyes sent forth no death. When 
 the haughty appeared. L beheld them not. They were 
 forgot at my feasts. Like mist they melted away. A 
 young beam is before you I 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. Grace, 
 ful 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. 
 
378 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 Straight came forward the strength of Gaul. His 
 shield hung loose on its thong. He spoke, in haste, 
 to Ossian. ' Bind, son of Fin gal, this shield! Bind 
 it high ta the side of Gaul. The foe may behold it, 
 and think L lift the spear. If 1 should fall, let my 
 tomb be hid in the field ; for fall 1 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 wont. ' Can the son of Morni 
 fall, without his fame in Erin 1 But the deeds of the 
 mighty are forgot by themselves. They rush careless 
 over the fields of renown. Their words are never 
 heard !' I rejoiced over the steps of the chief. I strode 
 to the rock of the king, where he sat, in his wandering 
 locks, amid the mountain wind! 
 
 In two dark ridges bend the host toward 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 shieid 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 to- 
 gether, 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 he- 
 ro's soul arose. But as the stone of Loda* falls, shook, 
 at once, from rocking Drunianard, when spirits heave 
 the earth in their wrath ; so fell blue-shielded Roth- 
 mar. 
 
 Near are the steps of Culmin. The youth came, 
 
 * By * the stone of Loda' is meant a place of worship 
 among the Scandinavians. 
 
TEMORA. 
 
 379 
 
 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 hi3 own 
 blue streams. There they had marked the place of 
 the roe, as the sun-beam flew over the fern. Why, 
 son of Cul-allin ! why, Culmin, dost thou rush on 
 that beam of light!* 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 
 S truth a. A whirlwind rises, on the stream, dark-ed- 
 dying round the ghost of her son. His dogsf are howl- 
 ing in their place. His shield is bloody in the hall. 
 * Art thou fallen, my fair-haired son, in Erin's dismal 
 war V 
 
 As a roe, pierced in secret, lies panting, by her 
 wonted streams ; the hunter surveys her feet of wind ! 
 He remember 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. ' Tbou 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 toward 
 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 be- 
 fore 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 Sehna gathered 
 around. But his shield is cleft by Foldath. His peo- 
 ple fly over the heath. 
 
 Then said the foe, in his pride, * They have /led. 
 My fame begins ! Go, Malthos, go bid Cathmov guard 
 the dark-rolling of ocean ; that Fingal may not escape 
 from my sword. He must lie on earth. Beside some 
 
 * The poet metaphorically calls Fillan a beam of light. 
 
 t Dogs were thought lobe 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. 
 
380 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 shouldest 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, disjoined 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 
 
TEMORA. 
 
 381 
 
 wandering blood, ia 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* 
 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 bis 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 Clatbo.' 
 
 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 stone rise in Ullin, or in 
 Moma's woody land; where the sun looks, in secret, 
 on the blue streams of Dalrutho 1 There are the steps 
 of thy daughter, blue-eyed Dardu-lena!' 
 
 1 Rememberest thou her,' said Foldath, 1 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 for- 
 sake the blast, to rejoice above their graves; when I 
 * Fingal and Cathmor. 
 
382 THE POEMS OP OSSIAN. 
 
 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, return- 
 ing 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 appear- 
 ed, 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 re- 
 joices 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 hall! Behold 
 that early beam of thine ! The host is withered in its 
 course. No further look, it is dark. Light trembling 
 from the harp, strike, virgins, strike the sound. No 
 hunter he descends from the dewy haunt of the bound- 
 ing roe. He bends not his bow on the wind ; nor 
 sends his gray arrow abroad. 
 
 *■ Deep folded in red war! See battle roll against 
 bis side. Striding amid the ridgy strife, he pours the 
 death of thousands forth. Fillan is like a spirit of 
 heaven, that 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!' 
 
TEMORA. 
 
 383 
 
 BOOK VI. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 This book opens with a speech of Fingal, who sees Cathmor de- 
 scending to the assistance of his flying array. The king dis- 
 patches Ossian to the relief of Filian. He himself retires be- 
 hind the rock of Corinul, 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 Ossi an could arrive, engages Filian himself. Upon 
 the approach of Ossian, the combat between the two heroes 
 ceases. Ossian and Cathmor prepare to fight, but night coming 
 on, prevents them. Ossian returns to the place where Cath- 
 mor and Filian fought. He finds Filian mortally wounded, and 
 leaning against a rock. Their discourse. Filian dies: his 
 body is laid, by Ossian, in a neighbouring cave. The Caledo- 
 nian army return to Fill gal. He questions them about his son, 
 and, understanding that he was Killed, retires, in silence, to 
 the rock of Corraul. 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 Filian, before the entrance of the 
 cave, where the body of that hero lay. His reflections, there- 
 upon. He returns, in a melancholy mood, to his army. Mal- 
 thos endeavours to comfort him, by the example of his father 
 Borbar-duthul. Cathmor retires to rest. Tne song of Sul- 
 raalla concludes the book, which ends about the middle of the 
 third night, from the opening of the poem. 
 
 ' Cathmor rises on Lis hill! Shall Fingal take the 
 sword of Luno? But what shall become of thy fame, 
 son of white-bosomed Clatho ? Turn not thine eyes 
 from Fingal, fair daughter of Inistore. 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 Filian. 
 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, disjoined and broken round. Filian is a beam of 
 fire. From wing to wing is his wasteful course. The 
 
384 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 ridges of war melt before him. They are rolled, in 
 smoke, from the fields! 
 
 Now is the coming forth of Cathmor, in the armour 
 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 ! Sud- 
 den, from the rock of Moi-lena, are Sul-malla's trem- 
 bling steps. An oak takes the spear from her hand. 
 Half- bent she loses 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 be- 
 neath 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 Cath- 
 mor'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 he 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 stepson 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 
 
TEMORA. 
 
 385 
 
 sidelong stalks along. An icy rock, cold, tall, lie 
 seems. I call forth all my steel. Silent awhile we 
 stride, on either side of a rusbing stream : then, sud- 
 den 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? Ke 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 even- 
 ing 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 V 
 
 * Son of blue-eyed Clatho ! O Fillan, awake not 
 my soul! Wert thou not a burning fire before him 1 
 Shall he not rejoice 1 Such fame belongs not to Os- 
 sian ; 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 Fil- 
 lan, 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. 
 
386 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 Let thy voice alone send joy to my flying soul. Why 
 should the bard know where dwells the lost beam of 
 Clatho V 
 
 ' 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 artleft 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 thou- 
 sands find thee. Why should that cloud escape, that 
 quenched our early beam 1 Kindle your meteors on 
 your hills, my fathers. Light my daring steps. I 
 will consume in wrath.*— 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 1 " 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 !' 
 
 * Here the sentence is designedly lr.ft unfinished. The sense 
 is, that he was resolved, like a destroying fire, to consume Cath- 
 uior, 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 re- 
 curs 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. 
 
TEMORA. 
 
 387 
 
 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. A s 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 woe ? 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? f 
 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 arc silent. The 
 shield of war is cleft in twain. Let his armour be 
 near to Fingal; and the sword of dark-brown Luno. 
 I am waked on my hills ; with morning I descend to 
 war.' 
 
 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 ! thatshield, which he was wont to strike, by 
 night, before he rushed to war. It was then his war- 
 riors 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 he shone 
 on the beam of the oak ; he was dreadful as the form 
 of the spirit of night, when he clothes, on hills, 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 M or ven'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 
 
388 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 hlue-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 suc- 
 ceeds. * 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 fu- 
 ture 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,tohear the voice 
 of his power. Their joyful faces bend unequal, for- 
 ward, in the light of the oak. They who were ter- 
 rible were removed : Lubar winds again in their host. 
 Cathmor was that beam from heaven which shone 
 when his people were dark. He was honoured in the 
 midst. Their souls arose with ardour around. The 
 king alone no gladness shewed; no stranger he to 
 war! 
 
 f Why is the king so sad V said Malthos, eagle-eyed. 
 * Remains there a foe at Lubar? Lives there among 
 them who can lift the spear? Not so peaceful was thy 
 father, Borbar-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 bands, 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 
 
TEMORA. 
 
 3S9 
 
 Erin* 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 re- 
 joice 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 re- 
 tired, at the voice of the king. Deep-rolled into the 
 field of night, they spread their humming tribes. Be- 
 neath 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 be- 
 tween. 
 
 ' Clun-galof came ; she missed the maid. Where 
 art thou, beam of light 1 Hunters, from the mossy rock, 
 saw ye the blue-eyed fair? Are her steps on grassy 
 
 * A poetical expression for the bards of Ireland, 
 t 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. 
 
 S 
 
390 
 
 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN 
 
 Lumon ; near the bed of roes? Ah, me ! I behold her 
 bow in the hall. Where art thou, beam of lights 
 
 ' 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 l I dwell in dark- 
 ness 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 !* 
 
 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 resi- 
 dence of the souls of the dead, during the interval between 
 their decease and the funeral song. The appearance of th'e 
 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 appear- 
 ing 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 ; 
 be resolves to continue the war. He directs her to retire to 
 the neighbouring valley of Lona, which was theresidence 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 de- 
 scribed. Fonar, the bard, at the desire of Cathmor, relates 
 the first settlement of the Fir-bolgin 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 vapour dark and deep : the moon, 
 like a dim shield, by 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 dwell- 
 ing 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, 
 
TEMORA. 
 
 391 
 
 rolled him togethe- ; 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 cf night. The flame decayed, on the hill of Fin- 
 gal; 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 there 
 a beam of lightning, which is seen and is then no 
 more. I remember thee, O Fillan ! and my wrath 
 begins to rise.' 
 
 The king took his deathful spear, and struck the 
 deeply sounding shield : his 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 descend to war. 
 Backward looking armies fly ; and mighty deeds are 
 half hid in the bright gleams of steel. 
 
 But when the third sound arose, deer started from 
 the clefts of their rocks. The screams of fowl are heard, 
 in the 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. 
 
302 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 1 Thou art not a dream to his rest, 
 daughter of Inis-huna.' 
 
 More dreadful rings the shield. Sul-malla starts. 
 Her helmet falls. Loud echoes Lubar's rock, as over 
 it rolls the steel. Bursting from the dreams of night, 
 Cuthmor 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 sea- 
 son of his dreams? Bring'st thou aught of war 1 Who 
 art thou, son of night ? Stand'st thou before me, 
 a form of the times of old 1 a voice from the fold of a 
 cloud, to warn me of the danger of Erin?' 
 
 * Not 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 1 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 I 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! He, 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, 
 
TEMORA. 
 
 393 
 
 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 lock3 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 3ees the dun prey before him, the 
 young sons of the bounding roe, than thou, O Cath- 
 mor, 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 ; 
 
 0 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 roe ; they have often rattled along my shield. 
 
 1 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 
 
394 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 Aluecma. 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, oyer 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 
 streams, with her tearful eyes. Often did she look 
 on the hero, when he was folded in his thoughts. 
 But she shrunk from his eyes, and turned her lone 
 steps away. Battles rose, like a tempest, and drove 
 the mist from his soul. He beheld, with joy, her 
 steps in the hall, and the white rising of her hands on 
 the harp/ 
 
 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 wor- 
 riors received, from the wind, and marked over all 
 their tribes. 
 
 On each boss is placed a star of night : Can-mathon 
 with beams unshorn ; Col-derna rising from a cloud ; 
 U-loicho 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 
 
TEMORA. 
 
 395 
 
 Ton-thena, that star, which looked by night on the 
 course of the sea tossed Larthon : Larthon,the first of 
 Bolga's race, who travelled on the 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-thena, and smiled from her parted cloud. Lar- 
 thon 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 mur- 
 mur of mossy streams : streams that burst in the de- 
 sert, from the rock of roes. 
 
 * Why/ said Fonar, ' hear we the voice of the king, 
 in the season of his rest 1 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 V 
 
 * 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 buna's waves. Nor alone pleasant 
 to Cathmor is the remembrance of wood covered Lu- 
 mon. 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 bend- 
 ing 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 
 * A hill, in Inis-huna, near the residence of Sul-malla. 
 
396 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 thena rose. Culbin's 
 bay received the ship, in the bosom of its echoing 
 woods. There issued a stream from Duthuma's hor- 
 rid 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 be- 
 held 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 Samla, 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 !' 
 
 Morning pours from the east. The misty heads of 
 the mountains rise. Valleys shew, 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 now whither to roll ; they lift their 
 troubled heads. 
 
 Sad and slow retired Sul-mulla 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 burst- 
 ing soul, on the king; and sunk, at once, behind. 
 
 Son of Alpin, strike the string. Is there aught of 
 joy m the harp? Pour it then on the soul of Ossian : 
 
TEMORA. 
 
 397 
 
 it is folded in mist. I hear thee, O bard ! in my night. 
 But cease the lightly trembling sound. The joy of 
 grief belopgs to Ossian, amidst his dark-brown years. 
 
 Green thorn of the hill of ghosts, that shakest thy 
 hand 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 ? 
 
 BOOK VIII. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 The fourth morning, from the opening of the pnem, conies on. 
 Fin gal, still continuing in the place to which he had retired 
 on the preceding night, Is seen, at intervals, through the 
 mist which covered the rock of Cormul. The descent'of the 
 kins is described. He orders Gaul, Dermid, and Carril the 
 bard, to go to the valley of Cluna, and conduct from thence 
 to 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 takes the command of the army, and 
 prepares for battle. Marching towards the enemy, he comes 
 to the cave of Lubar, where the body cf 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. '1 he two kings engage, in a 
 column of mist, on the banks of Lubar. Their attitude and con- 
 ference after the combat. The death of Cathmor. Fingal re- 
 signs the spear of Trenmor to Ossian. The ceremonies ob- 
 served 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 hun- 
 ter's early eye, the billows still seem to roll. He turns 
 S 2 
 
398 THE POEMS OP OSSIAN. 
 
 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, />ver 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 rolled the 
 war, along his mighty soul. 
 
 Now is the coming forth of the king. First ap- 
 peared 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, gleam- 
 ing, 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 ears, 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 away V • 
 
 Tall they strode towards the king; they saw him 
 
TEMORA. 
 
 399 
 
 turned to Mora's wind. His tears came down for his 
 blue-eyed son, who slept in the cave of streams. But 
 he brightened before them, and spoke to the broad- 
 shielded kings. 
 
 f 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 China'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 fathers' 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.' 
 
 i 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. Be- 
 hind 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 1 Is this a time lor sorrow, father of 
 low-laid Oscar? Be the warriors remembered in peace ; 
 
400 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 when echoing shields are heard no more. Bend, 
 then, in grief, over the flood, where blows the moun- 
 tain breeze. Let them pass on thy soul, the blue-eyed 
 dwellers of the tomb. But Erin rolls to war ; wide- 
 tumbling, rough, and 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 bis 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 armour. 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 to- 
 wards 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 
 
TEMORA. 
 
 401 
 
 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 
 he shone all abroad, the hosts plunged, at once, into 
 strife. The gleaming waves of steel are poured on 
 either side. 
 
 As meet two troubled seas, with the rolling of all 
 their waves, when they feel the wings of contending 
 winds, in the rock sided frith of Lumon ; along the 
 echoing hills is the dim course of ghosts : from the 
 blast fall the torn groves on the deep, amidst the 
 foamy path of whales. So mixed the hosts ! Now 
 Fingal ; now Cathmor came abroad. The dark tum- 
 bling of death is before them: the gleam of broken 
 steel is rolled on their steps, as, loud, the high-bound- 
 ing 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 
 Hidalla came. ' Soft voice of streamy Clonra! why 
 dost thou lift the steel 1 0 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. Hea- 
 ven 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. 
 
402 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 co- 
 lumns 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, gleam- 
 ing, 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 1 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 to 
 my hill of feasts : the mighty fail, at times. No fire 
 am t 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 1 Ossian ! the 
 warrior has failed ! Joy meet thy soul, like a stream, 
 
TEMORA. 
 
 403 
 
 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 1 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'3 spear. 
 Lift it, in battle, when the proud arise. 
 
 ' My fathers, Ossian, trace my steps; my deeds are 
 pleasant to their eyes. Wherever 1 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 re 
 joice. Thee have I seen, at times, bright from be- 
 tween 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 travel- 
 ler 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 peace- 
 ful stream ; yet a few years, and thou art gone. No 
 one remembers thee, thou dweller of thick mist I 
 But Fingal shall be clothed with fame, a beam of 
 
404 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 Lu- 
 bar'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 hea- 
 ven 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 gleaming 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, be- 
 fore him, Sul-malla listened to the tale j the tale of 
 the kings of Atha, in the days of old. The noise of 
 battle had ceased in his ear : 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 V 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 Mil, 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 hill ; again the stately form came down. 
 She rose in the midst of joy* He retired again in 
 
TEMORA. 
 
 405 
 
 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 for- 
 get her grief ; it wastes the soul of age. 
 
 Evening came down on MoMena. 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 be- 
 held 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 Con- 
 dan, 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. Glad- 
 ness 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 3eize 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 wan- 
 derer 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 beam?. 
 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 for- 
 got : they were mighty in the field. Let Carril pour 
 his song, that the kings may rejoice in their mist. 
 To morrow I spread mysailsto Selma's shaded walls ; 
 where streamy Duthula winds through the seats of 
 roes,' 
 
406 
 
 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 Kinfena, accompanied by 
 Fercuth his friend, arrived from Ireland, at Mora, where Con- 
 lath 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 tvetves, one 
 of the Hebrides, he 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 Stormalthe 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 arid 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 1 Where is Os- 
 car, son of fame ? He was often near thee,0 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 1 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 
 
CONLATH AND CUTHONA. 407 
 
 sittest, dim on thy cloud ! Art tbou 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 1 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 Os- 
 sian 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-tum- 
 bled beneath the blast. The roaring waves climbed 
 against our rocks. The lightning came often and 
 shewed 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 fore- 
 sees some death among his race. Such was his ap- 
 pearance 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 Selama. 
 Lovely the cry of the hunter on Cromla. But we are 
 in dark I-thona, surrounded by the storm. The bil- 
 lows 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 fight. 
 Whither is the soul of battle fled? Our fathers never 
 feared. Go ; view the settling sea : the stormy wind 
 is laid. The billows still tremble 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 
 
408 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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, hun- 
 tress 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 Tos- 
 car! I have feasted in his halls! Rise, ye gentle 
 breezes of Erin. Stretch my sails toward 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 
 ghosts 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 
 behtold 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 shews his ghastly wound. 
 W r here art thou with thy tears, Cuthona 1 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 
 
CON LATH AND CUTHONA. 409 
 
 was bloody. She knew that her hero fell. Her sor- 
 row 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 watry cloud, 
 that rises from a lake ! 
 
 The sons of green Selma came. They found Cu- 
 thona 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 hall; 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 ! 
 
410 
 
 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 
 Lartiimor, 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 res- 
 cue Larthmor, and to punish the unnatural behaviour of Uthal. 
 U thai was handsome, and, by the ladies, much admired. Nina- 
 thoma, the beautiful daughter of Tor-thoma, a neighbouring 
 prince, fell in love and fled with him. He proved inconstant; 
 for another lady, whose name is not mentioned, gaining his af- 
 fections, he confined Nina-thoma to a desert island near the 
 coast of Berrathon. She was relieved by Ossian, who, in com- 
 pany with Toscar, landing on Berrathon, defeated the forces 
 of Uthal, and killed him in a single combat. Nina-thoma, whose 
 love not all the bad behaviour 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 daugh- 
 ter of Toscar, and closes with 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 heard to the 
 wind. The flower hangs its heavy head, waving, at 
 times, to the gale. ' Why dost thou awake me, O 
 gale V 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 the voice of my 
 harp shall not be heard. ' Where is the son of car- 
 borne Fingal V The tear will be on his cheek! Then 
 come thou, O Malvina; with all thy music, cornel 
 Lay Ossian in the plain of Lutha : let his tomb rise 
 in the lovely field. 
 
BERRATHON. 
 
 411 
 
 Malvina ! where art thou, with thy songs, with the 
 soft sound of thy steps 1 Son of Alpin, art thou near 1 
 where is the daughter of Toscar J 1 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 1 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 maid3 
 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 be- 
 neath 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 around the king, on mists 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. ' Art 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 
 
412 THE POEMS OP OSSIAN. 
 
 of Lutha. The maids* are departed to their pla<; 
 Thou alone, O breeze, mournest there !' 
 
 Bat who comes from the dusky west, supported on a 
 cloud 1 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 lovety light of 
 Lutha ? But thou wert sad, my daughter. Thy friends 
 had passed away. The sons of little men were in the 
 hall. 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 stran- 
 ger 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 Larth- 
 mor, 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 burn- 
 ing 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 
 
 * That is, the young- virgins who sung the funeral 
 elegy over her tomb. 
 
BERRATHON. 
 
 413 
 
 ~ arthmor's youth. He told of the king of Berrathon : 
 me wrath of Fingal arose. Thrice he assumed the 
 spear, resolved to stretch bis hand to Uthal. But 
 the memory of his deeds rose before the king. He 
 sent his son and T oscar. 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 de- 
 parted on their wings. Cold and pale is the moon. 
 The red stars lift their heads on high. Our course is 
 slow long the coast of Berrathon. The white waves 
 tumble on the rocks. * What voice is that,' said Tos- 
 car, * which comes between the sounds of the waves'? 
 It is soft but mournful, like the voice of departed 
 bards. But I behold a maid. She sits on the rock 
 alone. Her head bends on her arm 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 
 of heaven I 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 white 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 ! 
 T 
 
414 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 Our course is to the rocky Berrathon, to the echoing 
 walls of Finthormo.' She came in her beauty : she 
 came with all her lovely steps. Silent joy brightened 
 m 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 I 
 
 The morning rose with its beams. We came to 
 Rothina's bay. A boar rushed from the wood : my 
 spear pierced his side, and be 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 po- 
 lished 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 foretels the storms. 
 
 We rose on the heath before the king. He stopt 
 in the midst of his course. His heroes gathered 
 around. A gray haired bard advanced. ' Whence 
 are the 30ns 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 Fin gal, 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 Finthormo arise ; like the growing tree of 
 the vale!' 
 
 ' Never will it rise, O bard,' I said in the pride of 
 my wrath. * He would shrink 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 
 
BERRATHON. 
 
 415 
 
 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. As the 
 noise of an aged grove beneath the roaring wind, 
 when a thousand ghosts break the trees by night, 
 such was the din of arms ! But Uthal fell beneath 
 my sword. 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 Leth- 
 mal, the gray-haired bard of Selma. He alone had 
 remained on the coast, with the daughter of Tor-tho- 
 ma. ' Son of the times of old !' she said, * I hear the 
 noise of death. Thy friends have met with Uthal, 
 and the chief is low ! O that I had remained on the 
 rock, inclosed with the tumbling waves ? Then would 
 my soul be sad, but his death would not reach my ear. 
 Art thou fallen on the heath, O son of high Finthor- 
 mo? Thou didst leave me on a rock, but my soul 
 was full of thee. Son of high Finthormo ? art thou 
 fallen on thy heath?' 
 
 She rose pale in her tears. 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 woe was heard. ' Rest, hapless children of youth ! 
 Rest at the noise of that mo3sy 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 daugh- 
 ters of Selma shall hear it: your renown shall be in 
 other lands. Rest, children of youth, at the noise of 
 the mossy stream !' 
 
416 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 Larth- 
 mor. fie 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 fourfh 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 1 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 Finthormo ! 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, le&d the aged to his woods. 
 The winds began to rise. The dark wave of the lake 
 
BERRATHON. 
 
 417 
 
 resounds. Bends there not a tree from Mora with its 
 baanches 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 hall. 
 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 hall. 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 be- 
 hold 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 be- 
 hind it with their weeping eyes. Thy shield is the 
 aged moon : thy sword a vapour half kindled with 
 lire. Dim and feeble is the chief who travelled in 
 brightness before ! 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 to- 
 ward 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 
 
418 
 
 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 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 1 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 
 halls 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 V 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Printed by J. F. Dove, St. John's Square.